A Scandalous Affair (The Merry Widows 3)

Chapter One

London, 1825

“I think you should consider marriage.”

The widowed Countess of Pomeroy paused, fork in hand and hovering over her breakfast plate as she stared at her older brother in shock. “Surely you jest,” she said once she recovered her voice. “Do you not recall that I’ve been married once already?”

Hugh shrugged and sipped from his cup before speaking. “Can you not marry again? You’re young. You have no children. Wouldn’t it be smart to find a new husband?”

“Phrased as such, you make it sound like a purchase. ‘I’ll take that gown, the straw hat, the beautiful lace gloves and one husband, please.’” Daphne shook her head, worry filling her. “Have you grown weary of my staying with you?”

“You are always more than welcome,” he assured, but she wondered.

Her brother was a confirmed and somewhat notorious bachelor. One of the most sought after in all of London, what with his dashing good looks and the vast fortune he’d grown since he’d inherited their father’s title five years ago. Viscount Huxley fought off the eager debutantes with frightening regularity and she’d heard more than one whispered rumor about his various conquests and the trail of mistresses he left behind since her recent return to London.

Her residing with him these last few months must have put a terrible cramp in his style.

“Are you trying to be rid of me then?” She wasn’t insulted, not in the least. At the ripe old age of thirty-three and a widow for the past two years, she was indeed a burden upon her brother.

Oh yes, she’d received enough funds from her husband’s estate to keep a modest household if she so chose. She’d resided the last two years at the Pomeroy country home since her husband’s death. The current Earl of Pomeroy—the eldest son of her dead husband and his first wife, long deceased now—was most kind in letting her reside there without squabble.

But she’d grown bored. As time went on and she mourned properly the loss of her husband after a long illness, she realized she longed for the excitement only a London Season could bring. Unfortunately, the various social gatherings she’d attended so far had been a vast disappo

intment. She was half-tempted to return to the country estate.

“I would never wish to be rid of you, sister dear.” Hugh smiled, exuding all of the Huxley charm he was known for. Goodness, no wonder the ladies clamored after him. “Perhaps we should host a ball in your honor. A sort of re-coming out, so to speak.”

Daphne’s lips parted in horror. That sounded—awful. So much expected of her, enduring all the gossip and the attention of men both young and old she didn’t want? “I could never do such a thing. That would be positively scandalous.”

Hugh shrugged. Again. The man hadn’t a care in the world, or so it seemed. “It wouldn’t hurt to add some interest to the Season. So far, it’s been dreadfully boring.” He had that right. “We could certainly liven it up with a ball. Perhaps a masquerade, even.”

Daphne was shocked. Her brother suggesting they host a masquerade ball together? It was unheard of. She knew he didn’t mind attending such gatherings, but planning them? “Are you quite sure? Perhaps you’re ill and not thinking clearly. Should you go back to bed and rest?”

He chuckled. “Absolutely, I’m sure. We can invite a herd of titled gentlemen who are in dire need of a wife and line them up for your perusal.”

“You cannot be serious.” She scowled. Her brother conjured up the most ridiculous ideas. She couldn’t participate in a ball created just for her to find another husband. It was…unheard of.

“Why do you think all the parents of the peerage host balls for their precious little debs, hmm? So they can find their daughters a husband and be rid of them once and for all. Father did it for you and found you a proper husband rather quickly.”

Too quickly, Daphne wanted to add. Her father had jumped on the first proposal she received, not caring for much besides the man’s title and wealth.

“So why can I not find you another one? You deserve a family, Daph. Children.” His expression grew solemn. “I want to see you happy. You’ve been so sad since Pomeroy passed.”

Her heart warmed at her brother’s kind words. “I want the same for you, you know. Happiness. You need a wife to beget you a son and heir.”

He waved a negligent hand, dismissing her claim. “I don’t need all of that. Not yet. You, on the other hand…”

She laughed. “You make me sound like a cow about to be put out to pasture.”

“I would never be so rude.” He glowered for a fierce moment before his lips curved into a grin. “At least, I haven’t been that rude to you in years.”

Daphne tried her best to ignore the giddiness fluttering in her chest but couldn’t. The more she considered it, the more excited she became at the idea of planning a masquerade ball. A grown-up affair, she decided. Not the usual boring, endless balls filled with worried mothers and fretting debutantes. The desperate young gentlemen who needed to find a wife, and quickly.

This would be a languid, decadent affair. Filled with secrets and masks, gorgeous gowns and impeccably dressed gentlemen. Intrigue and scandalous dances where partners held each other close—it would be a night London society would not soon forget.

“Your romantic mind is already planning the entire thing, I gather.”

Her cheeks heated, her brother’s statement pulling her from her thoughts. Growing up, she’d been described as dreamy more than once. Her husband had accused her of the trait as well, as if it was a terribly bad habit she needed to be rid of. After he died, she’d lost herself in her thoughts endlessly. Spent most of her time locked away in her bedchamber, lying about in bed, her thoughts drifting, full of wishes and dreams.

But wishes and dreams didn’t come true when a lady did nothing in trying to achieve them. For once, she was going to attempt something she’d never done before. She was going to experience life to the fullest.

Not to please anyone but herself.

Chapter Two

He never came to balls. Avoided them as much as possible, really.

But this particular ball, held at Viscount Huxley’s lovely new home in Mayfair, he couldn’t resist. The masquerade was part of the draw, for donning the simple black mask allowed the Marquess of Hartwell the opportunity to fade into the crowd. A feat he usually wasn’t able to accomplish, what with all the rumors that swirled around him every time he made a public appearance.

The whispers, the snide remarks, how they cut him with a not-so-subtle turn of their heads and tilt of their noses. He’d stopped attending after tolerating it all for far too long.

Tonight, dressed as every other man in the room, with a mask obscuring his features, he wasn’t Black Hart, the cold, calculating marquess. He was simply a man.

A man foolishly intrigued with the lovely lady who was the absolute belle of the ball.

He’d heard of the widowed Lady Pomeroy, knew she’d made her reappearance into society at the beginning of the Season on her brother’s arm. He vaguely remembered her from her debut season, for they were close in age and he’d been in attendance at many of the same balls and gatherings as she. He’d been even quieter then, and not nearly as important as a mere heir. No one had paid him any mind.

He’d thought her lovely before but she utterly captivated him now. The delicate mask constructed of lace and silk trimmed with pearls couldn’t conceal her glowing beauty. Her smile was quick and she wore it often, dazzling him every single time he saw it. The fabric of her beautiful gown was a deep lavender, emphasizing the creaminess of her skin and her dark, lustrous curls. She was a vision.

A lady he wouldn’t attempt to approach, let alone speak with. The moment his lips would part he’d make an utter ass of himself.

So he was content with watching her. She danced with a mere handful of men though she could’ve danced with more, considering how they all surrounded her. Including her brother, who swept her about the dance floor with a flourish that made her toss her head back and laugh. The sound of it warmed his skin, settled low in his belly, and he immediately wanted to hear it again.

He wanted to be the one who made her laugh like that.

Considering he rarely spoke out amongst society, that would be a most impossible task.

Clutching his hands into fists, he stood on the sidelines of the ballroom with a group of his peers, all of them quietly speaking to one another, more than a few of them offering a quick nod of acknowledgement in his direction. Like his, their gazes strayed toward their beautiful hostess. As if they couldn’t help themselves.

It was a ball unlike any Hartwell had ever witnessed. Not a blushing debutante in sight. Nor any overbearing mothers or dour companions, either. It was refreshingly adult in nature, what with the few married ladies who accompanied their husbands, a sprinkling of mistresses to keep it interesting, if a bit scandalous, and a handful of lovely young widows much like their hostess.

He had the distinct feeling the ball had been set up specifically in search of a new husband for the widowed countess. The gentlemen outnumbered the ladies three to one. She had her absolute pick and so far, she hadn’t even flicked her gaze in his direction.