A Little More Scandal

Pocket Star

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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2012 by Carrie Lofty

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First Pocket Star eBook edition May 2012

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Designed by Ruth Lee-Mui

ISBN 978-1-4516-7365-4 (eBook)

Don’t miss exclusive excerpts from

Flawless

The Christies, Book One

CARRIE LOFTY

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and

Starlight

The Christies, Book Two

CARRIE LOFTY

Coming in July 2012 from Pocket Books!

One

London

July 1856

William Christie prided himself on knowing his opponents, in both business and life—believing, without reserve, that the two were entirely intertwined. Thus he had solicited contacts and, with more muscle, pressed the shadier elements of his acquaintance to learn all he could about Miss Catrin Jones.

The infamous Miss Catrin Jones.

Unfortunately, in his quest to assemble a picture of her character, personal history, and temperament, he forgot to ask whether she was beautiful.

Why would he? She was a Welsh country girl, the youngest of five daughters born to a pastor and a perfectly respectable woman of good, if not noteworthy, breeding. She was also a wartime nurse who, in May, had survived a shipwreck upon her return journey from the Crimea. She was the only survivor. Such facts did not conspire to evoke suspicions of great beauty or glamour.

But she possessed ample stores of both.

From across the ballroom at Lord Stalton’s city manor, in the midst of the Earl’s annual mid-summer fête, William appraised his target with the practiced eye of a man who knew his weaknesses regarding the fairer sex. In a word, she was contrary. Entirely contrary to the sort of woman who generally caught his eye. She was short and almost boyish in her stature, whereas William preferred sinuous curves that could annul a man’s ambitions. At the age of one-and-thirty, having already experienced marriage, life as a widower, and the unaccountable folly of forming an attachment to a mistress, he had learned to walk well clear of such temptations.

Miss Jones was not to his taste, per se, but her expression was animated among practiced smiles and forced laughter; it was like seeing the sun at midnight. Entirely out of place.

As was he.

Not that he would emphasize their commonality when he seduced her. No, his intentions were much more . . . driven. Rather than see her story blazoned across every newspaper in the empire, Miss Jones had yet to reveal details of her shipwreck survival to anyone outside of the Royal Navy’s inquisitions board. Of course, salacious gossip flourished with or without facts, but apparently she felt no force of circumstance to set the record straight.

William’s aim was to secure the most sought-after exposé of the decade. Not because he was a journalist. By no means. He did, however, have his sights set on owning a newspaper. Francis Lymon’s
Daily Journal
was failing at an astonishing rate of decline. The right article about the right nurse, along with a hefty dose of William’s own capital, would set the institution on solid footing. With a newspaper in his back pocket, he could continue his bid to rally support for the essential railroad contracts that underpinned his corporations.

And it all began with seducing Miss Jones. Who was undeniably beautiful.

He finished his cognac and crossed the opulent, brightly lit ballroom, navigating past acquaintances, old lovers, business rivals, venomous former in-laws, and the best of London society as if he had been born to that very privilege. Hardly the case. Had he the claws of a wild beast, he would have achieved his climb out of the slums of Glasgow in far fewer years. Instead he had his fists, his mind, and his ambition, and the journey had taken two decades.

“Ah, Christie,” came the voice of Lord Stalton. His faultless timbre was fashioned by privilege and ancient lineage. “You’re just in time to meet my guest of honor.”

William affected surprise as if such an introduction had not been his aim. “Oh?”

“William Christie, wizard of all matters of industry, this is our Angel of the Crimea, Miss Catrin Jones.”

Lord Stalton was none so crass as his younger cousin, Lady Julia Fenmore, whose lifted brows practically screamed an addendum: “The one from the shipwreck.”

William shot the woman a dark scowl that sent her rushing to flutter her fan. For being as evil as a snake, she was remarkably dull. Predictable. He had discovered that the means of mitigating her poisonous influence on his affairs was to play the part of the leashed animal, ready at any moment to go for her throat. Men of good breeding did not threaten the women of their acquaintance. But to William she was simply another enemy, albeit one who possessed a striking body—the kind he had learned to avoid.

What she thought to gain by inviting Miss Jones to lodge within her family’s Mayfair mansion for the Season was a curiosity. He would hardly put it past her to hold no aim beyond amusement. The novelty of parading such a creature through the
ton
would be quite the boon to an insufferable bore.

He put her out of his mind, intent on his task. Bowing, he maintained a more neutral expression when greeting Miss Jones. “A pleasure to meet you. I trust you are enjoying Lord Stalton’s soiree.”

“Indeed.” She carried no fan and kept her hands secreted behind her back. Everything about her posture shouted reserve, but her expression wrapped around some nugget of humor. Was she laughing at the evening’s diversions? Or him in particular? A tingle of unease shot up his spine. “And who are you, exactly, Mr. Christie?”

“No one of note,” he said gruffly. He was never more aware of his coarse Glaswegian brogue than when conversing with new acquaintances. Always there existed the possibility that they literally would not understand his words, no matter the long years he had spent modulating his speech. “Merely one of Lord Stalton’s business associates. I was pleased to receive his invitation.”

Pleased, but not surprised. William owned the deed to the Earl’s favorite hunting grounds in Dorset. The man was jovial, generous, and exceedingly bad at finance.

“No bother, Christie. None at all. We’re happy to have you.”

“Of course,” added Lady Julia. “My dear cousin is always looking for novel ways to add . . . variety to his gatherings.” Her pale green eyes sparked with hostile mirth. She leaned nearer to Miss Jones and whispered behind her fan. How fortunate for William to have a catalogue of his faults so readily at hand.

Even as Lady Julia filled her ears with poison, Miss Jones regarded him steadily, as if intent on making up her own mind based on the figure he cut. The potency of her gaze was mollified only by her soft features. Such a tidy little face, haloed by russet brown hair, so rich, shimmeringly rich and thick with curls. Her lips were nearly as round and plump as they were wide, just like an apricot. Laughing eyes shone with the luster of honey in sunlight. As if perpetually surprised, her russet brows lifted away from the bridge of her petite, turned-up nose.

The quartet at the far end of the ballroom ended its minuet and struck up the lively strains of a waltz, something frothy and sweet. Miss Jones glanced toward where the dancers paired. Her lips parted on a silent sigh.

“Miss Jones, would you care to dance?”

Those wide caramel eyes, ringed with long, thick brown lashes, snapped back toward his face. Their gazes locked. Ambition had, in part, fueled his question. But so had honest male interest. So petite and neatly contained, she seemed to hide a thousand smirking words yet unsaid. He would never hear them if he failed to extricate her from the likes of Stalton and his wan cousin. Miss Jones did not possess the physical form William usually esteemed, but he could do with finding her humor to his tastes. That would make his task so much more enjoyable.

Lady Julia tossed her chin upward. “Of course she won’t. We were having quite the entertaining conversation before your arrival.”

“It’s no trouble,” Miss Jones said quietly. “I’d rather enjoy a waltz.”

“Nonsense. He’s not suitable company. Ask the Burgesses and what become of their dead Susannah. Deplorable!”

William tucked his fists out of sight. If Lady Julia continued to press the issue of his late wife, he would need to leave. There existed no other option for his temper. Finding another opportunity to get close to Miss Jones might take time, but such trouble was far preferable to strangling the Earl of Stalton’s cousin in a ballroom full of his esteemed guests.

He waited to see what the young woman would decide. Was she the sort to bow to the whims of her betters? Was she susceptible to suggestion and coercion? Such a temperament would enable an effortless seduction, and yet he found himself silently encouraging rebellion.

If his research on Miss Jones had been lacking with regard to her fine countenance, he had hit dead-center upon learning of her stubbornness and steel. A mere pastor’s daughter, she wore the hauteur of a duchess as she stepped away from her aristocratic companions.

“You have no reason to fear, Lady Julia,” she said with a crystalline voice. “I’ve survived far worse.”