Never Courted, Suddenly Wed (Scandalous Seasons #2)

Never Courted, Suddenly Wed (Scandalous Seasons #2)

Christi Caldwell




Dedication

To Reagan Hope, Riley Faith, and Rory Celestino. Always remember— it is the imperfect that makes us truly perfect.

To Mom and Dad. I can’t even begin to imagine how much of your retirement funds went into supporting my reading habits over the years. Thank you.

And to my husband, Doug. Only a true hero could care for me as you did for nine long months of bedrest. I love you.





Acknowledgements

Tremendous thanks to Nancy Goodman and Ella Quinn; critique partners, friends, and staunch supporters who gave up countless hours critiquing and discussing my work. How did I ever get so lucky as to find the both of you?





Lady Ackerly’s Tattle Sheet

Miss S.W. and Lady E.F. were observed leaving the Marquess of D’s theatre box. It was noted by many that both young ladies were unchaperoned.





London, England


1818



1

Goddamn simpleton.

Bloody fool.

Demmed disgrace.

Christopher Quenby Ansley, Earl of Waxham stared out the long, double windows of his father’s office, at the steady passing of carriages in the London streets below. His fingernails bit into the hard, window sill.

“You goddamn simpleton. I’ve tired of your games! Do you believe for one moment you are clever enough or powerful enough to thwart my wishes?”

Ah, so it was to be goddamn simpleton. Now there was one of Father’s favorite labels. From the glass pane, Christopher detected the way in which the Marquess of Milford’s face contorted with barely suppressed rage. The familiar vein pulsed at the corner of his sire’s right eye.

Knowing it would infuriate his father, Christopher feigned a yawn and wandered over to the collection of decanters atop the brass inlaid rosewood table closest to the door. For an infinitesimal moment, Christopher considered making his escape. Instead, he picked up one of the crystal bottles. “I don’t know what games you refer to,” he lied. He poured himself a brandy and took a sip.

The marquess slammed his fist down upon the mahogany desk. Reverberations shook the crystal ink wells upon the surface. “You know very well what I’m talking about. You may have fooled the rest of Society with your charm and wit, but I know the truth.”

Christopher inclined his head. “So I’m charming and witty? I’m honored, my lord.” He held his glass up in mock salute.

His father continued as though he hadn’t spoken. “I made Redbrooke a promise before he died. He’d forgive my debt and you’d wed Sophie if the chit hadn’t wed in her first two Seasons. Well, the gel is on her third and his son is proven far less accommodating than the late viscount. Redbrooke paid me a call to discuss the debt. Fortunate for us, the old viscount settled a fortune on the girl.”

That gave Christopher pause. He took another sip.

“The girl is worth close to 100,000 pounds.”

Christopher choked on a mouthful of brandy.

His father gave a curt nod. “I see I have your attention.”

Christopher downed the remaining contents of his glass and set it down. “One hundred thousand pounds?”

“You heard me, correctly.”

Christ. So Sophie Winters, the hoyden who’d made his earlier years a bloody misery was worth a fortune. He thought of the seat she’d occupied amongst the other wallflowers Season after Season. How very different things would be for the young lady if other gentlemen learned the truth.

His mouth tightened. Ten years. For ten long, wonderful years he’d not uttered more than passing greetings to the hellion who’d mocked him in his father’s stable. Memories he’d fought to keep long buried, resurfaced—her tinkling laugh as she’d scampered out of the stables. Christopher’s volatile reaction after she’d fled. The fire that had ravaged Christopher’s sanctuary. His gut clenched. Father had never forgiven him.

And Christopher had never forgiven himself.

Or Sophie.

Father folded his arms across his chest. “The old viscount had some kind of foolish idea about letting the girl make her own match.” He chuckled. “He imagined she’d bring some chap up to scratch on her own and didn’t want the incentive of money to motivate anyone. Fortunate for us, no one knows the truth.”

No one, except the Marquess of Milford.

And now, Christopher.

It would seem the late Viscount Redbrooke had been a deplorable judge of character.

Christopher crossed over to his father’s desk and braced his hands upon the top. He leaned close. “You were the one who made the viscount a promise. You were the one who owed the man. You’d have me wed her to assuage your responsibility?”

The marquess arched a brow. “You’re wrong on that score. I’d have you wed the girl to save us from financial ruin.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” He knew his father owed the late viscount a debt from a failed business venture, but just how extensive had that investment been? “How much do you owe Redbrooke?”

His father’s skin turned a ruddy shade of red. He tugged at his cravat. “It isn’t just Redbrooke.”

Christopher rocked back on his heels. Father had made some regrettable business decisions over the years but this, this was incomprehensible.