First Comes Scandal Page 3

  “He’s going to think about it,” her husband replied.

  “You did not need to leave the room,” Nicholas said.

  “I thought it would be easier if I was not here.”

  “It was going to be difficult either way.”

  “I suppose that is true.” She laid her hand on his shoulder and gave it a little squeeze. “For what it is worth, I am sorry that you have been put into this position.”

  Nicholas gave her the closest thing he could manage to a smile.

  She cleared her throat. It was an awkward sound. “I also wanted to inform you that we are having dinner at Aubrey Hall tonight.”

  “You have got to be joking,” Nicholas said. Aubrey Hall was the home of the Bridgerton family. He could only assume that all the Bridgertons would be in attendance.

  His mother gave him a regretful smile. “I’m afraid not, my son. It has been planned for some time, and I did mention to Lady Bridgerton that you would be home.”

  Nicholas groaned. Why would his mother do such a thing?

  “She’s terribly eager to hear about your studies. Everyone is. But you’re tired. It’s your choice.”

  “So I don’t have to go?”

  His mother smiled sweetly. “Everyone will be there.”

  “Right,” Nicholas said, in a voice just one shade shy of bitterness. “So really, no choice at all.”

  Sounded just like the rest of his life.

  Chapter 3

  Georgiana Bridgerton had lost many things in her life—a leather-bound notebook she’d been particularly fond of, the key to her sister Billie’s jewelry box, two left shoes—but this was the first time she’d lost her reputation.

  It was proving far more difficult to replace than the notebook.

  Or the shoes.

  She’d taken a hammer to the jewelry box, and while no one had been pleased with the ensuing carnage, Billie’s emerald bracelet had been safely recovered.

  And never lent out again, but Georgie deserved no less.

  But reputations . . .

  Those were slippery, fickle things, resistant to repair and repatriation, and it didn’t matter if one had absolutely NOTHING TO DO with the aforementioned loss. Society was not kind to females who broke the rules.

  It wasn’t kind to females, full stop.

  Georgie sent a stare down the length of her bed to her three cats, Judyth, Blanche, and Cat-Head. “It’s not fair,” she said.

  Judyth placed one silvery-gray paw on Georgie’s ankle, as sympathetic a gesture as one could expect from the most aloof of the three felines.

  “It wasn’t my fault.”

  This wasn’t the first time she’d said those four words, in that order.

  “I never said I would marry him.”

  Or those.

  Blanche yawned.

  “I know,” Georgie responded. “I didn’t even break the rules. I never break the rules.”

  It was true. She didn’t. Which was probably why Freddie Oakes thought it would be so easy to break them for her.

  She supposed she’d encouraged him—not to kidnap her, mind you, but she’d behaved as any proper young lady might when shown interest by an eligible young gentleman. She hadn’t discouraged him, at any rate. They’d danced once at Lady Manston’s soirée and then twice at the local assembly room, and when Georgie had gone to London with her mother, he’d called upon her quite properly at Bridgerton House.

  There had been nothing—nothing—in his behavior to suggest that he was an amoral, bankrupt cad.

  So when he’d suggested an outing to Pemberton’s bookshop, she’d accepted with delight. She loved bookshops, and everyone knew the best were in London.

  She’d dressed exactly as an unmarried lady might for such an excursion, and when Freddie had arrived in his family’s carriage, she’d joined him with a smile on her face and her maid Marian at her side.

  Ladies didn’t get into closed carriages with gentlemen without a chaperone. And Georgie never broke that sort of rule.

  From the bookshop they’d walked to the Pot and Pineapple for tea and cakes, which were delicious, and again everything that was acceptable and expected in a young lady’s behavior and agenda.

  Georgie really wanted to make this clear, not that anyone was listening aside from her cats. She had done nothing wrong.

  Nothing. Wrong.

  When it was time to depart, Freddie was all graciousness and solicitude, carefully handing her up into the carriage before climbing in himself. The Oakes’s groom was right there to offer the same courtesy to Marian, but then Freddie slammed the door in both of their faces, pounded his fist against the ceiling, and they’d taken off like a shot, right down Berkeley Street.

  They’d almost run over a dog.

  Marian had been hysterical. So had the Oakes’s groom, for that matter. He’d not been in on the scheme and had feared both immediate termination of his position and eternal damnation.

  The groom hadn’t been sacked, and neither had Marian. The Oakeses and the Bridgertons both knew who was to blame for the scandal and were liberal enough not to take it out on the servants.

  But the rest of society . . . Oh ho, they’d had a grand time with the news. And the consensus was, Georgiana Bridgerton had got nothing more than she deserved.

  Uppity spinster.

  Ugly hag.

  She should thank him. It’s not as if she had anyone else lined up to offer for her.

  It was all false, of course. She wasn’t an uppity spinster or an ugly hag, and as it happened, she had had a proposal of marriage, but when she’d chosen not to accept it she’d also chosen not to embarrass the man by advertising the fact.

  She was nice that way. Or at least she tried to be.

  She probably was a spinster, though. Georgie wasn’t certain what age marked the line between dewy-fresh and long-in-the-tooth, but at six-and-twenty, she’d likely crossed it.

  But she’d done so by choice. She hadn’t wanted a London Season. She wasn’t shy, or at least she didn’t think so, but the thought of those crowds, day-in-and-night-out, was exhausting. Tales of her older sister’s time in London had done nothing to convince her otherwise. (Billie had literally set someone on fire, though not on purpose.)

  It was true that Billie had gone on to marry the future Earl of Manston, but that had nothing to do with her truncated disaster of a Season. George Rokesby lived just three miles away, and they’d known each other all their lives. If Billie could find a husband without leaving the southeast of England, surely Georgie could, too.

  It had not been difficult to convince her parents to let her skip a traditional London debut. Georgie had been a sickly sort of child, always coughing and short of breath. She’d grown out of it, mostly, but her mother still fussed, and Georgie might have used that to her advantage once or twice. And it wasn’t as if she’d lied. The choked and polluted London air could not possibly be good for her lungs. For anyone’s lungs.

  But now half of London thought she’d skipped the Season because she thought herself above it and the other half because she clearly had some sort of hideous defect her parents were trying to hide from society.

  Heaven forfend that a lady might decide not to go to London because she didn’t want to go to London.

  “I’m thinking in italics,” Georgie said aloud. That could not possibly be entirely sane. She reached toward her feet and scooped up Blanche. “Am I ruined?” she asked the mostly black cat. “Of course I am, but what does it mean?”

  Blanche shrugged.

  Or it could have just been the way Georgie was holding her. “Sorry,” she muttered, setting her back down. But she put a little pressure on the cat’s back, nudging her into prime snuggling position. Blanche took the hint and curled up next to her, purring as Georgie scratched the back of her neck.

  What was she going to do?

  “It’s never the man’s fault,” she said out loud.

  Freddie Oakes wasn’t holed up in his bedroom, trying
not to hear his mother sobbing over his misfortune.

  “They’re probably fêting him at his club. Well done, you,” Georgie snipped out in the overblown accents of the English elite. Which was to say, her accent, but it was easy to make it sound like something grotesque.

  “Making off with the Bridgerton chit,” she mimicked. “That’s forward thinking of you. She’s got four hundred thousand a year, I’ve heard.”

  She didn’t.

  Have four hundred thousand a year, that was. No one did. But exaggeration made the story better, and if anyone had a right to embellish it was she.

  “Didja tup her? Do the deed? Poke her good?”

  Dear God, if her mother could hear her now.

  And what would Freddie say to such a question? Would he lie? Would it matter? Even if he said they hadn’t had intercourse—

  And they hadn’t. Georgie’s knee to his ballocks had more than made sure of that.

  But even if he told the truth and admitted that they had not slept in the same bed, it did not matter. She’d been alone in a carriage with him for ten hours, then alone in a room with him for another three before she’d managed to metaphorically dismember him. She could possess the world’s most intact maidenhead and she’d still be deemed deflowered.

  “My hymen could be three feet thick and no one would think me a virgin.”

  She looked over at the cats. “Am I right, ladies?”

  Blanche licked her paw.

  Judyth ignored her.

  And Cat-Head . . . Well, Cat-Head was a boy. Georgie supposed the old orange tabby wouldn’t understand, anyway.

  But all the indignation in the world could not stop Georgie’s imagination from running back to the clubs of London, where the future leaders of the nation were undoubtedly still gossiping about her downfall.

  It was horrible, and awful, and she kept telling herself that maybe they weren’t talking about her, that maybe they’d moved on to things that really mattered, like the revolution in France, or the state of agriculture in the north. You know, things they should be bothering with, since half of them were going to be taking up seats in the House of Lords at some point.

  But they weren’t. Georgie knew they weren’t. They were writing her name in that damned betting book, setting the odds that she’d be Mrs. Oakes by the end of the month. And she knew enough of callow young men to know that they were writing ditties and laughing uproariously.

  Georgiana Oakes, princess of the pokes.

  God, that was awful. And probably accurate. It was exactly the sort of thing they’d say.

  Little Miss Bridgerton, isn’t she a . . . a . . .

  Nothing rhymed with Bridgerton. Georgie supposed she should be grateful for that.

  She’ll have to marry you now, oh ho ho.

  Georgie’s eyes narrowed. “Like. Hell.”

  “Georgiana?”

  Georgie tipped her ear toward the door. Her mother was coming down the hall. Wonderful.

  “Georgiana?”

  “I’m in my room, Mama.”

  “Well, I know that, but—” Her mother knocked.

  Georgie wondered what would happen if she did not respond with the expected, Come in.

  Another knock. “Georgiana?”

  Georgie sighed. “Come in.”

  She really wasn’t that contrary. Or maybe she just didn’t have the energy.

  Lady Bridgerton entered, shutting the door carefully behind her. She looked lovely, as she always did, her eyes made especially blue by the cornflower silk shawl draped over her shoulders.

  Georgie loved her mother, she really did, but sometimes she wished she wasn’t quite so effortlessly elegant.

  “Who were you talking to?” her mother asked.

  “Myself.”

  “Oh.” This did not seem to be the answer her mother was looking for, although in truth Georgie could not imagine what would have been preferable—that she was in deep discussion with the cats?

  Her mother managed a small smile. “How are you feeling?”

  Surely her mother did not want an honest answer to that question. Georgie waited a moment, then said, “I’m not really certain how to answer that.”

  “Of course.” Lady Bridgerton sat gingerly on the edge of the bed. Georgie noticed that her eyes were a little puffy. She swallowed. It had been nearly a month, and still, her mother was crying every day.

  She hated that she was responsible for this.

  It wasn’t her fault, but she was responsible. Somehow. She didn’t really feel like working out the details.

  Georgie picked up Judyth and held her out. “Want a cat?”

  Lady Bridgerton blinked, then took her. “Yes, please.”

  Georgie stroked Blanche, and her mother stroked Judyth. “It helps,” Georgie said.

  Her mother nodded absently. “It does.”

  Georgie cleared her throat. “Was there something in particular you wished to tell me?”

  “Oh. Yes. We are expecting guests for dinner.”

  Georgie avoided a groan. Just. “Really?”

  “Please don’t take that tone.”

  “What sort of tone does one take at a moment like this?”

  Her mother set Judyth down. “Georgiana, I understand that this is a very difficult situation, but we must forge on.”

  “Can’t I forge on tomorrow?”

  “Darling.” Her mother took her hand. “It’s just family.”

  “I’m not hungry.”

  “What does that matter?”

  Georgie stared at her mother. “Is that not what the partaking of a meal is all about?”

  Lady Bridgerton’s lips tightened, and under any other circumstances, Georgie would have awarded her mother points for not rolling her eyes.

  “Everyone is coming to dinner, Georgiana. It would look very odd if you weren’t there.”

  “Define everyone.”

  “Everyone who cares about you.”

  “Anyone who cares about me will understand why I am not hungry. Ruination, Mother. It’s quite the appetite suppressant.”

  “Georgiana, don’t.”

  “Don’t what?” Georgie demanded. “Make light of it? It’s all I can do.”

  “Well, I can’t.”

  “You don’t have to. But you have to let me do it. Because if I don’t I’m going to cry.”

  “Maybe you should.”

  “Cry? No. I refuse.” Besides, she already had cried. All it had done was make her eyes hurt.

  “It can make one feel better.”

  “It didn’t make me feel better,” Georgie retorted. “Right now all I want to do is sit on my bed and say hateful things about Freddie Oakes.”

  “I support your hateful musings, but eventually we will have to take action.”

  “Not this afternoon,” Georgie muttered.

  Lady Bridgerton shook her head. “I’m going to have a word with his mother.”

  “What will that accomplish?”

  “I don’t know,” Lady Bridgerton admitted. “But someone should tell her what a terrible person her child is.”

  “She either already knows or she won’t believe you. Either way, all she’s going to do is advise you to make me marry him.”

  That was the rub. Georgie could make all of her problems go away. All she had to do was marry the man who’d destroyed her life.

  “We certainly won’t force you to marry Mr. Oakes,” Lady Bridgerton said.

  But there was a wistful hint left unspoken—that if Georgie decided she did want to marry him, they wouldn’t stand in her way.

  “I suppose everyone is just waiting to see if I turn up pregnant,” Georgie said.

  “Georgiana!”

  “Oh, please, Mama. You know that’s what everyone is wondering.”

  “I’m not.”

  “Because I told you I didn’t lie with him. And you believe me. But no one else will.”

  “I assure you that is not true.”

  Georgie gave her mother a lo
ng stare. They’d had this conversation already, and they both knew the truth, even if Lady Bridgerton was loath to say it out loud. It did not matter what Georgie said. Society would assume Freddie Oakes had had his way with her.

  And how could she prove them wrong? She couldn’t. Either she showed up in nine months with a baby and everyone congratulated themselves on being right about that Bridgerton chit, or she kept her svelte figure and they all said that it didn’t prove a thing. Lots of women didn’t get pregnant on the first try.

  She was still soiled goods, baby or no.

  “Well.” Her mother stood, clearly deciding that the conversation was more than she could bear. Frankly, Georgie couldn’t blame her. “Dinner is in two hours.”

  “Do I have to go?”

  “Yes. Your brother is coming, as is Violet, and I believe they are bringing the boys to spend the night in the nursery.”

  “Can’t I go eat with them?” Georgie asked, only half jesting. At least Anthony and Benedict didn’t realize she was a pariah. Up in the nursery she was still jolly Aunt Georgie.

  Her mother gave her a steely look, indicating that she heard the comment and was choosing to ignore it. “Lord and Lady Manston are coming as well, as are George and Billie. And I believe Nicholas is down, too.”

  “Nicholas? Isn’t he meant to be in Edinburgh?”

  Lady Bridgerton gave a delicate shrug. “All I know is what Helen told me. He came down early.”

  “That’s very odd. The term ends next month. I should think he would have exams.”

  Her mother looked at her curiously.

  “I pay attention to details,” Georgie said. Honestly, didn’t her mother know this about her by now?

  “Regardless,” Lady Bridgerton said, setting her hand on the doorknob, “you cannot cry off now. He’s come all this way.”

  “Not to see me.”

  “Georgiana Bridgerton, you cannot molder in your room.”

  “I wasn’t planning to. Toasted cheese with the boys sounds marvelous. We’ll build a fort. And I’ll bring the cats.”

  “You can’t bring the cats. They make the baby sneeze.”

  “Very well, I won’t bring the cats.” Georgie smiled magnanimously. “But we will build a fort. Nicholas can join us if he wants. He’d probably prefer it to dinner with you lot.”