Last Night's Scandal (The Dressmakers 5)

“He has nothing of his own,” Olivia said. “Nothing belonging to him, and only him. He has no reliable source of income. He has merely an allowance—”

“A generous one, too,” said Father, “which I was meaning to increase, on account of the fine work he’s done here.”

“An allowance you may give or withhold at your pleasure,” she said. “It isn’t his.”

It must have sunk in, finally, because Father stopped striding about the room and looked thoughtful. “Is that the only hindrance?” he said. “Money?”

“Money,” Olivia said. “But no, not merely money. A lump sum lacks . . . substance. What we want is property. No one could call him a fortune hunter if he were a man of property.” She looked about her, at the walls of the vast hall, now boasting hangings and paintings. “This property, for instance. Yes,” she said thoughtfully. “Now I think of it, this would do very well. Make Gorewood over to him entirely, and I shall marry him as soon as you please.”

That night

There would be a great wedding and a wedding breakfast in a month’s time. Meanwhile, however, Lord and Lady Atherton were determined not to let Olivia escape matrimony. A servant was dispatched to Edinburgh to bring back a lawyer, who drew up the papers, making over Gorewood and all its appurtenances and its income and so on and so forth to the Earl of Lisle.

This was accomplished by sundown.

Shortly afterward, Olivia and Lisle declared themselves married before their parents, the Ladies Cooper and Withcote, Lord Glaxton and a couple of his relatives, and a houseful of servants.

Aillier prepared a splendid dinner, including delectable pastries baked in his villainous oven.

They were all in the great hall, celebrating.

When Lisle and Olivia slipped out, everyone smiled.

The sooner the marriage was consummated, the better, in the parents’ view.

He took Olivia up to the roof.

He took care to bar the doors.

He’d brought up rugs and furs, because it was November, a Scottish November, and it was deuced cold. Tonight, though, Scotland’s capricious gods of weather had smiled on them and swept away the clouds.

Olivia leaned back against his arm and gazed up at the night sky. “It’s carpeted with stars,” she said. “I’ve never seen so many.”

“It is beautiful in its way,” he said. “It deserves better than the treatment my father’s given it.” He pulled her closer and kissed her. “That was brilliant. You were brilliant.”

“Unscrupulous and unprincipled, lying and cheating,” she said. “Yes, I was at my best.”

“It was a brilliant idea.”

“It was the obvious idea. Who better than you to be laird of Gorewood?”

“And who better than you to do the one thing no one else can do: Make my father relinquish something he doesn’t want, doesn’t know what to do with, but won’t let go of.”

“You wait,” she said. “By degrees, we’ll steal your brothers, too.”

“When they’re a bit older, I should like to get them into school,” he said. “It never suited my temperament, but they’re not like me. I think they’ll be happy there.”

“Shall you be happy here?” she said.

“Of course,” he said. “From time to time. But you know I’ll never adapt.”

“I wouldn’t want you to. You don’t need to. We’ve got Herrick.”

He laughed. “And my first act as laird of Gorewood will be to promote him to house steward. Ah, Olivia, the power is delicious. It’s almost like being in Egypt. How amazing to be free to act, to do what I believe is right. I should have been eaten alive with guilt had I abandoned these people to my father. Now I don’t need to tell him about Jock and Roy. If he finds out, there’s nothing he can do. Nothing he can do about Mary Millar. He can’t dismiss anybody or hire anybody. This is one place where he can’t make chaos.”

He’d told the Rankins they could spend the next five years helping to rebuild and modernize the shops, roads, and cottages or they could take their chances at trial. They’d chosen to work.

“Five years’ honest work might reform the Rankins,” he said. “If not—well, we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it. And I saw no reason to dismiss Mary.”

“She was in an impossible situation,” Olivia said. “But in the end, she acted well.”

“That’s the most we can ask of people,” he said. “That they act well.”

She turned her head to look up at him, the fur sliding from her shoulders. He drew it up. Later he’d undress her, slowly. Or maybe very quickly. But the night was too cold for rooftop indecencies.

“You’ve acted well,” she said. “In trying circumstances, in a place you never wanted to be.”

“I’ve learned some things.” He drew her closer. “I’ve gained a great deal. How aggravating. I must be grateful to my father, for starting this.”

“And to me,” she said, “for finishing it so beautifully.”

“Are we finished?” he said.

“Not quite,” she said. “By the time we have our grand wedding celebration though, we ought to have everything in hand. Then we may set out on our bridal trip.”

“Oh, I forgot about that. Well, a man must make sacrifices. You want to go somewhere romantic, I suppose. Paris. Venice.”

“No,” she said. “Don’t be silly. Everyone goes to those places.” She turned to him. “I want the Sphinx and the Pyramids and tombs and smelly mummies.” Her lips brushed his ear. “Take me to Egypt, dear friend.”

Teaser Chapter

If you love Loretta Chase and are looking for more heart-stopping historical romance, pick up the latest from USA Today bestselling author Adele Ashworth.

Turn the page for a peek at Ashworth’s

The Duke’s Captive

Ian Wentworth, the Duke of Chatwin, arrives in London with just one thing on his mind: revenge. All those he believes responsible for his horrific past have paid with their lives. All but Viola Barrington-Jones, the lovely Lady Cheshire. Viola has worked hard to keep her secrets from the prying eyes of the ton, and when she sees Ian at a glittering ball, her rush of recognition turns to panic. Will the duke remember the tenderness they once shared, or does he blame her for her family’s sins? But just as Ian finally has the beauty at his mercy, he realizes revenge may no longer be what he desires most.

Viola flipped around, dazed for a second or two as Lucas Wolffe, tall and domineering, stood directly in front of her, acknowledging her in a deep, cool voice.

“Your grace,” Isabella said at once, breaking the spell first with a proper curtsey.

Viola automatically followed with the same, lowering her body gracefully as she tipped her head down in respect, her heartbeat quickening as it always

did when she found herself in the company of someone so important. And then past and present collided in swift, brutal force when, as she pulled herself upright and raised her lashes, Fairbourne moved to his left to offer full view of the man standing behind him.

Oh, my God. . .

She blinked, instantly spellbound by a new and vivid unreality.

“Ladies, may I present to you Ian Wentworth, Earl of Stamford, Duke of Chatwin.”

The room began to spin. Her throat tightened. She couldn’t breathe.

Ian Wentworth, Earl of Stamford. . .

He’s found me.

Isabella curtsied again, mumbled something. He nodded brusquely in response, then slowly turned his attention to her.

Those eyes . . . Ian’s eyes. Pleading. . .

Run!

She couldn’t move. Their gazes locked, and for an endless moment time stopped, if only between them. History suddenly became now, their shared memories, both distasteful and passionate, fearful and vibrant, passing intimately between them in a heartbeat.

Viola stumbled back a step; her champagne glass fell from her fingertips to shatter on the marble floor at her feet. And still, she couldn’t take her gaze from his face. That beautiful, expressive face, so changed. Perfected in time.

“Viola?”

Footmen scattered around her to quickly sweep up the glass and pale liquid that pooled at the hem of her gown; others in their vicinity backed up to make room. The bluster of sudden activity jarred her and she blinked quickly, glancing down, bewildered.

“I—I’m sorry.” Her voice sounded clipped, hollow.

Isabella wrapped an arm around her shoulders. “Are you all right? You look ready to faint.”