The Scandalous Diary of Lily Layton

Bainbridge had taken her that night on the carpeted floor, and Oliver had watched her deflowering, sipping his brandy. He knew his friend had made an offer for Lady Penelope’s hand a few days later, but he was rejected by the lady herself when society became aware of the precarious state of his finances. Many doors had been closed to the earl once it was discovered he did not have money even that of obtaining a wife. It seemed her loss of virtue had been inconsequential, for a husband without wealth wasn’t to be tolerated.

Oliver mentally struck her from the list. Not because she was no longer pure, but because he had no interest in a marriage that at the foundation was only a business transaction—and, not inconsequentially, because Bainbridge was still in love with her. Oliver assessed the list, appreciating the selections his mother made. The rest of the ladies were all from fine families, with suitable dowries, impeccable bloodlines, and without any stain or scandal attached to their names. It was a great pity there was no indication of the young ladies’ characters. He wanted the opposite of what his parents had—there should be no cold silence at his dinner table, no stilted dances at balls, no weeping when he visited his wife’s bedchambers.

In fact, there would be no appointments to bed his marchioness, as many lords arranged. He wanted passion, the more spontaneous, the better, and they would be sharing a bedchamber. With his wife, they would have rousing debates and engage in inconsequential discourse. They would be playful and attentive with their children. He would make love with her, but he would also take her raw when his mood demanded it, and she would be with him every step of the way.

He closed his eyes with a sigh of defeat. He was setting himself up for profound disappointment. Could such a woman truly exist?

Perhaps not, but he would start his search with the authoress of the diary.

Tonight, he would step into the secret passages to encounter disappointment…or temptation.

Chapter Two

The marquess had noticed something about her. The shock at the very idea of a man so self-assured, powerful, and sensually appealing deigning to notice her did not ease the panic churning in her stomach, tempting her to cast up her breakfast of eggs, ham, and toast. Lily Layton held her smile in place through sheer willpower. The Dowager Marchioness of Ambrose prattled on, completely oblivious to the turmoil Lily currently endured.

Her diary was missing.

Her thoughts raced, trying to remember if there was anything within its pages to identify her as the authoress. She’d been careful to leave no trace of her identity as she poured out the improper cravings in her body and soul onto paper. But how could she have been so careless as to not realize it had slipped from her basket when she’d taken her morning stroll? Lily blamed it on the shocking news she had received prior to indulging in her early walk. Lady Ambrose no longer desired Lily to continue as her lady’s companion.

Several months after the death of her second husband, the local vicar, the marchioness had imperiously ordered Lily to move into Belgrave Manor and attend to her. The vicar had been a puritanical, social-climbing despot who had done everything to ingratiate himself with Lady Ambrose. The marchioness had tolerated his reverent obsequiousness, and she had been incredibly kind and courteous to Lily. She’d accepted the position of companion to the marchioness, for her widow’s portion had been only one hundred pounds, and the cottage she had resided in with Robert was needed for the new vicar.

Lily had staunchly insisted that the position must be a paid one, though she was quite aware of the graciousness of Lady Ambrose. She’d had nowhere to go. Her parents could not afford for her to return home to their small cottage and be an added burden to their already strained resources.

Lady Ambrose, bless her heart, had acceded to Lily’s exorbitant request for three guineas a month for her services. She had been saving whatever she could, but she had not put away enough to ensure a future for herself that would not rely on her choosing another husband. The last thing she wanted to do was marry for the third time, especially if another husband required children.

Familiar pain and grief welled in her heart, and she had to push it away before the tide of despair could suck her under.

“It is time, my dear Mrs. Layton, for you to s

ecure your future.”

Lily lowered the teapot carefully onto the beautifully designed French rococo table. “I am not sure I comprehend your meaning, your ladyship,” she said with a small smile that felt too tight. Though the marchioness meant well, Lily did not appreciate her future being decided by anyone but herself.

“Come now, surely you wondered why I no longer require your companionship. You are delightful, to be certain, but it would be selfish of me to keep you to myself when you need to set up your nursery with another husband. I’ve recently found an unmatched happiness with Lord Clayton,” she said, blushing prettily and patting her elegantly arranged coiffure.

Viscount Clayton had been paying particular attention to the marchioness, and Lily had suspected they were lovers. Lady Ambrose tended to blush whenever she met his gaze, and, once, she had even seen the viscount sneaking from her bedchamber at dawn. Lily had been quite happy the melancholia that had weighed the marchioness down seemed to be melting away. She was still a very beautiful lady, with only a few streaks of gray in her dark hair and some soft wrinkles on her face. Her beauty was ageless, and Lily was pleased when the sparkle had returned to her hazel eyes.

She did feel a pinch of pain at being discarded so easily, but she brushed it aside. It was not as if she had planned to reside at the manor for the rest of her life. She had hoped to stay only until she had saved enough to open her shop in London and had made a few notable connections through the marchioness.

It seemed like an impossible dream on most days, becoming a premier modiste with a shop on Bond Street or Cavendish Square or even High Holborn. She would specialize in riding habits and rival even the most notable dressmakers with her unique and elegant creations.

“My lady, it is kind of you to think of me, but I am quite happy here at Belgrave manor with you.”

“You need a husband to help you manage, my dear. It’s the way of the world.”

Lily barely resisted scoffing. “That, I assure you, Lady Ambrose, is the last thing I require. I do not need a husband to supervise my life and restrict my dreams and passions. I’m five and twenty. I quite believe I am capable.”

A twinkle appeared in the marchioness’s eyes. “My dear, there are those husbands who happily allow their wives freedom.”

“I am more interested in safeguarding my future using my skills and intellect, my lady. Husbands do not last forever, and I may marry a third time and find myself widowed again, with my future unsecured.”

“Pish!” The marchioness waved aside her protest. “I’ve seen the longing on your face when you think I am not looking. I’ve already hired another companion, and Miss Julia Waverly will be here by the month’s end. I will host our local ball early this year, and you will find a suitable gentleman from the village. You are young, with very pretty eyes and lovely smile. It will not do for you to waste away here.”

“Thank you, your ladyship, but—”

“I’ll not hear your objection,” the marchioness said with a harrumph. “I’ve seen the looks you’ve been casting at my son.”

Dear God in Heaven.