The Earl’s Bluestocking Bride (Unconventional Brides #2)

Chapter 24

CHAPTER 24

Andrew entered the Regent, nerves churning in his gut. It had been a week, and so far, Florence had not made good on her threat.

Unfortunately, neither had he worked up the courage to speak to Amelia about the fact that their lives may be about to become subject to public speculation. His mother was threatening to do so if he didn’t hurry up. He’d intended to raise the subject last night, but she’d been in such good spirits that he hadn’t been able to bring himself to do it.

Today, he’d ventured out alone in the hopes of discovering whether any damage had been done the previous evening at the first ball since his conversation with Florence. He was hanging onto a thread of hope that perhaps she’d decided not to punish him. If she’d decided to be merciful, he could avoid hurting Amelia yet again.

A servant took his coat, and another offered him a drink. He accepted the glass and made his way down the corridor, turning into the busiest room, where men sat around tables, playing card games.

Spotting Mr. Falvey at one table and knowing how much the man liked to gossip, he pulled out a chair opposite him and sat.

Falvey met his eyes. “Are you sure you should be playing, old chap? You shouldn’t gamble what you don’t have to lose.”

His heart sank.

So, that was his answer. Florence had indeed followed through. She must have just been waiting until the event where her actions could have the biggest impact.

“Of course he can play,” Mr. White protested from the chair beside Andrew’s. “He married the Hart chit, and we all know how large her dowry was.”

Mr. Falvey chuckled. “How right you are. I should have known there was a reason you were so eager to settle down with someone like her. I didn’t put the pieces together, though. I thought you must have seen something in her that the rest of us didn’t.”

Andrew gritted his teeth. He was tempted to give them all a piece of his mind and march out of there, but he couldn’t afford to do that. He needed to know exactly what had been said and to whom so he could properly prepare his family.

“Deal me in,” he said.

Mr. Falvey did so.

“How did you hear about my… situation?” Andrew asked.

Mr. Falvey shrugged as play began. “Henry told me.”

Andrew turned to Mr. White. “And you got it from…?”

He looked uncomfortable. “I can’t say for sure. It was definitely at the Benton ball last night, but it could have been anyone who mentioned it to me.”

“Uh-huh.” Andrew didn’t believe that he’d forgotten for a second. The news of his financial downfall was scandalous enough that Mr. White would certainly remember who had told him, which meant he didn’t want to admit to it for some reason.

“Well, I can recall,” Chautner blustered from across the table. He was leaning back in his chair, bored with the conversation and eager for play to continue in earnest. “Several of the chits were giggling about it, including that nasty little blonde who’s always got a face like she’s sniffed the nearest chamber pot.”

The women.

Andrew sighed. Of course Florence would choose to disperse gossip through young society misses. All it would have taken was a few words to the most loose-lipped of the bunch, and the story would have circulated within an hour. She had relatives within the ton courtesy of her late mother, so perhaps she’d started with one of those. A cousin or aunt, maybe.

“You kept it all very quiet,” Mr. Falvey remarked, gesturing for Andrew to make a move. “For it to have come out now, you must have upset a woman.”

He winced, not having expected the man to be so insightful. It was easy to dismiss Mr. Falvey as a gossipy toff.

Mr. Falvey’s face lit up when he noticed Andrew’s expression. “You did,” he exclaimed. “Was it your wife? Did she not know why you married her?”

Andrew cleared his throat, ignoring the burning in his chest. “It wasn’t the countess.”

Mr. Falvey leaned forward, revealing his cards, which he’d apparently forgotten, more interested in whatever tidbits Andrew might be willing to share. “How can you be sure? You know there is no creature more revenge-minded than an unhappy woman.”

“And how, exactly, would this situation please her?” Andrew demanded. “Our marriage will become an object of ridicule. My affection for her is being questioned. She has nothing to gain by spreading vicious rumors. Even if she did, she wouldn’t. She’s a better person than that.”

All three men stared at him.

“Dear Lord.” Mr. Falvey spoke first. “You’re smitten with her. ”

“Why?” Mr. White sounded baffled. “She’s a—”

Mr. Falvey clapped his hand over Mr. White’s mouth and glared at him. “Did you not learn your lesson with Ashford? Speaking poorly of a man’s wife when the fellow in question is a besotted fool will only end with you suffering another bloody nose.”

Andrew’s lips pressed together. “Thank you,” he said to Mr. Falvey. “I’m not of a mind to listen to anyone denigrate my wife.”

“Besides,” Mr. Falvey added, sotto voce , “if the countess is not to blame, then the culprit is obvious.”

Andrew pushed his chair back and stood before Mr. Falvey could continue. “Please excuse me, gentlemen.” He hesitated. “If I hear that any of you have spoken of my wife with anything less than respect, you’ll discover that I’m not always so easygoing.”

Mr. White instinctively touched his nose.

Mr. Falvey nodded.

Chautner rolled his eyes. “Go, man. Let us get back to our game.”

Andrew strode away, uncertainty consuming him. He’d now ascertained that Florence had carried through with her threat. The question was, how on earth was he going to explain this to Amelia?

The knife chinked against the plate as Amelia sliced through an egg and scooped it onto her fork. She took a mouthful and glanced across the breakfast table at Kate, who’d joined her for the meal. Lady Drake was still abed, and Andrew had been gone when she’d woken.

A knock at the morning room door caught their attention.

“My lady.” Boden stepped inside, his chin high, bearing regal. “Mr. and Mrs. Hart have come to call on you.”

Amelia looked at the clock. “So early?”

“I can tell them you’re not at home, if you’d like, my lady,” Boden offered. “But Mrs. Hart was quite insistent that they speak with you.”

“What do you think it’s about?” Kate asked, her head cocked curiously.

“I’ve no idea.” But she did know that if her mother wanted something, she wouldn’t leave until she got it. She ate another forkful of egg, set her cutlery down, and pushed the plate away. “Boden, can you have Mrs. Baker send tea and scones to the drawing room, please?”

He bowed. “As you wish, my lady. Shall I ask Mr. and Mrs. Hart to wait for you there?”

“No, I’ll do it.” If she delayed, she’d only worry about what had brought them here. If they’d called during more social hours, she might not be concerned, but it was unlike her mother to leave the house in the morning, unless it was to shop.

Boden nodded and left the room.

“Would you like me to come with you?” Kate asked.

Amelia shook her head. “Finish your breakfast. I’ll be fine meeting with them on my own.”

“Are you sure?”

Amelia smiled at her. For all their differences, Kate had a big heart. “I am.”

She wiped her mouth and hands, rose, and walked slowly toward the foyer. Anxiety roiled inside her, making her grateful she hadn’t eaten more than a few bites before Boden had interrupted. The last thing she needed was to have a full meal sitting like a lead weight at the bottom of her stomach during what could be a difficult conversation.

She rounded the staircase, and her parents came into view near the main entrance. Her father wore a stylish waistcoat that she doubted he’d chosen for himself, and her mother was dressed head to toe in lavender, as if she were in half mourning.

“What on earth?” she muttered to herself.

“Amelia!” Mrs. Hart flew toward her, and as she drew near, Amelia noticed that her eyes were red and puffy. “How could you allow this to happen?”

She frowned. “Allow what to happen?”

A sob tore from Mrs. Hart, and she covered her mouth, her eyes wide.

“Why don’t we speak somewhere more private?” Mr. Hart suggested, nodding toward the drawing room.

“Please, come through.”

Amelia led the way and perched on one of the chairs, leaving the chaise for her parents. Her father helped her mother sit, then lowered himself down beside her and wrapped his arm around her waist.

“What’s going on?” Amelia asked, looking from her mother to her father and back again.

“I trusted you to make sure this didn’t happen,” Mrs. Hart whispered. “How could you?”

Amelia met her father’s eyes, a silent question in them. “What have I done?”

Was this about her novel? Had they discovered she was about to be published?

She’d known her mother wouldn’t be pleased, but this reaction seemed out of proportion to the situation.

“Word has spread that the earl married you for your dowry,” Mr. Hart said calmly.

Mrs. Hart lifted her head, her beautiful face twisted in despair. “They’re saying we bought a title. That we are sullying the earl’s aristocratic lineage.”

Amelia’s gut tightened, but while she might wish that no one knew the truth of the situation, her mother could hardly be surprised by these claims—not when she’d insisted on such a large dowry specifically for this purpose. Perhaps, after weeks of blissful social acceptance, the gossip was hitting harder than it might otherwise have done so.

“It’s not untrue,” she pointed out. “Surely you knew there was a possibility this would happen.”

A maid bustled into the room with a tea tray. She set it on the table and scurried out again. Amelia stood and poured tea, leaving it black and unsweetened for each of her parents and adding sugar to her own. She passed the first cup to her mother but didn’t bother to offer her a scone, knowing she wouldn’t accept.

Mrs. Hart took the cup and automatically raised it to her lips. Amelia passed the second cup to her father, along with a scone, and took the third cup and another scone for herself. She sat back down and munched on the scone, grateful to have something more to eat. Despite her unsettled gut, she was a little hungry, having not finished breakfast.

Her mother turned a bleak gaze on Amelia. “You haven’t heard the worst part.”

Suddenly, the crumbs felt like ash in her mouth. She had a feeling she wasn’t going to like this.

“Tell me,” she urged.

Mrs. Hart drew in a deep breath. “I was at the Benton ball last night, and I was able to trace the rumor back to its starting point.”

Amelia forced herself to swallow. “Which was?”

“That harlot your husband is bedding.”

The scone scraped down the inside of Amelia’s throat and seemed to stick at the bottom. Tears prickled in her eyes.

“What did you say?” she whispered, unable to speak louder.

“The earl was spending time with a woman named Florence Giles. Apparently, she is the one who told the entire ton that he was broke and married you to refill his coffers.”

Amelia set her cup down. The scone too. Her hands shook badly, so she clenched them into fists, hoping no one would notice. The pain in her throat worsened.

Why did this hurt so much?

She’d known Andrew had a mistress before he’d married her. She’d even known who. He’d assured her that he wasn’t seeing her anymore, but if that was so, how could Miss Giles know why they’d married?

“Mia, are you all right?”

She blinked rapidly, swallowing the emotion that threatened to overwhelm her. Hearing her father’s nickname for her only reminded her of the one her husband had used, which now felt silly and false.

“Are you certain?” she asked her mother.

“Quite.” Mrs. Hart looked annoyed to be questioned. But then, she had always been good at sniffing out secrets.

“What’s going on in here?”

Her gaze flew to the doorway, where Andrew stood silhouetted against the gloom of the foyer. As soon as they locked eyes, a sort of knowing settled into his expression.

“You’ve heard,” he said.

“Heard what, my lord?” She wasn’t going to make this easy for him. Whatever had happened, he’d caused it, and she was going to make him admit that.

“Perhaps we should give you two some time to discuss this alone.” Mr. Hart rose, tugging on his wife’s hand.

She resisted. “But—”

Mr. Hart ducked his head near her ear and murmured something that Amelia couldn’t make out.

“Fine,” Mrs. Hart huffed. “But don’t think this is the end of the matter.”

Her father shot her an apologetic look as he escorted her mother out of the drawing room.

Amelia stood. Sitting felt too vulnerable when Andrew was on his feet.

“Are you still seeing Miss Giles?” she asked, proud of herself when her voice didn’t waver.

“No.” He took a step forward. “I’m not. I swear it. I want only you.”

She raised her chin. “Then how did she know that you were broke and married me for my dowry?”

A muscle in his jaw clenched. “Because I ended our relationship the night I discovered that I’d lost my fortune, and I told her I intended to search for a wife with a large dowry.”