Too Scandalous to Wed (19 page)

H
enrietta was feeling much better. Ensconced in a soft chair, wrapped in a blanket, she perused the winter landscape from the parlor window, content with the respite.

It’d been two days since the mishap on the ice. Two days of constant fuss. Family and servants alike bombarded her with attention. The solitude in the parlor offered her a chance to reflect.

Sebastian had saved her life. The memory was clear; he had pulled her from the frigid water. She was grateful. Truly, she was. The dark dampness had filled her lungs, touched her bones, swallowed her alive. She had gasped for breath, for life…and Sebastian had wrested her from death’s cold grip. She was beholden to him, eternally. But she still mistrusted him.

Henrietta sighed. The viscount was a hero. The whole household was in accord. Even her sisters believed him more of a saint than a sinner. And while
Henrietta didn’t disapprove of the accolades, she was confused. Had the man really changed? Could such a renowned scoundrel reform his wicked ways?

The parlor door opened.

“You have a visitor, Miss Ashby.”

Henrietta eyed the butler. “Who is it, Wilkes?”

“Lord Emerson.”

Ah yes, the young gentleman from the engagement bash. “Show him in, Wilkes.”

A short while later, comfortably seated, Emerson was holding a cup of tea and smiling. “You look well, Miss Ashby. I can’t tell you how relieved I am to see you recovered.”

“Thank you, my lord.” She smiled in return. “I appreciate the well wishes.”

“It’s been the talk of the countryside, you know? Your little mishap.”

Little?

“You must promise to never go out on the ice again,” he said.

“Well, perhaps not never.”

“Really, Miss Ashby. If I were your betrothed, I would forbid you from ice skating.”

Henrietta frowned. “My lord—”

“You are too precious to lose, Miss Ashby.”

She sighed. He was not the most debonair of men, so curt and authoritative. But she supposed his intention to protect her was honorable, albeit misplaced. “Thank you, my lord.”

Emerson was staring at her. There was something
aloof, even frosty about his eyes. Pleasant manner notwithstanding, she sensed a chill from him.

Oh, she was just being a ninny. Perhaps she was still recovering from her accident. Her brain was a bit foggy at times, her concentration blurred. But whatever the reason for her peculiar unease, she was sure Emerson was an agreeable gentleman.

“How is your father, my lord?”

“The earl?” Emerson sipped his tea. “Bedridden, I’m afraid.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“Don’t be, Miss Ashby. The earl is strong-willed. He’s too stubborn to die.”

Emerson laughed. Not a hearty laugh. A cold chortle, really.

What rubbish! The man had spoken very fondly of his papa the night of the engagement bash.

Henrietta gathered her wayward thoughts, and with an airy inflection said, “So tell me, Emerson, are you looking forward to the London Season?”

He set his teacup aside. “I am indeed, Miss Ashby. I think I will settle down this year.”

She quirked a brow. “But you are so young, my lord.”

“At four-and-twenty? Perhaps. But I much prefer the domesticity of marital life. My own parents had a very happy marriage. And I wish to have a family, Miss Ashby. I’m not like the other young bucks of the
ton
. The sins of bachelorhood do not tempt me.”

Unlike her betrothed, she thought bitterly.

Emerson crossed his legs. “I must say, I am impressed, Miss Ashby. You’ve managed to tame London’s most renowned bachelor.”

Henrietta wasn’t so sure about that. Ravenswood tamed? Not with a whip and a ring of fire…but then again, the viscount was acting rather odd. Like a gentleman. Had the thought of marriage
truly
altered him?

Oh, Henrietta didn’t know what to think anymore!

“Ravenswood riveted?” he said. “I’m astonished, really I am. I believed him un-catchable…but, if I might be so bold, you are very tempting bait, Miss Ashby.”

Tempting indeed. She was a dunce. But for the silly letter she had penned to Ravenswood, she would not be in this bind.

Yet Henrietta did not care for Emerson’s false flattery. Rather, she was curious to know more about the man’s association with her betrothed. “Do you know the viscount well, my lord?”

“Not at all.” He flicked his fingers. “But one does read the papers.”

She pinched her brow. “The papers?”

“The society pages. Rumor has it…Oh, listen to me prattle away about idle gossip. It’s most inappropriate. Do forgive me, Miss Ashby.”

“Yes, of course, my lord,” she murmured.

Society pages? Rumors? A tight knot formed in her belly, making her ill. A reformed rogue, in
deed! What sort of scandal was her scoundrel of a betrothed embroiled in now? And to think she had considered the idea of his transformation!

“I don’t know how these rumors ever get started,” said Emerson. “But it’s good to know the tittle-tattle is all nonsense. You are a miracle worker, Miss Ashby. The whole
ton
agrees.”

Oh good, she was a veritable spectacle. A sideshow amusement. She could hear the showman now: come and see the miracle worker tame the beast Ravenswood.

Rot! If she had any sway over the rebellious viscount, the man would
not
be in the society papers!

“Well, Miss Ashby, I’ve taken up enough of your time.” Emerson stood. “I just dropped by to offer my good wishes for your health. We wouldn’t want you to miss your own wedding, would we?” He winked. “Good day, Miss Ashby.”

“Good day, my lord.”

He gave a curt bow, then quit the room.

Henrietta twisted her lips; blood throbbed in her head. She was too miffed to even notice Emerson had winked at her. All she could think about was her ignoble fiancé, causing so great a stir it was splashed all over the society papers.

Henrietta picked up the little porcelain bell on the table beside her and shook it for all she was worth.

The butler appeared. “You rang, Miss Ashby?”

“Wilkes, do we have a copy of the paper?”

“I believe so.”

“Will you fetch it for me?”

“Right away, Miss Ashby.”

The butler left the room—and Henrietta stewed.

The wily bounder! How could Ravenswood do this to her? Expose her to gossip and ridicule? She had asked him to keep his immoral behavior a secret, to hide his lecherous conduct from polite society. But it seemed he was too much a devil to grant her even that simple wish.

Henrietta took in a shaky breath, her heart fluttering. She was right to mistrust the viscount. She was right to think him a knave. The man was a gentleman in name only. He had not a scrap of respect for her.

The butler soon returned with the paper. “Here you are, Miss Ashby.”

“Thank you, Wilkes.”

“Will there be anything else?”

“No, that will be all, Wilkes.”

The butler bowed and once more deserted the room.

Fingers trembling, Henrietta peeled back the pages of the paper. She scanned the society section, looking for any mention of Ravenswood.

At length she saw it, the snippet of gossip:

Henrietta saw red. Why, the lecherous, scheming bounder! How could he besmirch her like that? Imply she had “enchanted” him into proposing, and now intended to neglect his husbandly needs. Did he think to humiliate her into wifely submission?

Near and dear friend, indeed. It was the viscount who had spread the vile tale. She had told no one but him of her intention to marry in name only, so
he
had to have spread the rumor somehow.

Henrietta slapped the paper against the tabletop. “Bloody hell!”

“Good morning, Miss Ashby.”

She gasped. So rankled by the slanderous gossip, she’d failed to spot the viscount in the room. He was dressed in dark breeches, crisp linen shirt, and form-fitting waistcoat: a devilishly handsome sight. And she wanted to scratch out his eyes.

“Good morning, Ravenswood,” she gritted.

He swaggered into the parlor, seemingly unperturbed by her display of pique, and settled into Emerson’s former chair. “You look well, Miss Ashby.”

Well, she felt like a dunce. He looked so much like
the hero she had always wanted him to be. But he was only playing the part of a hero; she understood that now. Ravenswood was a scoundrel through and through. He would never change. He would charm and flirt and spin yarns of treachery to get what he wanted, but he would never be true…or good…or trustworthy.

“I have something for you, Miss Ashby.”

He slipped out of the chair and knelt.

Alarmed, Henrietta said, “What are you doing?”

“Well, it occurred to me we haven’t had a proper courtship.” He rummaged in his vest pocket and removed a…ring. “And since we are starting anew, Miss Ashby, I think this might be appropriate.”

Henrietta blinked. The shimmering emerald was square cut, set in white gold. It was stunning…breathtaking…“Beautiful.”

He slipped the ring over her finger. “I’m glad you think so. It belonged to my mother, and I’d like you to have it. Think of it as an engagement ring.”

Henrietta eyed the dazzling bauble…and quickly realized the viscount was up to his old wicked ways: charming and flirting and spinning yarns.

She slipped the ring off her finger. “I can’t accept this.”

The blue pools of his eyes dark and stormy, he said, “And why not?”

“Because we don’t have a real marriage. Our union will be in name only.”

The flinch in his cheek, the square of his shoul
ders indicated he was upset by the news. It seemed he’d not expected a return to their former formality. Rather he had assumed a more intimate acquaintance after his daring rescue. But Henrietta was not going to let the rogue think that he’d earned a place in her bed just because he’d saved her life. Gratitude was one thing, enslaving her heart was another.

“You should keep the ring, Ravenswood.”

“And give it to whom? You are going to be my wife, Miss Ashby. You are the only wife I will ever have.”

Henrietta gathered her valor and returned the jewelry. “I’m sorry, but I can’t take the ring.”

“I see.” He pressed his lips together.

She wanted to sink under the blanket, his stare was so smoldering. Instead she gathered the coverlet close to her breast.

He pocketed the ring. “I am sorry, too, Miss Ashby. I thought the ring would be appreciated. Forgive my impudence.”

Sebastian took in a slow, deep breath. He looked more furious than repentant, though, and Henrietta loathed to rankle his temper even more. He had saved her life, after all. But she would not let the viscount’s heady charm beguile her into a wretched circumstance—like that of a brokenhearted wife. He would not woo her—or humiliate her in the papers—to get her to surrender to his will. She was defiant…but she would give the man the gratitude he deserved. That much she would do.

“Since you are here, Ravenswood, I must thank you.”

He lifted off his haunches and growled, “For what?”

“For saving my life, of course.”

“Oh? So you’ve noticed?”

“What rubbish! Of course I’ve noticed. The entire household has noticed.”

“Well, you’re welcome,” he said crisply. “I hope you are feeling better, Miss Ashby?”

“I am,” she said, trying to sound aloof, but feeling dreadfully guilty on the inside for being so uncouth. “Thank you for asking, my lord.”

Yet why was
she
feeling guilty? She had every right to keep Ravenswood at bay. His charm only increased with each passing day. And Henrietta had to guard her heart. He was an irredeemable rogue. The vicious gossip he had spread in the paper was proof of that.

“Good day, Ravenswood.”

“Good day, Miss Ashby.”

Quietly he walked out of the room.

Sebastian was alone in the library, the newspaper spread out across his lap. It was dark out; he didn’t know the time. The room was dim, too, but for the snapping flames in the hearth.

“There you are, Seb.” Peter sauntered into the room and went straight over to the table of spirits. “Brandy?”

“No.”

Peter quirked a brow. “No brandy?” He set the decanter aside. “Are you feeling all right, Seb?”

Sebastian tossed the paper across the room. “Read that, Peter.”

Peter placed his drink on the table, picked up the newsprint, and held it close to the firelight. “Read what?”

“The snippet near the bottom.”

After a silent moment, Peter whistled. “Tough luck, old boy.” He picked up the glass again, and sat down next to his brother on the settee. “How did that get into the paper?”

“Devil if I know.”

Sebastian was mesmerized by the dance of fire. The hypnotic crackle soothed his temper. He had suspected something was amiss when he’d first walked into the parlor and observed Henrietta cursing and smacking the furniture with the newspaper. Her subsequent cold deportment had told him something was definitely wrong, and as soon as he’d recovered the paper, he’d realized what that something was. No wonder the chit was still miffed with him. The gossip might not mention him or her by name, but the “wedding vows on Twelfth Night” gave away their identities. And knowing Henrietta’s wary nature, she probably thought
he
had voiced the vicious sentiments.

Bloody hell.

“Well, is the story true?” said Peter.

“That Henrietta doesn’t want me to share the marriage bed? I’m afraid so.”

“Now that’s
really
tough luck, old boy.” Peter shook his head in commiseration. “By and by, who is this ‘near and dear’ friend?”

“Probably the same scoundrel who bandied Henrietta’s letter all over Town. Someone’s been eavesdropping on my private conversations with the chit.”