Saved by Scandal (4 page)

Viscount Woodbridge’s appearance was magnificent, but what was truly overwhelming was his appearing on her front doorstep at all. And the words he was telling Ella! Words like settlements and security and solicitors, words Margot had even stopped dreaming about. No one mentioned marriage in the same sentence as actress, yet here he was, swearing to love, honor, and protect—well, he hadn’t mentioned love, but that was all right—in the rooming house parlor, and here she was, holding a license and a wedding ring. Margot had to take her eyes away from the keyhole to look down at the papers in her hand again. Yes, that was her name spelled out, with a space for her real last name, right above his: Galen Collin Spreewell Woodrow.

No gentlemen ever came to her rooms; Margot made sure of that. Accepting a gentleman’s
carte blanche
was expected for a female in her position, and it might even have been the answer to some of her pressing problems, but Margot was not interested. She was not tempted to set her feet on the primrose path, not tempted by any of the libertines who pressed flowers and poems and damp kisses into her hands in the Green Room. But, oh, she was tempted now by that piece of paper, whatever it was his lordship had in mind.

While Margot was building air castles, Rufus had gone to the parlor door. His mistress was on the other side, and she was always willing to share her muffins and toast, so he whined. Since Ella was encumbered by her sewing, Viscount Woodbridge got up to let the dog out. He pulled on the handle to open the door, then had to jump back as a slim, golden-haired young female wearing spectacles tumbled at his feet.

First he reached for her hand, to help her up. Then he reached for his quizzing glass. Lud, the chit was even lovelier up close than she appeared from his theater box. She seemed younger, fresher, more innocent, which made her more alluring to him. Now he could almost imagine he wasn’t taking a soiled dove as his viscountess. With her wide-eyed stare and embarrassed blushes, Miss Montclaire looked as if she’d never even been kissed.

Usually her hair was coiled into a topknot; now it flowed down her back, held off her face by a cornflower blue ribbon that matched her incredible eyes. Usually she wore stage makeup; now he could see that she had a clear, rose-tinged complexion under the suddenly reddened cheeks, enhanced by a sprinkling of freckles across her nose. Usually he admired a pretty woman as a dispassionate connoisseur of artwork; now he was ready to fall at
her
feet.

Margot stuffed the spectacles into her gown’s pocket and tried to will her blushes away. Goodness, such hoydenish behavior would frighten the poor man off before he even met her. Please, please, she begged, don’t let him turn his
back and walk out. The dream was too sweet not to savor as long as it lasted.

He didn’t leave, but guided her to a seat instead. With a glance in Ella’s direction, he said, “Miss Montclaire, I am certain you have gathered that I have something of a personal matter to discuss with you.”

She could not help her unruly tongue from blurting out: “I don’t see how, since we have never met. And I cannot think it proper to—” Ella was already gathering her sewing together to leave.

“I’ll take the dog for his walk, then, Miss Margot.”

What, they were both going to desert her, along with her wits? Margot folded her hands in her lap, trying to feign a poise she was far from feeling. Goodness, she mentally shook herself. She faced hundreds of strangers every night as she sang; surely this one was not going to discompose her. She’d listen to what he had to say, and later she and Ella could have a good laugh over the antics of the aristocracy.

He was still standing, too tall in the little room. “Won’t you please sit down, my lord?”

He went back to the pianoforte bench, then decided it was too far away, so he dragged it toward her chintz-covered chair. Then he brought the breakfast tray to a closer table, saying he regretted causing her to miss her meal. One slice of dry toast remained, and half a scone. The water for tea would be cold by now, besides. “Dash it, I am sorry.” He looked around, as if seeking the bellpull to make a legion of servants appear with a fresh tray. There was, of course, no bellpull, and no servants. The viscount flushed and cleared his throat.

He was nervous, Margot realized. Amazingly enough, this top-drawer gentleman was ill at east over his errand. As well he should be, she supposed, if he was trying to invent some faradiddle to dupe an innocent female into taking part in an immoral, illegal, or impossible scheme. Still, her good manners demanded she make her guest comfortable, so she said
she’d already had chocolate and a roll upstairs. “Please, be seated. I admit to a raging curiosity, my lord.”

The viscount sat on the bench, crossed his legs, then uncrossed them. Finally he leaned forward, swallowed, and managed to declare, “I should very much like to marry you, Miss Montclaire.”

Margot tapped the papers in her lap. “So I gathered. But why?”

Dash it, the minx was making this harder than it had to be, Galen thought. He’d offered; she ought to accept. But she was looking at him expectantly, every inch the polite hostess. She might have been asking why he preferred coffee to tea, instead of why he was sitting in her parlor, making a total ass of himself. And he was too busy listening to her slightly husky voice, with its slight French accent, to pay attention. Why did he want to marry her? Galen dredged the shoals of his wits for an answer: “Because I find myself in need of a bride. The one I had seems to have had a change of heart.”

“Yes, I read about that. My sympathies, Lord Woodbridge.”

“No, no. That was for the best. No regrets, I assure you. Lucky escape and all that. But it was a bit of an embarrassment,” he vastly understated.

“And you thought to marry someone else, to divert the gossip’s attention?”

“Precisely.” He was relieved to find her so astute.

“But why me? You do not know me, or if we would suit.”

Galen was on firmer ground now. “But I do know a great deal about you, Miss Montclaire. Your beauty and talent are obvious.” He watched as she lowered her eyes at the compliment, charmed at her modesty. “And all of my friends and acquaintances constantly sing your praises, saying you are well-spoken and refined, more intelligent than most of them.”

She smiled. “That is not hard, my lord.”

“Ah, met Skippy Skidmore, have you? He said he’d won an introduction, for all the good it did him. And that’s another factor in your favor—your virtue. You never go home with any of those who seek your companionship, never let any of the mooncalves or the moneyed lords call on you here. You even refused to see me last evening.”

She looked down again. “You have too high an opinion of your own worth, I think, my lord.”

“Not if you were a woman who earned her living pleasing men. Everyone knows I am warm in the pockets. No, if you were looking for a lover, you would have at least met with me.”

If she were looking for a lover, Margot thought, she’d drag this nonpareil off to her bedchamber before the cat could lick its ear. But she was not seeking a lover, a patron, a protector. “Fie,” she said, “for all you know I could already have a gentleman hidden away in my dressing room this very moment.”

He nodded. “You could have. But if you are not virtuous, at least you are discreet, which is another advantage. Do you?”

“Do I what?”

“Have a lover stashed away somewhere? In the country, if not upstairs? Out of Town or with the Army, perhaps?”

Her blush told him enough, but she replied, “That is none of your concern, my lord.”

“It would be, if we married. Fidelity is one of the few things I would require of you. I could not bear to be cuckolded again.”

Margot raised her chin. “You may be sure I would honor my wedding vows, if I ever gave them. How do you know I am not already married?”

“Because no decent man would keep his beautiful wife in such squalor, and you are too downy to wed a scoundrel.”

“Thank you, I think. What are the other requirements for this hypothetical bride of yours?”

At least she was interested, Galen thought in relief. “Not many. I do not expect a dowry, naturally, for I have no need
of one.” And he still had Florrie’s. “I would not expect you to give up your career, if that is a worry.”

Margot hated her career, hated having to perform for all those cold-eyed strangers, hated being considered fair prey by the rakes and roués. She might have to sing for her supper, but that did not mean she was a strumpet. His lordship seemed to appreciate that fact, treating her like a lady instead of a ladybird. “What else?”

He brushed a dog hair off his superfine sleeve. “I would not demand my husbandly rights, for, oh, six months or so. That way if we decide we cannot suit, I am sure a large enough donation to the church will convince the bishop that Skippy filled out the papers incorrectly, and the marriage can be annulled.”

Margot’s brow knit in concentration. No consummation of the marriage for six months? But all noblemen were expected to provide heirs. That was the only reason most of them bothered to get married at all. Then her forehead cleared as she reached comprehension. “Ah, in six months you would be sure I am not carrying another man’s child to inherit your title.”

He nodded. “You see, we
do
understand each other. You have everything to gain by such an arrangement, my dear.” He held up his fingers to count off the advantages, in case she had not tallied them for herself. “Wealth, with widow’s benefits and a generous allowance written into the marriage settlements. A title that will grant you respectability and open doors now shut to you, if you wish to enter. You could be a duchess someday, a day long in the future, God willing. Numerous houses and properties, so you can have an independent existence if you’d rather. Children, I hope. And a grateful husband, of course.”

A home, children, respectability, and security, Margot mused. What more could a woman ask? Unfortunately they came with the last, the husband. Margot held up her own five-fingered reasoning. “Husbands have been known to keep mistresses, gamble away their fortunes, demand total
obedience, and drink in excess.” She stared right into his brown, bloodshot eyes as her smallest finger joined the others. “And beat their wives.”

Galen took a deep breath. “Yesterday was an exception Perhaps I could be forgiven for overindulging since it was, after all, my wedding day. As for your other concerns, you are right to be cautious. First, I have never wagered more than I can afford, and a great deal of my fortune is entailed besides, not mine to gamble away. Second, I want a wife, a companion, not a servant to do my bidding and agree with my every opinion. Third, I, too, take the marriage vows seriously, but if we find we cannot rub along together, I would never embarrass my lady wife with my other interests.”

“Ah, discretion again?”

“Quite. As to your last worry, I would demand satisfaction from any man who dared suggest that I might hurt one who is weaker than I, one whom, moreover, I have sworn to protect.”

Galahad indeed, Margot thought, somehow believing in this man’s integrity. He might be attics-to-let, making her this insane proposal, but at least they were honorable attics. “I apologize if I have given offense.”

“No, I am glad to have things open between us. You have to know what you are getting into, of course.”

Margot did not need Lord Woodbridge to tell her what she would be getting out of: this house, this neighborhood, a hand-to-mouth existence fraught with indignities and insults, a future as bleak as Mrs. McGuirk’s black dresses. “Very well, the advantages to me are considerable. But, my lord, I need to ask where is the benefit to you? You could have any lady of the
ton
you wish, attractive young women with fortunes and titles and sterling reputations, trained from birth to take their place in your social circles. Marrying an actress can bring you only scandal.”

“Yes,” he said with a boyish grin, “a wondrous, magnificent scandal. The biggest this year. Even more scandalous
than Lady Carew and her husband’s valet. That’s the point, my dear.”

“You’d marry me to thumb your nose at the gossips, to spite your former fiancée?”

“Tomorrow. No, it’s already tomorrow. I would wed you this morning, Miss Montclaire, if you would do me the honor of accepting my hand.”

The notion was preposterous, but a soft, warm what-if was wriggling its way into Margot’s thoughts. She could do this, she told herself, marry a charming Bedlamite for his money and position. She’d done more outrageous things in her life, for her brother’s sake.

Chapter Five

Whoever asked, am I my brother’s keeper? should have asked Margot Montclaire Penrose first. Now the answer to her prayers for Ansel just might be sitting on the rickety pianoforte bench, if Lord Woodbridge was willing to take on this additional responsibility. The viscount was ready to wed a socially unwelcome bride, but Margot could not marry anyone not willing to welcome her brother. For an instant she thought of accepting his lordship’s lunatic offer, explaining about Ansel later and relying on Lord Woodbridge’s code of honor, but she had her own scruples. They were being honest, weren’t they? Even if the viscount was dicked in the nob, he deserved to know what else he was getting along with a wife. Margot needed to know that he would shoulder this weighty burden she’d been carrying.

Convinced that he was serious about wedding her—the license alone must have cost him a fortune—Margot also decided that it was not fair to let his lordship go on thinking she was some totally ineligible female. “What if this marriage would not be such a total misalliance, my lord?” she finally asked.