One Night Of Scandal (32 page)

His anger flaring, Hayden decided to seek out the first fire he could find and toss all three volumes in the flames. As he rose, still a little unsteady on his feet from the port, one of the books slid to the floor, falling open in a puddle of moonlight. He bent down to pick it up, not realizing until he saw the scrawled inscription on the frontpiece that it was the first volume of the set. Lottie's handwriting was every bit as extravagant as he remembered.

He traced the tip of his finger over the graceful dips and loops, murmuring aloud,
"From my heart to yours…"

Unable to bear her mockery, he was about to slam the book shut when, against their will, his eyes were drawn to the very first sentence on the very first page —
I'll never forget the moment I first laid eyes on the man who was to save my life.

Chapter 21

Was it possible I had misjudged him so badly?

"D
ID YOU GET IT
? D
ID YOU GET IT
? O
H
, please tell me you got it!" Elizabeth Bly exclaimed, bouncing up and down on her toes in excitement as her best friend came running out the glass-fronted door of Minerva Press's bookshop.

"By Jove, I got it!" Caro Brockway crowed, whipping the thin leather-bound volume out from under her cloak. The girl's breath escaped in white puffs on the frigid air.

Before she could reach Elizabeth, a hulking footman garbed in navy livery stepped into her path. "I'll give you three pounds for that book, miss."

Caro stumbled to a halt, clearly taken aback. "But I only paid half a guinea for it."

"I'll make it five, then." The man stole a desperate look at the long line of carriages parked just behind them.

The elegant carriages and public hacks were lined up all the way to Gracechurch Street. Swaddled in furs and muffs, their occupants were willing to shiver in the cold for hours, all in the hope of obtaining the third volume of London's latest literary sensation,
Lord Death's Bride.

"Please, miss, take pity on me," the man begged. "You heard what happened to Lady Dryden's footman, didn't you?"

The girls exchanged a wide-eyed look. All of London had heard what had happened to Lady Dryden's footman. He had dared to return to the countess's carriage empty-handed only to sheepishly confess that he'd let the last available copy of
Volume Two
of
Lord Death's Bride
slip through his fingers and into Lady Featherwick's grasping paws. Some said the countess's outraged shriek was heard all the way to Aldgate. She had beat the poor fellow about the head with her parasol, then stuck her nose in the air and commanded her coachman to drive on without him. The footman had chased the carriage for ten blocks, begging for her forgiveness, before finally succumbing to exhaustion and falling face-first into a pile of fresh horse manure. Rumor had it that he was now seeking employment on the docks.

"I'm terribly sorry, sir, but I can't help you." Clutching the book to her heart, Caro veered around him and backed toward Elizabeth. "I've been waiting in line since dawn and I promised my mother I'd bring the book straight home. She's going to read itto the entire family after supper tonight. They've all been dying to know what happens after the noble duke realizes his new bride has betrayed his trust."

Elizabeth rolled her eyes. "I can't believe what a ninny she's turned out to be." The girl clasped her hands beneath her chin, a dreamy expression softening her features. "Why, I would have realized from the beginning that such a kind, generous, and
incredibly
handsome man would never hurt any woman, especially his wife."

The footman began to stalk Caro, his countenance taking on a more menacing aspect. He stretched out one white-gloved hand. "Come on, gel. It won't kill you to hand it over. Five pounds must be a fortune to a common chit like you."

"Run, Caro, run!" Elizabeth shrieked, grabbing her friend's hand and tugging her out of his reach.

As the two girls sped away, their cloaks flapping behind them, the footman tore off his top hat and shouted, "Seven pounds! I'll give you seven pounds!"

At bookshops and lending libraries all over London, the same drama was being replayed. The author had insisted that an abridged version be published in weekly installments in the periodicals for those who couldn't afford bound books. The second a new edition appeared, the milling crowds would rush the street vendors, snatching and grabbing until the flimsy pamphlets came apart in their grimy hands. Down on the docks where the penny broadsides were sold, even those who couldn't read wept over crude sketches of a noblewoman on her knees begging for her husband's forgiveness as he turned his sad face away from her and pointed toward the door.

The novel's thinly disguised characters provided endless hours of speculation and delight among the
ton.
They could hardly believe that one of their own would lower themselves to pen such a thrilling and touching tale. It was the greatest literary scandal London had known since a married Percy Bysshe Shelley had eloped to France with sixteen-year-old Mary Godwin over a decade before.

When it was announced that the duke of Devonbrooke and Minerva Press would be jointly hosting a ball in the author's honor at Devonbrooke House, they set out to beg, borrow, or steal an invitation. The families who had retired to their country estates for the winter ordered their footman to hitch up their teams and headed back to the city. None of them were willing to miss the social coup of the year or the chance to ogle the notorious bride of Lord Death himself.

* * *

As Lottie approached the marble steps that spilled down from the gallery into the vast ballroom of Devonbrooke House, she felt more nervous than notorious. A crush of guests milled around the ballroom below, eagerly awaiting her arrival. A string quartet was seated in the corner, their bows poised over their instruments as they awaited the signal to strike up the first waltz. Sterling and Laura stood at the foot of the stairs, looking even more uneasy than she felt, while George ducked through the crowd with his head down, trying to elude a persistent Harriet.

Lottie had dreamed of such a moment her entire life, yet now that it had arrived, she felt curiously empty inside.

She touched a hand to her upswept curls, wondering if any of their guests would recognize the girl who had once been known as the Hertfordshire Hellion. With Laura and Diana's help, she'd chosen a gown of emerald green velvet that rode slightly off of her creamy shoulders. A matching choker encircled her slender throat. Shimmering gold banding edged the puffed sleeves and square-cut bodice of the gown. The waist was cut low, hugging the natural curves of her body. The strand of pearls woven through her hair added a touch of elegance to the demure ensemble, as did the whisper of lace peeping through a side slit in the skirt.

Addison was standing at rigid attention at the top of the stairs. The butler gave her a nearly imperceptible wink before clearing his throat and loudly intoning, "The Most Honorable Carlotta Oakleigh, the marchioness of Oakleigh."

An animated murmur swept through the ballroom as all eyes turned to the stairs. Her fingertips grazing the iron balustrade, Lottie slowly descended, a gracious smile fixed on her lips.

Sterling was waiting for her at the foot of the steps. Lottie felt a wistful pang in her heart as she imagined Hayden standing there instead, his green eyes shining with pride.

Her brother-in-law offered her his arm. As she took it, Laura signaled the musicians. They launched into a rousing Viennese waltz and Lottie and Sterling began to glide around the floor.

"No word from Townsend yet?" Sterling asked as several other couples joined the dance, swirling around them in a riot of colors and chatter.

"Not even a whisper. I'm beginning to think Hayden must have tossed him off the cliff along with my book."

Sterling scowled. "Better him than you."

When the first waltz ended, he handed her off to a beaming Mr. Beale. The kindly publisher was only too eager to be seen squiring about Minerva Press's brightest new literary light. The dazzling success of her novel had enriched both his coffers and his reputation. Lottie clutched one of his ink-stained hands, learning quickly that he was a much better publisher than he was a dancer.

"I believe we can pronounce the night a triumph, my lady," he said, peering over the top of his spectacles at the whirl of excitement, "just as we can the seventh printing of
Volume Three
of your book."

He was blissfully oblivious to the sly glances Lottie was receiving from behind their guests' fans and quizzing glasses. It wasn't admiration she saw in their eyes, but rabid curiosity and thinly veiled pity. Smiling at Mr. Beale, she held her head high. If Hayden could endure society's censure for over four years, surely she could survive it for one night.

Occupied with keeping her delicate slippers out from under the publisher's rather cumbersome feet, she didn't realize a marked hush had fallen over the crowd until the music ground to an off-key halt.

Addison's voice rang out in the sudden silence, lacking its usual clipped cadence. "The Most Honorable Hayden St. Clair, the marquess of Oakleigh."

As a stunned gasp traveled through the crowd, Lottie whirled around to find her husband standing at the top of the stairs.

Chapter 22

It seemed the Devil had come to claim his bride…

A
LTHOUGH EVERY GAZE IN THE ENORMOUS
ballroom was fixed on the man at the top of the stairs, he had eyes only for Lottie. The burning look he gave her made several of the women standing nearby fumble in their reticules for their smelling salts.

As he started down the steps, a wave of excited chatter swept the room.

"Is that him? Could it be?"

"Look at those eyes! He's even more handsome than she described."

"Oh my! He looks rather savage and unpredictable, doesn't he? I've always admired that in a man."

For some of the younger guests, it was their first glimpse of the notorious recluse once known as the Murderous Marquess. Others still remembered him as the prized catch who had broken the hearts of their eager young daughters by marrying a penniless French girl. But to all of them he was now the hero of Lady Oakleigh's infamous novel — a man wrongly maligned not only by them, but also by the very woman who stood watching his approach, as pale and silent as a statue. More than a few of them hoped he had come to give her the set-down she so richly deserved.

As Hayden's determined strides carried him across the ballroom, both Sterling and George moved to intercept him. Laura shook her head frantically at her brother and grabbed her husband's arm, digging her fingernails into his sleeve.

Stopping in front of Lottie, Hayden sketched her a crisp bow. "May I have the honor, my lady? Or is your dance card already full?"

"I don't have a dance card, my lord. In case you've forgotten, I'm a married woman."

His eyes smoldered down at her. "Oh, I haven't forgotten."

Mr. Beale stepped aside, eagerly surrendering her. From the glazed look in his eye, Lottie could tell he was already mentally tallying how many copies of her book this fresh scandal was bound to sell. "I'd best hand you over without a fight, my lady. I've heard your husband is the jealous sort. We wouldn't want him to call me out, now would we?"

Giving Hayden a conspiratorial wink, he bowed and backed away, leaving Lottie all alone to face her husband. As the musicians took up the soaring melody where they had left off, Hayden swept her into his arms and into the dance.

Lottie stole a glimpse at the daunting set of his freshly shaven jaw above the snowy folds of his cravat, hardly daring to believe that she was in his arms once again. His hand was splayed at the small of her back, its possessive heat urging her nearer with each dizzying turn around the ballroom.

Gazing straight ahead, he said, "I owe you an apology, my lady. It seems you're capable of maudlin sentimentality after all. You simply weren't going to be happy until you made a hero of me, were you? I just don't understand why you had to do it at your own expense."

"What expense?" Lottie replied, keeping her voice deliberately light to hide how breathless he was making her. "Look around you. I finally have all of the fame and attention I've always craved. Just as you predicted, I'm the literary toast of London."

Hayden did look around, but unlike Mr. Beale, he recognized what he saw. "They didn't come here tonight to honor you. They came to gawk at you. Just look at Lady Dryden. How dare that spiteful old cow look at you with pity in her eyes? She's already driven three husbands to early graves with her incessant nagging." He gave the buxom old woman a fierce scowl, sending her ducking behind her hand-painted fan.

"You really shouldn't be so hard on them. I can assure you that they all enjoyed weeping copious tears when my heroine's redemption came too late and my hero cast her out of his life and his heart."

Hayden lowered his eyes to hers, the look in their dark-fringed depths making her pulse quicken. "Weren't you the one who told me that it's never too late? Not if you have someone to believe in you."

The music ended in that moment, but instead of letting her go, he drew her even closer. Neither of them realized another startled hush had fallen over the ballroom until Addison made a strangled noise deep in his throat. His voice resounded like a trumpet as he shouted, "His Majesty, the king!"

Hayden and Lottie jerked apart as a fresh surge of astonishment rippled through the ballroom. Sterling and Laura looked as shocked as everyone else. The king's rapidly failing health had driven him into seclusion at Windsor months ago. Some even whispered that he was beginning to show signs of his father's madness, insisting he'd fought at Waterloo alongside Wellington instead of squandering his youth and vigor on excesses of wine, women, and overly rich cream sauces.

As he minced his way toward them, flanked by two of his royal guards, Hayden bowed and Lottie sank into a full court curtsy, her head inclined and her skirts spread on the floor around her. Keenly aware of the vulnerability of her nape, she eyed the guards' swords out of the corner of her eye, just waiting for the king to bellow, "Off with her head!"