A Common Scandal (2 page)

“But what about until then? I’ll miss you so much. Nothing will be any fun without you.”

He sighed sadly. “We can’t have fun forever.”

“Why not?”

Natty’s eyebrows furrowed, his face taking on a shockingly grown-up expression, one that made her clutch tightly on to his glass, an expression that meant responsibilities, worry and the end of all things childish. “Because it’s time to grow up.”

Chapter One

June
,
1896

It was an undeniable fact that Amelia would find trouble before the night was out.

It wasn’t her fault. The problem was the ball. The Miltons’ ball was a dreadful bore, and when Amelia got bored, trouble seemed to find her in shockingly short order. The ballroom was too hot and overcrowded—and not even crowded with anyone interesting. The Season was nearly over. How could there still be this many people in London? Somehow only the tedious ones seemed to be lingering this year.

She’d been so good until now. She hadn’t yet lost her gloves and they were hardly even smudged. Her shoes were still on, despite the fact they were pinching her toes horribly. And her riotous black curls, neatly arranged by her maid for the occasion, were still tucked into their coiffure. But her hard-won perfection wasn’t destined to last, especially once Sir Percy Cholmondeley got his sweaty hands on her for the waltz. He was the
nicest
man and absolutely the
worst
dancer. And the conversation—she’d never had to speak at such length about mince pies in all her life. She’d been out of things to say about them some ten minutes ago and
still
Sir Percy rattled on. There was a limit to what any gently bred young lady could be expected to endure and since her breeding fell somewhat short of gentle, her patience was long expired.

“Ouch!” she whispered as her toes were flattened under Sir Percy’s glossy black shoe.

“Speaking for myself, I prefer a hefty dose of brandy in my mince, but others prefer it a bit milder. Which do you prefer, Miss Wheeler?”

If Cholmondeley realized he’d stomped on her toe for the fifth time in as many minutes, he didn’t let on, the poor, oblivious, dear man.

Amelia took a deep breath and forced a sunny smile. “Oh, I like my mince to torch right up. Enough brandy to scorch the draperies, I always say.”

Cholmondeley beamed at her. “Just so. That’s precisely how I like it, as well.”

He’d be insufferable if he wasn’t so bloody kind. He was one of the few men in London who hadn’t subtly—and not so subtly—turned his nose up at her mercantile fortune. Any number of impoverished nobles might pay court to her for her money, but Cholmondeley was one of the only ones who truly didn’t notice her humble origins. Perhaps it was because he didn’t notice anything he couldn’t eat.

Cholmondeley steered her around the ballroom a few more times, turning her toes to pulp and rattling on about the mince pies a bit more. As the waltz drew to a close, Amelia let out her breath and drew to a grateful stop.

“Shall I wait with you until your next beau appears to claim his dance, Miss Wheeler?”

“Oh, I think my card’s empty for the next,” she said, not sure if it was true or not, but beyond caring. “I believe I’ll get some punch and rest for this dance.”

“Well, do let me escort you to the punch table.”

“You are too kind,” Amelia said through clenched teeth. But Genevieve Grantham had spent years drilling the rules of gracious behavior into her and they didn’t go amiss now. She set her hand lightly on his arm, allowing him lead her through the crush of sweating bodies sheathed in beautiful satins and lace. Cholmondeley stepped away to brave the refreshments table for her, while Amelia plied her fan and glanced around the room trying to locate her father, so she’d know which parts of the room to avoid for the rest of the night. No doubt he’d set his sights on yet another desperately poor, properly titled young man he wanted her to meet, but he couldn’t wrangle her into an introduction if he couldn’t find her.

If she had her friends with her like last Season, this evening might have been fun. But Victoria was off in Hampshire, the new Duchess of Waring, putting her own fortune to work restoring her nasty husband’s crumbling family estate. And there had been no Season at all for Grace this year. She didn’t have a fortune to lure in a husband. She didn’t even have enough income to support herself. If only she’d relax her infernal pride a bit, she could have stayed with Amelia and they could have faced this gauntlet together. But since such dependence was unthinkable for Grace, she’d accepted the invitation of the Dowager Countess of Marlbury to accompany her to the South of France for the Season. Although it sounded quite glamorous, it wasn’t at all. She was the Dowager’s guest in name only, there to act as her companion, helping her with her correspondence and running errands. It was a small step above being a paid companion, but it wasn’t long before Grace would be forced to pursue a proper paid position.

Without Victoria and Grace, Amelia was on her own. Last year had been only her second Season and there hadn’t been as much pressure to make a match. She’d been allowed to spend a night giggling with Vic and Grace now and then, ignoring all the gentlemen she should have been pursuing. But they were gone, and this was the end of her third Season. Time was up. She was expected to make a respectable match, or her father would take it upon himself to make one for her.

“Percy Cholmondeley. How perfect for her.”

Amelia perked up at the mention of Cholmondeley’s name nearby and strained to identify the speaker.

“He might be the only man in London as crass as she is.”

Katherine Ponsoy, that snobby little chit. Amelia wasn’t sure what offended her more, the slight against Cholmondeley or herself. Katherine was somewhere behind her right shoulder, and no doubt she thought the hum of general conversation loud enough to muffle her words. Amelia didn’t react in any way, wanting to know who Katherine was speaking to first.

“Oh, Kitty, you’re so very wicked!” Margaret Whidby tittered.

Stupid
,
simpering little fool.
They were both awful. They’d gone out of their way not just to snub Amelia, but to outright insult her whenever possible. Kitty Ponsoy was the daughter of some threadbare baron, but she seemed to think it left her miles above Amelia simply because Josiah Wheeler had earned his fortune. Kitty delighted in insulting working-class heiresses like Amelia and Victoria at every opportunity, even though at this very moment, her older brother was in America on the prowl for one to marry. Victoria had always taken the high road, ignoring them in her gracious, elegant way. Kitty was about to find out Amelia lacked Victoria’s restraint.

She moved so slowly, Kitty and Margaret didn’t notice her at first, even though she was only ten feet away from them. Kitty kept blathering on in her mean-spirited way, while Margaret giggled behind her fan, hiding both her unladylike laughter and her weak chin.

“As if a pair of decent white gloves and a dress by Worth can cover up the dirt from the docks,” Kitty said peevishly. “With that figure, she looks like a common little trollop, no matter how expensive her dress.”

Amelia turned, affecting a dramatic pout. “Oh, Kitty, I knew it. I should have known when the dress was delivered with a personal note from Monsieur Worth’s own son, telling me I would outshine every debutante in London when I wore it, he was only being polite.”

Margaret gasped in mortification at being overheard, but Kitty sneered, tilting her chin up in a challenge. Her cheeks flushed in an unflattering, mottled red and her small eyes nearly disappeared as she narrowed them at Amelia.

“Monsieur Worth’s son knows the value of courting your father’s fortune as well as any other man who’s ever paid attention to you.”

“I’m sure you’re right. Isn’t it a wonderful thing to have a fortune to recommend one’s self?” She clasped one hand to her cheek in false dismay. “Oh dear, I forgot. You haven’t got a fortune, have you, Kitty? Well, at least you have your pretty face. Oh...but I suppose that won’t work for you either, will it?”

Kitty took a step toward her. “You’re nothing but a little gutter rat, no matter how much money you’ve got.”

“Do take care to mind your manners, Kitty,” Amelia admonished. “Your good breeding seems to be all you have left.”

“Well, breeding does show, doesn’t it?”

“That it does. And the next time you cast aspersions on my breeding, you’ll do well to remember where
I
grew up, and I learned to fight on those docks you sneer at. You can keep your ballroom snobbery. I’ll go ten rounds with you in the alley out back and we’ll see who comes out the winner then, shall we?”

Kitty had the good sense to look mildly alarmed. After all, Amelia wasn’t a large girl, but she was more robust than bony Kitty. And she knew Amelia wasn’t bluffing. If it came down to it, Amelia would use her fists and she’d win. Kitty gritted her teeth and tried to think of a sharp comeback that wouldn’t earn her a fist in the face.

Baiting a pathetic little monkey like Kitty was too easy. Besides, if she squared off with her much longer, she really would end up walloping the chit and there’d be no end to the scandal.

She drew herself up and swept a hand down her skirt, smoothing out imaginary wrinkles. This dress was a masterpiece and everyone knew it. Kitty was nothing but a jealous shrew. “Kitty, I forgot to tell you how well that cut of dress looks on you. I had one very like it, but it looks much better on you than it did on my maid, when I passed it on to her two years ago.”

Kitty’s thin lips almost disappeared as she pressed them together. Amelia didn’t stay to hear what she might come up with in response. She turned away and said over her shoulder, “Here comes Percy Cholmondeley with my punch. Such a gentleman, don’t you think?”

Cholmondeley was indeed steering his way toward her with two glasses of punch, holding them aloft to keep from being jostled by the crowd. “Hallooo, Miss Wheeler!” he called out, just a hair too loudly, drawing a few amused glances from the crowd. “I’ve brought the punch!”

“Thank you, Sir Percy. I’ve grown quite parched.”

“It’s all this heat, no doubt,” Cholmondeley said, handing her a cup.

It probably had more to do with the verbal lashing she’d given Kitty. After doing so well all night, she had to go and threaten to punch a debutante right in her pinched little face. If her father caught wind of it, she’d never hear the end of it. It was time to turn this night around. She’d be the picture of grace and good breeding from here on out, worth every penny her father had spent on Lady Grantham’s tutelage. She’d banish the ragtag little street brawler she’d once been and make Genevieve proud.

To that end, when Lord Sturridge approached her to claim the next dance, she smiled demurely and agreed, even though he was a leering, drunken old goat with terrible teeth.

“You look lovely tonight, Miss Wheeler,” he said, which she found amusing considering he wasn’t looking anywhere near her, but at the room around them.

“Thank you. You look rather smashing yourself,” she added, to see if he was listening. He wasn’t.

“The Miltons’ ball is always sublime.”

“I find it rather hot and crowded.”

“Only the best guests,” he continued, without acknowledging she’d spoken or looking at her.

“Then it’s a wonder they invited me,” she quipped, continuing to prod him until he showed any sign of paying attention to her.

“Mrs. Wilson has promised to throw a masked ball next Season. I do love a masked ball.”

“Indeed. Who doesn’t? Perhaps I’ll go as Lady Godiva.”

“It could only be made more perfect if she gave it a theme, don’t you think?”

This was ridiculous. She’d all but announced her intention to arrive at the next Society ball naked and he hadn’t so much as twitched his sparse little moustache in response. Amelia could feel her resolve to behave slipping away. How could she be held to blame in the face of such a disgusting worm as Lord Sturridge?

“Is your father in attendance this evening, Miss Wheeler?”

At last, a question directed at herself! Of course, he was only inquiring after her father, the source of the wealth that made her even tolerable to someone like him.

“He is. I saw him some time ago talking to our hosts.”

“Then I shall make sure to pay my respects to him as well as the Miltons when this set is finished.” He tightened his grip, pulling her body up against his. “Perhaps you might accompany me, Miss Wheeler?”

His gaunt frame was pressed far too close to her body, and his withered hand, splayed across her back, gave her no room to breathe. His voice dropped to a rough whisper, which she supposed he thought sounded flirtatious or suggestive. He stank of gin at this close proximity. At last, he looked at her. Not at her face, of course, but at her bosom, on full display in her wide, low-cut bodice. The nerve of the man. Did he think she’d be flattered by his perfunctory show of interest in her breasts? Did he think his title exempted him from even the most basic respectful behavior toward her? Was she supposed to be so overawed by his title that any scrap of attention he threw her way would be considered a mark of high regard?

Amelia took a moment to examine him as her parents might. At somewhere north of sixty, with three childless wives buried, he was known to be desperate for a wife and an heir. He was also known to be deeply in debt, with an estate in Sussex moldering into the ground. He needed to marry an heiress of childbearing age and he needed to do it quickly. Last Season, he’d pursued Victoria ruthlessly. She’d only agreed to marry Lord Dunnley because he seemed a better prospect than Sturridge. Still, Sturridge was an earl, and from a fairly old, respectable line. The match would be considered quite an accomplishment for the upstart Amelia Wheeler. No doubt, her parents would be delighted.

The man had been at best disinterested, and at worst, a lecher. But if her father had his way, she’d be wed to Lord Sturridge, or someone equally unpleasant. She might be able to put off one or two fortune hunters, but soon she’d be forced to accept one of them whether she liked him or not.

What she wanted to do was to stomp on Sturridge’s toe with the pointy little heel of her silk slippers until he took his disgusting hands off her. She wanted to flee the room, flee this bloody ball altogether, and run through the London streets until she was lost. She felt rather reckless and crazed. She felt like the sort of girl who’d plant a facer on snotty Kitty Ponsoy and not regret it. Good Lord, they were all right about her. She didn’t belong here, no matter how fine her dress or how much polish Genevieve Grantham layered on her manners.