Season for Scandal Read Online Free Page A

more.”
    “We are betrothed, then?” He held his breath.
    As small as Jane was, she suddenly seemed tall and strong. He must have imagined the regret in her face a moment before, for her smile was brilliant, and her eyes looked almost wild.
    “Yes,” she said. “I agree to your terms.”
    Thank God.
    And God help him.

Chapter 3
    Concerning the Uses of Gloves
    If a man were asked to list his ambitions for his female relatives, Edmund knew that “devious proposal” and “hasty wedding” would rarely be at the top.
    Therefore, when Edmund called at Xavier House the following afternoon to discuss the betrothal, he expected his old friend to make some protest. Though Xavier was a distant cousin of Jane’s, the earl regarded her almost as a younger sister.
    But Edmund had been away from Cornwall long enough to forget one key aspect of family relationships: exasperation. When he faced Xavier in the silk-papered study and asked for Jane’s hand, the earl stared at him for a long moment.
    “You want to marry Jane.”
    “Yes,” Edmund confirmed.
    Xavier sat back in his chair, his dark brows knit. “It’s not even my birthday. Or Christmas.”
    “No, not for several more weeks. Do you require a calendar?”
    Xavier grinned. “No, though smelling salts may be in order. I cannot believe you wish to marry Jane, but the chance to shake free from her schemes is most appealing. If you want the responsibility of her, she’s all yours.”
    Simply as that, Edmund’s sordid lamplit proposal was approved. Over the next few days, the marriage settlements were drawn up, and with a shake of hands and a flurry of signatures, the matter was arranged: Jane Tindall was to be converted into the Baroness Kirkpatrick in two weeks’ time.
    The next fortnight passed for Edmund in a soupy haze of plans and preparations. Refitting his house in Berkeley Square to welcome a bride. Accompanying Jane as she chose a modiste and a maid and a mare: the three essentials for any young matron of the ton .
    Edmund welcomed the flurry of elegant industry because it kept him distracted. Almost distracted enough to catch a few hours of sleep at night; almost enough to forget the reason for the wedding.
    Almost. But not quite. Every time he ventured into the heart of the city, he expected to come face-to-face with a nightmare two decades in the making. A nightmare cloaked in a lying smile and a lilting brogue. Edmund, me boyo; to think of finding you here. All but a murderer.
    That letter he’d received the night of Sheringbrook’s ball—the night of his own betrothal, as it turned out—had been hand-delivered. After twenty years in Australia, Turner was back in London, and he demanded a reckoning.
    What form that would take, Edmund had no notion. But it would come, and soon. That certainty spurred him on through exhaustion, through the gnaw of pain in his abdomen. The days before the wedding were falling away, and soon he would take Jane to wife. And then . . . the getting of an heir. That part, at least, held the promise of pleasure; of a brief oblivion in his bride’s arms.
    If only he would feel safe once it was all done. If only Jane would be happy with the life he could give her, however long it lasted.
    Edmund had no idea, truly, if any of these things would ever come to pass, or if he would ever be free.
     
     
    The morning of the wedding, Edmund knotted his cravat with extra care and, with the help of his manservant, eased his shoulders into a new black coat.
    “Gilding the lily, my lord,” said Withey. “That young lady would marry you if you were wearing a farmer’s smock.”
    “Silk purse out of a sow’s ear,” Edmund countered. He regarded himself in the glass: cheeks a bit hollow; shadows under his eyes almost as dark as his hair. “I look as if I’ve been out all night debauching myself.”
    “Night before your wedding? No one would blame you if you enjoyed yourself, my lord.” The manservant looked Edmund up and down,