Page 1 of A Hint of Scandal (The Mismatched Lovers #2)

T he two gently bred ladies sitting opposite Captain Max Aubrey were both staring at him with expectant expressions on their faces. This, not unnaturally, was making him feel most uncomfortable. In fact, the close scrutiny of anyone was likely to do that to him nowadays, ever since he’d been invalided out of the 20 th Light Dragoons, the cavalry regiment that had been his life for almost ten years, and sent back to England to recuperate. Not that recuperation was ever going to do him any good. His regiment would never have him back now he was in this state.

That one of the aforementioned ladies was his mother made no difference to Max’s discomfort. Georgiana, Dowager Countess of Westbury, was a formidable lady in her sixties who’d never been inclined to shower affection or compassion on either of her two sons. Not even when one of them, Max himself, had fallen off his pony at their home of Bratton Park and broken his arm in not one but two places. Her reaction then had been to sternly advise him to get straight back on again and not be a baby. The fact that he’d returned badly wounded from Portugal had not brought about any change in her attitude.

Max’s sister-in-law, the dainty Maria, current Countess of Westbury and wife of Max’s older brother, was an altogether gentler creature than his mother. Nevertheless, she was equally determined in what she was demanding of him. Against the joint onslaught of the two chatelaines of Bratton Park, Max was feeling decidedly besieged. As well he might do.

“You understand, don’t you, that it would be too much for Julian’s fragile health if he were to have to come up to Town with us,” Maria said, at her most persuasive. At fifty-one, she could still be classed as a pretty woman, although nowadays with a somewhat faded air about her that wasn’t unattractive. Her wide hazel eyes beseeched her much younger brother-in-law as only a spaniel’s eyes should have the right to do.

That her words were probably true was inarguable. Max’s older brother, the present earl, hadn’t enjoyed good health for the last ten years. Since just after Max had taken up his commission, he’d put on a lot of weight in pouchy flesh, and old Dr. Ellison had pronounced some time ago that he was suffering from a congested heart and required a quiet life. Which was why, instead of being a part of this conversation, he was hiding in his first-floor study, taking one of his increasingly more regular naps. In fact, all of the rooms Julian used were on that level, as he could no longer manage the stairs alone.

As Max had always been very fond of his older brother, he was inclined to agree with Dr. Ellison and also with Lady Maria. Or he would have done, had it not been for what the two ladies had just asked him to do.

“If you escort us instead of Julian,” Maria said, in what she must have considered her most appealing tones, “then he will be able to remain here at Bratton under Dr. Ellison’s care. I would rather that than he should suffer the long journey up to Westbury House in Town and have the upheaval of us having to find him another doctor to attend him. You know he’s used to Dr. Ellison and doesn’t like change and that he needs to see him every day. Besides which, the upset of traveling would set him back in his recovery.”

Which also was true. Dr. Ellison had been caring for the Aubreys for as long as Max could remember, including having dealt with his own broken arm as a boy. The whiskery-chopped old fellow walked with a stick and a decided stoop nowadays, and if he hadn’t still been clinging to the old-fashioned habit of wearing a horsehair wig, no doubt whatever hair that remained on his head would be white as snow. When Max had still been a boisterous youngster, he’d made it his goal to dislodge that wig and take a peek underneath it. As indeed he’d once done to his father’s man of business, who most satisfactorily had proved to possess a scalp as hairless as an egg, save for a wart right on the top.

“Have you not thought,” Max said, in the vain hopes of appealing to their common sense, “that if you were to bring Julian up to Town and find him a different physician, you might happen upon one with some newer, more up-to-date methods of treatment for his heart? Someone who might be able to effect some actual good?”

The dowager tutted her tongue, as she’d been wont to do when either of her sons had been brought before her for some misdemeanor when they were small. Such as the dislodging of the man of business’s wig with a fishing line and hook. “It is most unlikely that any of the jumped up nincompoops in London who call themselves physicians will know more than Dr. Ellison with his extensive experience gained through years of treating this family.” As though treating one particular family made you an expert in heart care. Max frowned at her logic, uncomfortably aware that it matched Maria’s foolish belief that Julian was going to get better.

His mother’s grip on the teacup in her hand tightened. “He was your father’s physician and now he is your brother’s. And yours if you would only allow him to look at your arm.”

She fixed a hard stare on Max’s right arm, which hung useless in a sling, and had done ever since the aftermath of the Battle of Vimeiro, back in August. A cavalry officer needed both arms working.

Max heaved a sigh. “I’ve been poked about more than enough, Mama, and I refuse to believe that a country quack can know more than the best doctors in the army, who are used to dealing with wounds like this.”

“Intractable,” his mother snapped, to no one in particular. “Just like his father.”

Lady Maria, ever the appeaser, hurriedly interceded. Perhaps she’d noticed the heavy frown settling on Max’s forehead as he glared at his mother. “You would be doing me the most enormous favor, Max, my dear. I really think that without a man to escort us to London for the Season, we won’t be able to go. I would not be confident enough to go alone. And Arabella has been so looking forward to her coming out.” Those spaniel eyes sent him a fresh appeal.

Max had never been able to resist his sister-in-law, a woman he’d known since he was a boy of ten, and who’d been more of a mother to him than his own had ever been. He heaved a second sigh. “Would you expect me to attend balls and routs and soirées?”

Maria appeared to be fighting with herself about whether to be honest or not. Compromise won. “Well… a few, I should think. I really don’t think I could take Arabella out on my own, after all. You know how headstrong she can be. If I have to go alone then who knows what sort of a fortune hunter she might end up with. Preventing that is the whole point of you accompanying us.”

What she really meant was that she, personally, didn’t want to go alone. Women had been known to present their daughters in society without a husband or male relative as an escort. But not Maria. She was a woman for whom the presence of a man was essential, or she felt incomplete. Or that was the impression she liked to maintain.

His mother interrupted his thoughts. “And of course, it will be the ideal opportunity for you to secure yourself a bride. What better way than to attend the social gatherings of London where all the most eligible young women will be on parade. Perfect.”

Max’s frown returned. So that was really what all this was about. Might Julian himself be behind their subterfuge? Max cringed inside at the thought of having to go out in public and make himself be polite to people he didn’t know and didn’t want to know. He tapped his useless arm. “Like this? How much good do you envisage me being if I can’t dance with anyone?”

He used to like dancing. Prided himself on being good at it, in fact. Not any more though. Those days were long gone.

“Oh, you won’t need to dance,” Maria said, clearly a little flustered. “Just your presence is required. In lieu of Julian’s. In the way of moral support, so to speak. You would be most welcome to spend the evenings in the card room if you prefer.”

Max forbore from telling her how much he abhorred the card room and the sort of false male camaraderie to be found in there. It paled into insignificance compared with the bond between officers in the mess room, and between each of those officers and their men. Something he was never going to get back again. You couldn’t be a cavalry officer if you only had one working arm, and neither could you be an infantry officer, nor even just an ordinary soldier. Two hands were essential for carbines. Well, for almost everything, as he was rapidly discovering. Even such mundanities as eating and dressing.

“This is quite ridiculous,” his mother snapped, sounding as though she was allowing her temper to take control. “If you don’t agree to go with Maria, then Julian will feel he has to drag himself up to Town and do his duty by Arabella. And we don’t want that, do we? Who knows what it might do to him.”

Maria bridled, perhaps because she believed Julian was not so ill as they were making out. “And of course, as you are now nearing your thirtieth birthday, it is quite essential that you find yourself a bride.” She paused. “Or you will not receive your inheritance.”

Max sighed. The nub of the matter. His father had died when Max had been at Harrow. Julian, already married and with two children and another on the way, had inherited the earldom and everything that went with it. But the old earl had decided, in his wisdom, that his much more wayward younger son had needed an incentive to settle down. He’d left him the property his own mother had brought into the Aubrey family, everything else having been entailed to the heir, but only as long as Max married before the age of thirty. Otherwise it would revert to his brother.

Max had kicked over the traces when he left school and, to spite his dead father, had persuaded Julian to purchase a commission for him with the 20 th Light Dragoons, thinking he could forge himself a career as a soldier. Until a French musket ball had put a stop to that. And now he was back, living on his brother’s charity rather than at the house he would only inherit if he chose to marry. In the next four months.

As if any girl in their right mind would have him with this arm—or rather, without it. Not that he imagined he possessed any propensity for love, for it was something he’d never experienced so far, despite his fair share of encounters with women.

However, the last thing Max wanted was for his beloved older brother to do something that might be detrimental to his fragile health. But still… why couldn’t bloody Maria just take the bull by the horns and go by herself with Arabella? Plenty of society mamas did just that, if they’d been widowed, for example. But no. This was all a plan to marry him off.

Damn Julian and his generosity. Any other brother might be all too happy to add Max’s inheritance to his own wealth and actively encourage the potential recipient not to marry. Not Julian. It was a subject he brought up every time he and Max met. Which was several times a day here at Bratton Park. So it might be a relief to get away from his nagging.

“And poor Arabella has so set her heart on coming out this year,” Maria put in, still following the line of her original excuse to persuade him to come. “She’s talked of nothing else for the past month. No, longer than that. You know what girls are like, Max.”

Did he? Not really. His exploits with the gentler sex had been more along the lines of encounters with camp followers, but Maria didn’t need to know that.

Under this onslaught, what was he supposed to do? Give in, of course. Let the two most important women in his life have their way. “Very well. But as soon as she finds herself a husband, I mean, gets herself engaged, then I want to be absolved of any further escort duties. The whole point of her having a Season is for her to make a match, and I can see the point in that, I suppose. But once that’s done, I’d appreciate it if we could regroup and change the plan.”

His mother shot him a narrow-eyed look. Clearly she saw this journey to London as the opportunity to marry her younger son off and see him “settled” into his inheritance, rather than to do the same for her granddaughter. In fact, Arabella seemed to be just an excuse.

Maria, however, smiled at him in obvious relief. “Oh, thank you, Max. I shall go and tell Arabella straightaway. She was so upset when I told her that her papa wouldn’t be able to present her, and that I couldn’t see myself doing it alone.” She dimpled at him, as charming as she’d been as Julian’s bride, nineteen years ago, but Max knew her sweet exterior housed a core of inner steel. “And we’ll be able to see Grey and Louis as well. They’re sharing rooms in London for the Season. I daresay a few mamas will be setting their caps at my boys in the hopes of snaring them for their daughters.” She giggled. If Max hadn’t known better he could have been forgiven for thinking her a simpleton. Which she was not.

He’d almost forgotten about Maria’s two sons from her first marriage. Henry, Lord Grey, and his younger brother, Louis, had been seven and five when their widowed mother had married Julian, and the age gap had been just a little too big for Max to have ever been able to make lasting friendships with them. And then, of course, he’d gone off to Harrow at thirteen, something Maria had refused for her two boys, keeping them at home with a tutor instead, much as she was doing for her two sons by Julian. Still, they were in their early twenties now, and although he’d never seen much of them, having gone up to Oxford straight after Harrow, and from there to take up his commission, Max had always tolerated them, much as one would tolerate a pair of boisterous puppies.

“That’ll be nice,” he said, for want of any other remark to make. A spell in the army would have done those two would-be rakes the world of good.

Maria got to her feet. “This will be such fun. You’ll see. I promise that you won’t regret your decision for a minute.” And with that she bustled out of the room with a light and airy tread, as though she were the same age as her oldest daughter.

When she’d gone, Max turned back to his mother. “Is Julian really so bad he can’t go up to Town?”

Since he’d been back from Portugal, via London and several well thought of and very expensive doctors, he’d only fleetingly seen his brother each day—just long enough to be reminded of what Julian saw as his obligation to wed. The earl tended to rise late and spend most of his time either in his study, where no one was permitted to disturb him as he was writing a book on Egyptian antiquities, or resting in his room.

His mother’s eyes took on a troubled expression, her brow furrowing. “When I spoke to Dr. Ellison after his last visit, he seemed hopeful that there’d been an improvement since your brother went onto the new medicine.” Her tone was doubtful. “But I don’t know. He seems to me to be just as your father was… toward the end. I see the parallels all too clearly.”

John, the fifth Earl of Westbury, father of Julian and Max, had died of the same thing Julian was suffering from. There was no denying that. Despite having been sixteen when it happened, though, Max had little recollection of his father’s illness due to having been away at school throughout most of it. He eyed his mother in speculation. “And how near the end was Father the way Julian is now?”

She pressed her lips together in a hard line and gave an eloquent shrug of her shoulders. “I wouldn’t like to say.” Her brown eyes, normally so calm and emotionless, clouded. “A mother should not outlive her children.”

What was there to say to that? They both knew Julian couldn’t go on forever the way he was. Neither of them wanted to put it into words, but it seemed likely the dowager would outlive her oldest son by some years. And then, of course, there’d been the children born between Julian and Max who hadn’t lived. Children who were never mentioned, but whose names were written in the front of the large family Bible, along with their birth and death dates. As a small boy, Max had been fascinated by their phantom, almost denied, presence and had memorized their names. Rose and Emily who’d died on the same day in 1769, but what of, he had no idea. And Richard, who would have been six years his senior had he not succumbed and died as a three-year-old. Their documented presence accounted for the nearly eighteen year age gap between Julian and Max.

“Your brother has a strong sense of what is right,” the dowager said. “And what is right is that you should inherit your grandmother’s property.” She tutted her tongue. “It has always irked me that your father put such a caveat on the inheritance, although as you’ve grown older it has become evident to me that he knew you better than I do.” The ghost of a smile touched her lips. “Julian wishes to see you married before he dies. He wishes to pass on the property you should have inherited when you came of age, had I had my way. It is yours by right, in my eyes. Unfortunately for both of us, your papa’s opinion differed. All you have to do is marry, Max. No one is asking you to love. That is altogether a far too modern idea. Just choose yourself the sort of woman you feel you could rub along with. One who could run your house for you and perhaps give you an heir. That’s all I ask of you. And do it before you turn thirty or you won’t have a house for anyone to run.”

Did she think Julian would be dead by April then? Perhaps Max himself should speak with Dr. Ellison. Julian hadn’t seemed all that bad when Max had seen him yesterday. Well enough to chide Max about his still being unattached, at least. Although he mentioned that every time they met, so what was different? But who was he to know? And his mother was right, his marriage was further to the front of his brother’s mind than Arabella’s was.

“I shall propose to the first girl who crosses my path,” he said, with a disgruntled huff. “For, like you, I don’t believe in love. If she has a brain in her head and isn’t too ugly, then I shall marry her. And retire to my new estate.”

His mother rose to her feet, spine stiffening. She wasn’t the sort of woman to allow grieving to be obvious. He could have taken her hand in reassurance, only he didn’t. She would have frowned on any show of weakness or acknowledgement of her sorrow. “You will do as you should, I’m sure. Now, I shall go and speak with Mrs. Howard about tomorrow’s menu. Good afternoon, Maxim.” And she was gone.