The Sweetest Sin Read online

  Silence fell upon the group at her direct reference to Hen’s scars. It was the first time in mixed company that she had mentioned them directly, a clear indication her promise of earlier was one she took seriously.

  “Lady Susan,” Charlie began, but Hen placed a hand on his arm and stopped him. This was not Charlie’s fight, much as he’d like to make it so. But she would not have him dragged into Lady Susan’s crosshairs because of her.

  “I cannot say what about me other people pay attention to, Lady Susan, or if they pay any attention at all.” She struggled to keep her voice even and light as if the other woman’s words had no effect. But they did. They played upon every fear Hen had about stepping foot outside Harrow House. The stares, the whispers, the shock in people’s eyes when she turned, her good side disappearing and the scarred side fully within their view.

  Lady Susan gave a short laugh, acidic in nature. “Of course they pay attention. How can they not? It is not every day one sees such a thing. And such a shame. You would have been passably pretty, I’m sure, had you only run from the fire like any sensible person.”

  Hen’s heart leaped into her throat and lodged there. What did Lady Susan know of that night? What did Lady Susan know of loving someone enough that you were willing to risk everything—your very life even—to save them? That Hen’s attempt had failed when a beam fell upon her was something she lived with every day of her life. Each time she looked in the mirror she faced the question of what else could she have done differently to change the outcome.

  She opened her mouth to defend herself, but nothing came out. Her heart had created a dam against the unshed tears that threatened to fall should it break. She wanted to leave. She needed to leave. She should never have come here. Hang James and Auntie for their insistence. This would be the last party she ever attended!

  “You have overstepped, Lady Susan.” Lord Walkerton was the first to break the stunned silence.

  Lady Susan shrugged and tilted her nose in the air. “I merely speak the truth.”

  “What you speak are hurtful words that have no place in this conversation. I think you owe Lady Henrietta a most sincere apology.” Lord Walkerton’s voice remained calm and even, and in the back of Hen’s mind she wondered how he did it and if perhaps he could teach her. She had attempted to cultivate the skill over the past year, but with little success. While the burns had long since healed and scarred over, the cause of them, the loss they signified, remained an open wound.

  “I can’t imagine I owe anyone anything. I am the daughter of a duke, after all, and I said nothing more than what everyone else was thinking. Or are we to pretend Lady Henrietta’s scars don’t exist for the entirety of the Season?”

  Hen’s face burned. How she loathed being the center of attention in such a way. In any way, really.

  “Remove yourself from our sight,” Charlie barked, his affable nature apparently meeting its limits. “You are not welcome here and I do not care whose daughter you are. I cannot believe Lord Franklyn would be pleased to know of your behavior this night.”

  Lady Susan’s expression turned sour as her gaze raked across everyone present. “Come,” she said, snapping open her fan and addressing the gaggle of ladies behind her, who had already begun to back away. “I grow bored of this conversation. I’m certain I shall see you soon, Lady Henrietta.”

  Lady Susan spun on her slippered heel and lost herself in the crowd beyond, leaving Hen to stare after her in silence.

  Lord Walkerton turned to her and offered his arm, the hint of a warm smile playing about his lips. “Lady Henrietta, might I escort you back to Lady Dalridge?”

  Hen nodded and blindly reached for his proffered arm. She wanted away from here—the ballroom, the Season, London. She offered a smile of gratitude to Lord Walkerton for providing her a way to escape at least one of those things with a small scrap of dignity. If only he could take her away from the rest.

  For if this was what Lady Susan had in store for her, or worse, she simply could not endure the rest of the Season. But what other choice did she have?

  * * *

  Hen sat back from her writing desk, the candle sitting atop it wavering from the sudden movement. The room had grown chilly in the wee hours of the morning and she rubbed her arms to keep warm. She turned her gaze away from the folded letter on the desk and stared up at the moon, taking a deep breath. Did she dare? Did she really, truly dare to do something so audacious? Doubt crept in. But she had to do something. If not, Lady Susan would make good on her threats, of that Hen held every certainty. A broken heart and misdirected sense of vengeance were powerful incentives.

  With a determined breath, Hen reached for the wax, holding it over the candle to soften it before dripping it carefully on the vellum paper. This was the only way. The only possible end to her misery.

  She pressed her brother’s seal into the wax, sealing the letter before she could come to her senses and change her mind. It was a bold move to be sure, proposing to a man she barely knew. Proposing to any man for that matter. But she had nothing left to lose. She had already suffered great loss, disfigurement, and constant public humiliation. Besides, this man was in search of a wife, was he not? James thought well of him, so she needn’t worry there. All she was doing was fulfilling both their needs in the most expedient manner.

  Should he turn her down—which she understood was all too likely—how could that be any worse than what she had already been through? Or what Lady Susan had planned for her?

  If he was willing to consider her suggestion, she could finally put a stop to this hideous round of parties and revelry and move on with her life. And more importantly, James and Auntie could move on with theirs instead of constantly hovering over her, trying to make her fit into a world where she no longer belonged.

  She stood and hurried down the stairs to put the letter in the salver where James placed letters he wished to have posted the next day. She could not tarry on this matter. Her brother would soon return from visiting his dear friend, Lord Rothbury, at Breckenridge Hall. Time was of the essence.

  Hen hesitated a moment longer, staring at the letter. She teetered on the edge—though whether of madness or brilliant success, she could not say. With a fortifying breath, she turned and marched herself back upstairs to her bedchamber before fear and doubt and uncertainty forced her to snatch the letter back and toss it into the fire.

  Chapter Two

  One would think that being a future duke would command more respect than having the fifth nanny in a year slink away in the wee hours of the morning, forcing him to throw himself—yet again—on the mercy of the employment agency he’d hired to find such women. Yet, as Alexander St. John, Marquess of Rothbury and future Duke of Franklyn awoke this morning, that is exactly the position he found himself in. And it galled him to no end. What was wrong with these women that they could not stay put and do the job he’d hired them to do? He paid them handsomely, provided them with decent accommodation and even gave them a day off every other week to do as they pleased.

  Granted, there was not much to do at Breckenridge. Its remoteness did not offer too much in the way of entertainment unless one was fond of long walks along the jagged shoreline—which he was—or taking a two-hour carriage ride into the nearest village—which he was not.

  He allowed that the position of nanny to Lady Margaret was a challenging one. She was unruly, despite his best efforts to curb such in her. She had a quick tongue, even for one as young as seven, and possessed the uncanny ability of knowing exactly how to terrorize the women he had hired in such a way that they took off in the middle of the night without even requesting a reference.

  “Bloody hell!” Alex slammed the quill down on the vellum paper with enough force to break the nib and scatter ink across the letter he had half-written. “Shit!”

  A deep chuckle emanated from the doorway. “Such language. No wonder your daughter possesses such a foul tongue.”

  Alex looked up from the mess he’d m
ade and scowled at his oldest friend. James Harrow, Marquess of Ridgemont, stood in the doorway of his study, leaning casually against the doorframe, arms and ankles crossed. In all likelihood, James was the only friend Alex had left. The two had forged a common bond as boys, both their mothers having died when they were young, only to have their fathers remarry and produce a daughter. Luckily for James, his sister was everything one could wish for in a younger sibling. Alex’s on the other hand, well, that was another story.

  Regardless, the bond between James and Alex had proved unbreakable, even after Alex had cut off everyone else in his life save for his father when Alex’s wife, Ruth, had announced she was expecting. He’d tried to cut off James as well, but the man was too stubborn to take the hint. If anything, he’d grown closer, spending as much time at Alex’s country estate as he did in London, especially of late. If Alex didn’t know better, he’d say his old friend was avoiding something, not that he’d asked. Delving into James’s problems might mean reciprocating by discussing his own, something he had no desire to do.

  “I thought I heard you arrive late last night,” Alex muttered. “And I do not spend enough time in Margaret’s company to take any responsibility for her foul tongue. Besides, she is not my daughter, as you well know.”

  James pushed away from the doorframe and shrugged, walking into the study. “She is in the eyes of everyone who matters, including little Miss Margaret. And you have recognized her as such, so quit quibbling on semantics.”

  Alex glared at his friend. Very few knew the truth of Margaret’s true parentage, though likely several more had their suspicions. He knew, of course. Ruth had made sure of that. And James knew, as he was the one who had found him deep in his cups shortly thereafter and Alex had blurted the facts out in a fit of wild anger. His father was aware, as it was his counsel Alex had sought once he calmed down enough to realize something had to be done, and his father had in turn imparted the news to Alex’s stepmother.

  And then there were Ruth’s parents, Lord and Lady Ottley. Alex grit his teeth and pushed thoughts of that meddling twosome from his mind. He was having enough trouble holding his temper this morning without bringing thoughts of them into the mix.

  “And really, Rothbury, if you glare at your nannies the way you do your invited guests, is it any wonder they make midnight runs to places unknown?” James took a seat across from Alex’s desk and stretched out his long legs, a clear sign he had no plans on leaving any time soon.

  “I assure you it is not my behavior that sends them running,” Alex said. “And what are you doing here anyway? With the Season well underway, shouldn’t you be squiring Lady Henrietta about to all the parties and entertainments and keeping the riffraff from sniffing at her skirts?”

  James gave an exaggerated shudder. “God, no. I’ll leave that to my dear great-aunt. Besides, who better to ferret out the riffraff and find a good and proper husband for my sister than the great Lady Dalridge, hm?”

  “Who indeed,” Alex said, averting his gaze. Had he listened to Lady Dalridge when she offered him guidance on choosing his own bride, would things have turned out differently?

  “She’s unsuitable for your temperament my dear. Lady Ruth prefers parties and people and being taken about on the arm of her husband, the future duke. She wishes to be constantly fawned over and adored. If you, my dear boy, are not willing to do these things, you should choose another.”

  He hadn’t listened, of course. He’d been too captivated by Ruth’s beauty. She was the diamond of the Season and he, determined to have her. A future duke needed a bride, after all, and Lady Ruth, only child of the Earl and Countess of Ottley, was perfectly suited to be his duchess. Beautiful and refined, educated in the appropriate ways and in firm possession of all the proper manners. She was young enough to bear him several sons, and if a few daughters came along as well, that would be fine also. She was a rare find and he would be a fool not to propose before someone else did and he lost her forever.

  That she liked parties and people and being adored was of little importance to him. Surely once they were married her priorities would shift to more matronly pursuits. He had allowed he would take her to a few parties each Season, given she was not in the family way, and he would continue his own preferred pursuits as well—time with friends, hunting and fishing and carousing, as young men were wont to do. And given he was still a young man, he saw no reason to give up such pursuits simply because he had done his duty and taken a wife.

  Naturally he spent time with Ruth in the hopes of propagating an heir, a spare and preferably a spare to the spare, because one never knew, did they, and he had a duty to his family to ensure their lineage continued. Not that time with her was a hardship. He loved her, after all. Of that he was fairly certain. Who could not love one that was such a vision of beauty and poise? Visiting her bed proved a wonderful way to spend an evening and she’d welcomed him with open arms. It had not taken long before news came she carried his child and he eagerly awaited the anticipated birth, imagining all the things he would teach his firstborn.

  Except things hadn’t quite gone that way, had they? No. Alex shoved the pain that stabbed at him away. No, things had not. And in the end, Lady Dalridge’s words of wisdom proved all too true. Though by then, it was far too late for him to pay them heed.

  “So what is it that the lovely Lady Margaret has done this time?” James asked, pulling Alex from the dark reminiscences of past mistakes.

  Alex crumpled the letter he’d splotched and tossed it toward the fire. It bounced off the grate and rolled onto the floor.

  “What hasn’t she done? Last week my charge”—daughter was not a word issued with ease—“found a book on anatomy in the library and decided she was going to point out all of the body parts on everyone she passed while in the nanny’s presence. Unfortunately, the only parts of interest were those of a more…intimate nature.”

  James stifled a laugh but could not disguise his amazement. “She is but seven years of age. How is it she could read such a book and understand it?”

  Alex shook his head. “Several nannies ago, one had the brilliant idea that keeping her mind busy by teaching her to read would help curb some of her less than desirable behavior. Unfortunately, it only served to create more avenues for her to torment my employees with. If only that child would put as much effort into behaving like a proper young lady, I might be able to keep a nanny for more than two months at a time”

  “But pointing out anatomy parts hardly seems worth taking off into the dark night over,” James pointed out.

  Alex leaned back in his chair, the leather creaking as he folded his arms over his chest. “I believe the tipping point came when Lady Margaret decided to re-home a nest of field mice from the stables into the nanny’s bed. I’m quite certain the blood curdling scream that ensued was heard several counties over.”

  James pursed his lips but the telltale shaking of his shoulders gave him away.

  “Stop laughing, Ridgemont. This is not a humorous matter. How am I supposed to raise this child if I cannot find a proper nanny to stay long enough to do the job?”

  He was not about to take on the responsibility of Lady Margaret all on his own. What did he know about parenting? He’d barely had a chance at it before it was torn away from him. And it wasn’t as if he had the most stellar examples to draw upon. Illness had stolen his mother from him when he was Lady Margaret’s age and his grief-stricken father reacted by seeking solace with a new wife. Unfortunately, the new Lady Franklyn was not exactly skilled in the maternal arts.

  Once James regained control of himself, he smiled. “What you need is not another nanny that can leave if the situation is not to her liking. What you require is a wife. Then you may wash your hands of the whole matter, as it will be your wife’s domain to ensure Lady Margaret’s behavior is proper and correct. Honestly, man, I know the circumstances of Ruth’s death were tragic, but it was six years past and the time has come for you to take matters into your
own hands.”

  “By taking a wife?”

  “Indeed. You do still need an heir, do you not?”

  The familiar jolt of pain hit Alex but he pushed it away before it could take hold. He’d toyed with the idea of marriage in the past year, though his idea of the institution had soured. He no longer looked at marriage with the gooey eyes of a young man who thought everything would turn out as he wished, simply because he wished it.

  Marriage, now, was a business arrangement entered into in order to do his duty. A duty he could hardly achieve hiding away in the country.

  “Come back to London with me for the Season,” James said. “And bring Lady Margaret. Perhaps the change of scenery will cause an improvement in her behavior.”

  Alex shook his head. “I cannot bring her to London as you well know. Her resemblance to—” He stopped, his jaw locking before the name of his wife’s former paramour—her murderer—crossed his lips.

  “Alex, she looks nothing like him.” James leaned forward and rested his forearms on his knees, his tone serious and straightforward. “You cannot hide her away forever. Besides, it would do your father good to see her. You know he dotes on her and Lady Franklyn has said of late that she wishes to spend more time with her. Besides, if she is bent on terrorizing those around her, perhaps she can take it out on Lady Susan and give her a taste of her own medicine.”

  Alex caught the caustic tone in James’s voice at the mention of Alex’s half sister. “And what has my spoiled sibling been up to now?”

  “Only attempting to make my lovely sibling’s life a living hell. With Miss Sutherland—that is, Lady Glenmor’s—marriage, it seems your sister has turned her attentions to Hen, attempting to humiliate her at every opportunity.”

  “What the deuce?” Anger shot through Alex. It had been years since he’d seen Lady Henrietta. She had been fifteen at the time when she’d been brought to nearby Breckenridge to convalesce following the fire that had killed her parents and left her with severe burns along her right side. The notion that anyone, let alone his sister, would cause her further grief was beyond the pale.