A Proper Scandal (19 page)

D
o not smile, do not smile, do not smile at me.

Elisabeth blinked at the back of Bryson's head, grateful he had turned away. He smiled so rarely—she'd only seen it four or five times in their acquaintance, including their original meeting so long ago—and she had considered each one a gift.

But there was no room for gifted smiles in this exchange; they'd already spoken too long, and she had said too much.

What difference could it make if his smile was rare or authentic or that it nudged her very heart? She had not agreed to see him so that they could grin at each other.

But this begged the question: why had she agreed to see him? To answer this, she tried to decipher why he'd really and truly come. For ten days in a row, he'd come. At the ball, his disgust—nay, his revulsion—could not have been more clear. Yet here he was. Contrite. Humble. Compliant.

It was possible, she thought, that he really did wish to apologize. It was possible he wanted to understand. He was charitable in that way, even about things to which he was opposed.

It was also possible he wished to extract a silent vow from her to ensure the safety of his sterling reputation forevermore. Ha! As if she might gossip about the details of a night she could not even explain to him. As if she would boast about her broken engagement.

Whatever the reason, the smile was gone now. It had not been unpleasant, but ultimately it told her nothing, while his intense expressions and conciliatory tone told her less. Silence expanded in the small room, filling up the sunny corners where they looked when they could not look at each other. Sweaty awkwardness, she thought, would be next. After that, there was a chance she would well up and sob. She might as well finish it and hustle him out before it devolved into that.

“Shall I go on?” she asked.

“If you can bear it.”

He stared at her, waiting, and she thought,
Now he's only being polite.

“Elisabeth?”

“Yes?”

“It is an understatement to say that I did not comprehend the pain that you endured, nor the difficulty you would, naturally, suffer when forced to revisit it, especially to a suitor—especially to
me
. I . . . I know that I expressed my regret before, but please, allow me to say it again—to
mean it
again. I . . . I have been thoughtless and cruel. I had no idea. I am so very sorry.”

“Thank you,” she said. Now he sounded as authentic as his smile. “Have you heard enough, then?”

“If you will tell the rest, I should like to hear it.”

She took a deep breath and rushed to finish it, striving for the flat, emotionless tone that allowed her some measure of detachment and made the horrible words seem less raw. She told him about Marie, the switched rooms, her own plan to escape. She told him how terrified and ashamed and grief-stricken she had been.

She wanted to tell him how his kindness and humor and outrage at the situation had, quite possibly, saved the last remaining embers of her spirit as much as his strength and cunning had saved her life . . . but she did not. Those were the admissions she'd planned for her own telling of this tale, the one that was never allowed to be. This version was for his information, and he was now duly informed. She need not elaborate.

“And you won't have to threaten me with deportation to New South Wales,” she joked sadly. “I never speak of those dreadful four days. The girls at my office do not know, even though it would do them no end of good. 'Tis not a story I willingly share, for obvious reasons.”

“Elisabeth,” he said, looking down at her, “I do not wish to deport you. I wish to marry you.”

She stopped breathing. “You what?”

“The marriage, Elisabeth, it . . . it . . . ”

“Bryson,
no
.” She leaned back in her chair and closed her eyes, laying a hand across her brow. The room, suddenly, seemed too bright. “No, no,
no
. I can't believe you've come here, asking this.”

“It's not a question, Elisabeth. You've already accepted me.”

“Well, I un-accept!” She tossed her arm out and stared. “That goes without saying.”

“Elisabeth, hear what I have to say on the matter. Please.”

“Whatever you say is . . . is deranged!” she said, marveling at his nerve. “Not only did you make me painfully aware of your opinion of my lack of suitability as your future bride, but I am no longer the least bit . . . amorous toward you.”

He closed his eyes and rubbed the back of his neck. He turned away. “The marriage I propose would not require either of us to be . . . amorous,” he said quietly.

“Well,” she scoffed, “if you term it like
that
. . . ”

“You have not heard my offer.”

“Perhaps, but I'm not thick. I know that you are wealthy and powerful and that marriage to you would make me a viscountess. I know that any woman in England would be thrilled to accept you.”

“Not
that
offer,” he said, turning back to her. “The offer I came with today.”

“You came today to apologize. You said so yourself. In fact, you promised you would not wheedle me with offers of any kind.”

“And I have apologized, but I implore you, at the very least,
to listen
to a new offer.”

“The old offer . . . the new offer—do you realize that you sound like you're buying a second-hand carriage?”

“If you marry me, Elisabeth,” he said, pressing on, “if you
save me
the embarrassment of a broken engagement, I promise that as my wife, your foundation will know unlimited resources. Forever. A new building, if you wish, a larger staff, a new team for your raids—professionals, the very best—to replace Stoker. I will also fund his education and underwrite your continued support of him.”

Elisabeth stared at him, amazed. He would not. “Bryson.” She faltered. “Escaping gossip and the loss of a betrothed could not be worth all of that to you; it could not.”

“You have no idea how difficult respect is to earn,” he said bitterly. “In contrast, money is the easiest thing for me to give.”

“Not love.” The challenge was out before she could stop it.

He took a deep breath. “Look, Elisabeth, I know I did irreparable damage to our . . . rapport at the St. Clare ball. Likewise, you misled me for weeks. We need not pretend that this can be patched over with one conversation. I won't insult you by suggesting your cooperation can be bought, even with money that goes to your beloved foundation. What I suggest is more like . . . a business agreement.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“A contract of sorts. I will marry you and make you a wealthy viscountess with far-reaching influence toward social change and pots of money to give to rescued prostitutes or whomever your compassionate heart desires. You will marry me, and I will suffer no damage to the reputation I have worked so hard to cultivate.”

“This is not an equal trade.” She was too stunned to do more than state the obvious.

“Well, I also gain a wife who happens to be exactly what I was looking for when I set out to find one. Mature. Steadfast. Modest.”

“Oh, God, you
do
think of me as a used carriage.”

He smiled again. Elisabeth smiled too, although only for a second. This was madness.

“
Bryson
. . . ” she said sadly, shaking her head.

He went on, explaining in calm, even tones. “The image we will show to the world will be that of a devoted couple, mutually respectful, loyal, and faithful. In private, at home, we needn't, er, pretend that we share anything more than an amicable business agreement that benefits us both.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning separate lives, separate interests—I have my work; you have yours—separate schedules . . . ”

“Separate bedrooms.”

He looked up. “Well, naturally. Even if we had—” He stopped himself and looked away.

He cleared his throat before he went on. “It is customary, I believe, even in traditional unions, for a lord and lady to reside in separate chambers. My house is expansive by design. The viscountess's suite is luxurious, to say the least.”

“When I dreamed of our marriage before, Bryson, I had no intention of sleeping anywhere but in your bed.” Another admission, out before she could stop it. His reaction—a clenched jaw, a flush, a balled fist—was satisfying, even now. One last opportunity to provoke him.

He gritted his teeth. “Well, then perhaps you will not balk at my last stipulation.”

“I'm balking at all of it—the entire scheme. What is your last stipulation? That I sing in the church choir?”

She watched him turn in an agitated circle, collecting himself. “I will require children.”

Oh
.

“Of course,” she said. “An heir.”

“If I am blessed with a son,” he said amicably, “yes. But if you bear only daughters, so be it. I would not keep you as a . . . brood mare.”

“I do believe this is the most romantic proposal I have ever known.”

“I tried for a romantic proposal, Elisabeth. At the ball. It was not to be.”

“Yes. Well. You may have a difficult time procreating with your wife if she is alone in her luxurious viscountess's suite.”

“If you agree,” he said, pressing on, “some . . .
rotation
can be agreed upon, put down in writing for us both. Strategically timed appointments, possibly slotted in for a full year at a time.”

It was now Elisabeth's time to close her eyes.

How in God's name had she arrived at this moment?

Why not simply be left alone, never to know love or children, but to live peacefully and helpfully without enduring this cruel irony?

Tears formed behind her eyelids, and she bit them back.

It was too late. He'd already read her expression. “It all sounds very rigid and impersonal, perhaps, but it is more in line with the relationship I first conceived of for a marriage, before we—before. Nearly every other facet of my life is put down on a schedule, and it makes for far less complication. My own parents were slaves to their passions. And they abused so many people—each other, most of all—because these impulses fuel equal parts recklessness and selfishness. It is no way to live.”

“No,” she heard herself say.

She would not feel sorry for him. His damaged boyhood would break anyone's heart, but his heart was not hers to mend. She had suffered damage too, a different kind, and it was because of that damage that she had tried valiantly to stay away. It was why she would stay away now, despite his smiles and his regret—and his offer. Her damage only upset him more, he'd made that plainly clear.

Surely he would easily find someone else to marry. She wondered idly if she might impress upon him (as a concerned bystander) never to propose
strategically timed appointments
to whoever this future wife might eventually be.

“Elisabeth?” he said, prompting her. “Will you say something? Do you understand what I propose?”

“Yes, I understand. It has shocked me, but I can comprehend it.” She looked at him. “Of all the reasons I thought you persisted in ten days of relentless calling to our front door, I never dreamed that you wished to carry on with a wedding.”

“I rarely break my promises. And I was promised to you.”

“But only for thirty minutes. And a disastrous thirty minutes they were.”

“The incident changed the nature of our union, but it need not change the fact that we will, in the end, unite.”

“Bryson, I . . . I cannot. Don't you see? Any arrangement between the two of us is ambitious at best. I know that we will both eventually forget the discomfort of the . . . ‘incident,' as you call it. But marriage is a far more complicated thing from which to recover. Marriage is forever. I will always be that girl from the brothel; I will always have tried to hide it from you for far too long. You will always be the man who blamed
me
when you discovered my secret. I shall never forget your reaction.”

He stood again, running a frustrated hand through his hair. “I will forget,” he insisted. “I have not asked about what happened there—at the brothel. Before I arrived and bore you away. It does not matter to me.”

“This only proves my point. Naturally it would come back to this. You
cannot
forget.”

“It is not your fault, obviously. You were a victim. I can abide this.”

“That's very decent of you,” she said, squinting her eyes. She stood up. “And what if I wish to talk about it? What if I wish to tell you? Would you hear it then?”

“Of course,” he said, but she saw the unease in his eyes.

“Don't worry. I've said I detest talking about it, and that's true.” She dropped back into her chair. “Ironic, that. This is precisely the type of damaging silence we discourage from the girls at the foundation.”

“Look, Elisabeth,” he said. “I haven't the capacity for openness or gentleness, for the unconditional compassion that you do. I know I feel wretched for you and what you endured, that I feel fury toward the men who did this to you. But I don't know what you need from me to make it palatable for us to proceed.”

She opened her mouth to remind him, but he spoke over her. “I know what you do
not
need, and I will not treat you so callously ever again. Whatever else you want, I stand ready to serve. I'm sorry I cannot guess it, but you need only tell me.”

She marveled at him. “You have said everything right. I needn't tell you anything except marrying me to avoid
gossip
is wrong. There are worse things.”

He turned away, sighing heavily and looking at the ceiling. “I see. You cannot forgive me. I am not repentant enough.”

“On the contrary, you seem duly repentant. But whether you are truly sorry does not matter so much as your reaction the
next
time I do something to stun you or hurt you or disappoint you. The
next time
you misunderstand. Yes, I can forgive you. But how can I know when you will next launch into a maddened rage? I am mindful of others' feelings, and I am not rash or secretive, but eventually, I will displease you. And I cannot survive in a marriage—traditional
or
businesslike—wherein I live in fear of your unsubstantiated anger.”