Love and Other Scandals (2 page)

But this time, she fell in love with him anyway.

Chapter 1

London, 1822

A
s so often happens at the crucial turning points in life, it began with something very stupid.

“Lady Drummond informed me they will be attending the Malcolm ball tomorrow evening,” Lady Bennet announced at breakfast.

“Indeed,” murmured her husband without looking up from his newspaper.

“She will have her daughters with her, of course,” continued Mother.

“Hmm.” Papa was paying no more attention than Joan was. She thought it was little surprise Lady Drummond would be out, dragging her two daughters with her. Felicity was nice enough, but Helena had a vicious way with underhanded compliments. She always managed to say something that sounded as though it should have been kind, but instead made Joan feel overweight and old. She made a vague mental note to be on guard and avoid Helena at the ball.

“Douglas must attend.”

This did catch Joan’s attention. “Why?” she asked with a laugh. “Douglas never goes to balls.”

Mother sipped her tea. “He should be there. Felicity Drummond will be expecting him.”

“She will?” Joan stared. “Whatever for? Surely Felicity doesn’t expect—or rather, hope—or even
dream
—”

“Joan!”

She winced. “I’m sorry, Mother. I had no idea Douglas admired her, is what I meant to say.”

“It would be a fine match,” said Lady Bennet with a sharp look, “and Douglas admires her as much as he admires any lady. George, are you listening to me?” she suddenly snapped at her husband.

“Every word, my love,” said Papa promptly. He still hadn’t looked up from the newspaper.

“Do you not agree it would be a splendid match if Douglas were to marry the Drummonds’ eldest girl?”

“Superb.”

“Then he must attend the Malcolm ball tomorrow night.” Mother smiled as if that settled the matter. “Send word to him this morning, before he makes other plans.”

Before he finds a solid excuse
, Joan thought.

“Better yet, go tell him yourself, dear,” added Lady Bennet, spreading jam on her toast. “He cannot ignore his own father’s request.”

That finally got the baronet’s attention. “What, what? Of course I won’t. Douglas is a grown man. By all means send him a note about the ball, but I refuse to order him about.”

Mother’s face grew stern. “George,
please
.”

“Marion,
no
,” Papa replied in his final voice before turning his attention back to his newspaper. Mother pinched her lips together and said no more, but her face was a study in thwarted will. Joan knew that look too well. Mother would sit and ruminate on it like a kettle building up a head of steam, until eventually it grew too much to bear and she would explode—most likely at Joan, who, unlike her lucky brother, was still living at home and couldn’t escape their mother’s temper. There were two choices open to her, neither appealing, but she had faced this before and dutifully screwed her courage to the sticking point.

“I could call on Douglas,” she said, “and ask him if he plans to attend.”

“Joan, that is very sweet of you,” said Mother at once. She was still glaring at her husband in frustration, and he was still impervious to it. “I would go myself, but I’m sure he will be glad to see you instead.”

Because he can say no to me
, Joan thought. “It’s no trouble at all. You’ve only just got over that cold, and I do adore dropping in on Douglas unannounced.”

Mother looked suddenly alarmed. “Why, dear?”

Joan shrugged. “Oh, I might find him still green and buffle-headed from the night before, and extract any number of promises from him.”

Mother closed her eyes briefly, then apparently shook off her qualms. She must have her heart set upon seeing Douglas wed to Felicity Drummond. “Then get him to promise he’ll attend tomorrow. Without getting foxed beforehand!”

Joan had started to rise from her seat, but now she sank back down. “Oh, that is too much. I was willing to wheedle attendance from him, but sobriety? Mother, you cannot be serious.”

Papa snorted with laughter, and even Mother smiled, though with annoyance. “Go on, you saucy girl. I declare, I always thought you were the biddable child!”

“But I am,” she protested with a grin. “I’m going to see Douglas, am I not? Douglas, who would otherwise continue drinking and gambling his way through London instead of dancing with Felicity Drummond at the Malcolm ball tomorrow night. Isn’t that what you wanted?”

“Don’t speak of such things, Joan,” said her mother automatically. “And tell him to be prompt!” The last was called after her as Joan went out the door, blowing a kiss to her father, who winked at her in return.

Papa, Joan reflected as she went upstairs, was the source of Douglas’s only hope; not only would Douglas someday inherit Papa’s title and fortune, he would grow into Papa’s easygoing ways as well. At least, everyone devoutly hoped so, since Douglas had shown no sign of their mother’s iron-willed determination. According to legend, Papa had been just as unrestrained a hell-raiser as Douglas before Mother caught him and tamed him. Now he was the most wonderful man Joan knew, and if her brother could somehow outgrow his outrageous, rakish habits and become like Papa, so much the better for everyone in the world.

But until then, Joan meant to take advantage of every opening her brother’s wild ways afforded her.

Since he was sure to be sleeping late under the effects of brandy or port, she dressed quickly. The earlier her call, the more desperate Douglas would be to get rid of her; the more desperate Douglas was to get rid of her, the sooner he would promise anything and everything she asked; and the sooner she secured his promise—perhaps in writing, which would be a nice touch—she would be free to do what she liked before her mother missed her. Her mother wouldn’t insist on a maid accompanying her just to her brother’s house, which meant this was an excellent chance at a little independence. Young ladies weren’t allowed nearly the same freedom as young men, and her opportunities to slip out for an hour alone were few and far between.

Although, Joan thought a little morosely as she walked the few blocks to Douglas’s house, she was hardly a young lady anymore. She was twenty-four. After four Seasons without a single marriage proposal, and three more Seasons of just being in London, she also wasn’t quite tied down. On the contrary, she had a surfeit of freedom, to her mother’s despair. For a moment Joan had a terrifying vision of her future, running her mother’s errands because, really, what else would she be doing, with no husband or children of her own? There was only so long one could justify new gowns and shoes before it became a joke. Spinsters didn’t need to look beautiful, and Joan didn’t look beautiful even with new shoes and gowns. If they hadn’t landed her a husband by now, how likely was it that they would get her one as she grew older and even less pretty?

Unsurprisingly, her mood had grown rather sour by the time she reached her brother’s town house. It was really unfair, she groused to herself as she stomped up to the door and rapped the knocker with a vengeance. Douglas was twenty-eight, and Mother had only just started to hint that he think of marrying. She had all but stopped mentioning Joan marrying, even though Joan was four years younger.
Unfair
hardly began to cover it. When the door didn’t open after a minute, she lifted the knocker and banged it several more times, hoping each clang struck her feckless brother directly in the forehead.

“What?”

Her mouth dropped open as the door suddenly flew open, and the question was shouted at her. The man holding the door was not a butler, or even a footman. He was barely clothed. Although, she thought with reviving interest, that wasn’t such a bad thing. She’d never seen a man’s bare chest before, and now here was one, right at eye level. It looked to be a fine specimen as well, lean and rippled with muscle—nothing soft or squashy about it—and with a thin line of dark hair running right down the middle into his trousers.

“What?” the man growled again. She tore her eyes off his nipples—goodness, she’d never thought about men
having
nipples before—and looked him in the face. “Are you trying to wake the dead?”

She considered it. “Perhaps. But if he is dead, I have to kick his body personally to be sure. My mother will insist.”

A variety of odd expressions flickered across his face. Shock, amusement, pain, and finally comprehension. “You’re looking for Bennet.”

“Indeed I am.” She knew who he was by now. It had been a while since they’d met, but she’d heard plenty of him in the meantime. Tristan, Lord Burke, was infamous. There was no bigger rake in all London, no more profligate gambler, no greater womanizer . . . and no greatest object of interest to the gossipmongers. And now he was standing in her brother’s doorway, wearing only a pair of half-buttoned trousers that threatened to slide down his lean hips at any moment. How very intriguing. “Do ladies come by every day, asking to kick Douglas?”

He glanced behind him into the house. “Not every day, no.”

She smiled thinly. “No. I expect they come to do something else entirely.” And they weren’t ladies, either. If she happened to walk in on her brother in bed with a strumpet . . . she would never,
ever
, let him hear the end of it.

Tristan Burke hadn’t invited her in, but she was tired of standing on the front step like a bill collector. When he leaned backward a little bit more, obviously trying to look up the stairs, she squeezed past him into the narrow hall.

It was dark within. Joan knew her brother had proper servants, but they must have learned by now not to admit visitors, light, or fresh air before three in the afternoon. She peeled off her gloves and raised one eyebrow at the man still holding the door open, now staring at her in amazement. “How do you do, Lord Burke?”

Slowly he closed the door. “Very well, Miss . . .”

She closed her eyes for a moment. Was she
that
forgettable? Or was he that dense? “Joan Bennet. I’m Douglas’s sister. We’ve met a dozen times at least.” Well, perhaps more like half a dozen, and none at all in the last couple of years, but he didn’t look in any state to contradict her.

“Have we?” He folded his arms, and managed to look rather austere and forbidding, despite his state of undress, unshaven face, and the wild tangle of his hair. He still wore it long, she noticed, right down to his shoulders . . . which were far broader and more muscular than she had remembered.

“You always seem to be unclothed when we meet,” she blurted out, then smiled sweetly as his jaw dropped. “But perhaps you don’t remember that time you burst into my bedroom?”

His eyes narrowed, and color washed up his face, visible even in the gloomy hall. “Now I remember you,” he said in a low voice. “The impertinent girl.”

She beamed. “Yes, that’s the one. Shall I show myself up? I assume Douglas is still abed.” She turned toward the stairs and started up.

“Where are you going? Bloody—dash it all, you can’t burst into a man’s bedchamber at this hour!” He bounded after her.

Joan stopped and turned to face him. Three stairs down, he was shorter than she was, so she had the pleasure of looking down at him and his naked chest. “But that’s what you did to me. In the middle of the night, no less.”

Deeper color roared across his high cheekbones. “We were
children
.”

She pointedly looked down. “Obviously not anymore.” To her immense delight, he actually crossed his arms as if to cover himself. Joan bit her cheek to keep from bursting into snickers. “But my mother sent me to see Douglas, and the longer I argue with you about it, the less time I shall have for myself after doing my duty. Don’t worry,” she said as he opened his mouth to argue. “I know where his room is.” And she turned her back on him and hurried up the rest of the stairs, listening to his footsteps thunder up behind her a moment later.

Douglas was, as expected, sleeping off a drinking binge. Joan studied the lump under the blankets for a moment. Once she decided it could only be one person, she went to the windows and threw open the drapes. The blankets didn’t stir. She opened a window, letting in a gust of spring breeze and the rattle of carriages and carts in the street below. The blankets were still. Perhaps it was all blankets and even Douglas wasn’t there. That would be grossly irritating, since she would either have to find her brother or go home and tell her mother he hadn’t been in. There was one way to know for sure. She grabbed the end of the covers nearest her, and yanked.

Douglas raised his head and blinked at her, his eyes bloodshot and unfocused. “Bloody hell,” he said in a muffled voice. “Who the devil are you?”

“Your sister,” she said briskly, tossing the blanket back over most of him. A fleeting glimpse of her brother’s bare arse was more than enough. “Mother sent me.”

Douglas pulled the blanket over his head, and said something that sounded very vulgar. Joan filed it away for future reference—in private, of course. Her fascination with bad language would land her in so much trouble if her mother ever discovered it.