Page 1 of Her Scandalous Rake (The Worthington Legacy #8)

I t was the perfect night to escape.

The storm clouds gathered like an army on the horizon, swallowing the last traces of twilight. Darkness descended swiftly, blotting out the stars and smothering the moon. A cold wind howled from the east, carrying with it the scent of autumn decay and the promise of chaos.

Diana, Viscountess Hollingsworth, stood at the window, a dangerous smile curling her lips. She had been waiting for this night—for weeks now, the anticipation had gnawed at her like a hunger she could no longer ignore.

She turned from the window and moved with unhurried grace, gliding from the sitting room into the vast, dimly lit great hall. Her movements were calculated, and every step was designed to convey an air of effortless indifference. Let them think she was unaffected—above suspicion, even.

Her husband’s servants scurried about, lighting the lamps, but the hush that fell as she passed betrayed them. They were gossiping again; she could feel their eyes on her back, hear the whispers they thought she couldn’t.

It had been two months since they had found Ludlow, Viscount Hollingsworth, naked in the stables—stabbed through the heart. The stink of liquor and cheap perfume had clung to his body like a final insult. It was no surprise. After two agonizing years bound to his infidelity and cruelty, his death had been almost… predictable.

As Diana ascended the grand staircase, she passed a few servants along the way, offering them a curt nod of acknowledgment. They curtsied in return, their movements stiff and obligatory, but their eyes betrayed them. When they thought she wasn’t looking, the condescension in their glares was unmistakable. It had been this way from the moment she married Ludlow.

Her husband had enjoyed belittling her in front of the household staff, making her seem like a petulant child undeserving of respect. And the servants, so blindly loyal to him, had lapped it up. Over time, their disdain for her had only deepened, solidifying like cracks in the foundation of her marriage. She could never fathom why they had been so devoted to a man who treated them with the same disregard he treated her.

She had expected things to change after his death. Surely, with him gone, their misplaced loyalties would dissolve. But the opposite had happened. Their hostility had only grown, festering in the silence of the halls, and now it clung to every corner of her home. It was suffocating, their judgment constantly pressing in on her. Some days, she could barely stand the sight of them. Living among them felt like living in a den of spies—waiting for her to falter, waiting for a scandal to confirm their low opinion of her.

Tonight, that would all change.

As she turned the corner at the top of the stairs, low voices floated out from the next room. Slowing her steps, she listened closely to what they were gossiping about this time.

“Mr. Brown, did you hear the authorities have been questioning Lord Tristan Worthington about his lordship’s murder?”

Diana stopped abruptly, instinctively pressing herself against the cool stone wall, her pulse quickening. The hushed voices drifted from around the corner, their conversation just loud enough to reach her ears. She hadn’t heard this particular rumor before, and it gave her pause. It was tempting to dismiss the gossip, to brush it off as idle chatter from bored servants. Yet experience had taught her differently.

As much as she hated to admit it, the servants often had access to the most accurate information—things that moved through the house unnoticed, like whispers in the dark. They were the eyes and ears of the estate, privy to secrets that even she, the viscountess, wasn’t always aware of.

“Indeed, I heard, but they have no evidence, Mrs. Yearly. If you ask me, I think Lord Tristan is guilty. He had every reason to kill his lordship.”

Diana took a deep breath, trying to steady herself as a wave of unease washed over her. The very idea of Tristan being responsible for her husband’s death was absurd—preposterous, even. She clenched her fists, pushing the notion away. If Tristan had truly wanted Ludlow dead, he would have done it three years ago, when the resentment between them had first begun to fester. Not now, when the marriage had deteriorated into nothing more than a hollow pretense, and the bitter battles had lost their edge.

No, Tristan wasn’t the type to wait. He was decisive, driven by impulse when pushed, and if he’d meant to kill Ludlow, it would’ve been swift and without hesitation. But as the thought continued to gnaw at her, she couldn’t entirely dismiss the shadow of doubt creeping in.

“I agree,” the servant continued, “especially after what had happened between the two lords before she married Lord Hollingsworth. Why his lordship married her, I swear I’ll never understand.”

“Then, Mrs. Yearly, you will be happy to know gossip is circulating about her ladyship lately. The magistrate should arrest her any day now.”

Diana’s heart sank as the unsettling thought settled deeper in her mind. She silently prayed the servants were wrong this time. The mere idea of Tristan being involved stirred a whirlwind of dread, but even more infuriating was the knowledge that the past still haunted her. The scandal from three years ago clung to her like a stain that refused to fade, no matter how hard she tried to move forward.

Why couldn’t the ton let it rest? Society’s sharp eyes had never forgiven her, and neither had the whispering voices behind the fans. The elite circles were like wolves—always ready to pounce on old scandals to keep them alive. It seemed time had not dulled their appetite for gossip, and her name still lingered on their lips.

As for the servants… A wave of frustration rose within her. Didn’t they have anything better to discuss than recycled rumors and worn-out stories? Their prying eyes and wagging tongues had been a constant source of irritation, fanning the flames of her past and making her life within these walls increasingly unbearable.

“The magistrate has taken too long as it is,” Mrs. Yearly said. “Someone needs to be arrested. Soon.”

“I agree,” Mr. Brown grumbled. “It was a terrible and unsuspected travesty. Someone needs to pay.”

Doom closed in around Diana, heavier than it had ever felt before. The weight of uncertainty pressed against her chest, making it difficult to breathe. She knew exactly why no one had been arrested for Ludlow’s murder—because there were too many suspects. Ludlow had spent years making enemies, leaving a trail of bitterness and anger in his wake. Among them was Lord Tristan Worthington, the man Diana had once believed would be the love of her life.

The memory of Tristan was a thorn that had never stopped piercing her. He was supposed to have been her savior, the one to rescue her from the misery of an unwanted betrothal. But instead of sweeping her away, Tristan had fled, like a coward, abandoning her to a fate she hadn’t chosen. His deception had shattered her, and his lies had been the cruelest of all. He had never intended to marry her—he only wanted to compromise her reputation, to tarnish her future without a second thought.

In the end, he hadn’t just broken her heart; he’d turned her life into a living nightmare. Her girlish dreams of love and escape had crumbled, leaving nothing but bitterness in their place. Tristan hadn’t been the prince she had once believed him to be. No, he had been the toad in this twisted fairytale, and she had been left to pick up the pieces of the life he had so thoughtlessly ruined. Now, the past she had fought so hard to bury was rearing its ugly head again, threatening to drag her back into the depths of scandal and betrayal.

The last she had heard, Tristan was to be married soon. The news had stunned her, though she had long since let go of any illusions about him. Still, a small part of her—perhaps the last remnant of the girl who had once loved him—hoped that he could find happiness, even if his betrayal had left her miserable. She was mildly surprised that the rumors of murder swirling around him hadn’t frightened his fiancée, the widow Lady Fairbourne, enough to call off the wedding. It seemed not even the darkest suspicions could touch Tristan’s charm.

Diana continued walking toward her chambers, no longer caring if the gossiping servants saw her or whispered as she passed. Soon enough, she would be out of this wretched house, and a new viscount would take her late husband’s place. The very thought brought her a small flicker of relief. The sooner she was free of these suffocating walls and the memories they held, the better.

When she finally stepped into the room that had become her refuge over the last two months, the flicker grew. This space had become her sanctuary, the one place where she could let her guard down.

A maid stood beside the bed, carefully turning down the covers, her presence a quiet comfort. Only a few lamps illuminated the room, casting long, soft shadows across the walls, wrapping the space in a cocoon of privacy. Here, at least, the weight of the world seemed to lessen, and Diana could breathe—if only for a little while.

“One moment, please.” Diana held up a hand as she hurried to the older woman. “Martha, this is not necessary. I shall leave tonight for an extended stay with my cousin.”

Martha Whitehead’s eyes widened. From outside, the wind picked up and howled through the closed window, rattling the pane. “Milady, it’s too late to travel… and a storm is brewing.”

Chuckling, Diana turned toward her dressing table. “I’m not a stranger to traveling in bad weather. I have lived in England all my life. I shall brave the elements and arrive safe at my cousin’s house. Besides, it’s only an hour’s drive. All will be well, I assure you.” She picked up her bonnet and placed it snugly over her ringlets. Hopefully the maid didn’t know how far her grandmother’s cottage really was. “I assume you have already packed my things?”

“But of course, milady. You instructed me to do it days ago. You just didn’t know when you’d be leaving.”

“Splendid. Please tell the footman to load the trunks onto the carriage. I shall leave as soon as he’s finished.”

Diana peered in the mirror and met Martha’s reflection. The maid shrugged and smirked. “As you wish, milady.”

As the thin, middle-aged woman rushed out of the room, Diana clutched her hands against a roiling stomach and silently prayed everything would go smoothly. She didn’t know why she feared the worst, unless it was because her life had always been a pattern of mishaps. She didn’t want anything to ruin this for her now.

Freedom was just hours away.

*

“Ever’one raise yer glass and toast ta Lord Tristan’s nup… nup… shuls.” Tristan Worthington slurred his words as he tried to ponder on what he wanted to say. Realizing his mind was too unclear, he laughed and stumbled against the man standing next to him, spilling his rum over the side of his tumbler.

The man rolled his eyes. “Worthington, will ye quit toastin’ to yer own weddin’? We all ’no ye aren’t gonna marry the lady.”

Tristan scowled at the fellow. What was his name… “Ah, but my good man, ye’re wrong. T’morrow afta-noon, I’ll be there in church standin’ next to my beautiful bride, Lady… er… Lady…” Tristan rubbed the throb growing in his forehead.

The other men who’d gathered in the tavern released a fit of laughs. One belched loudly and lifted his cup. “Worthington has fergotten her name already.”

Blast it all! Tristan thought. What was her name? “Doesn’t matter. I’m marryin’ her t’morrow.”

His legs wobbled and he plopped his butt down on the chair before he ended up on the floor like he had last night. Inwardly, he groaned. How many nights had he been visiting the taverns toasting his nuptials, anyway? Too many to count. Tomorrow his life—his very freedom—would end, no matter how badly he wished for a different fate.

You’re making a colossal mistake, Worthington, came the warning from the back of his mind. Yet he figured by marrying the widow, Lady Jane, he would be able to put his past to rest once and for all, so it must be done.

“Ah-ha!” he called out loudly to his nameless associates. “I remember now. Her name is Lady Jane Fair… er… burn, or something like that.”

Once again, the men erupted in boisterous laughter, their voices so loud it seemed as though the very walls might shake from the sound. Tristan winced, the throbbing in his head growing unbearable. His skull felt as if it might split open from the pressure, each burst of laughter like a hammer against his temples. He couldn’t endure any more of this raucous celebration. His one thought now was to get home and sleep off his drunken stupor, especially with the weight of tomorrow looming over him.

He glanced down at his wrinkled, disheveled clothes, grimacing as he tried in vain to smooth out the creased fabric. It was a poor effort. He needed to change before morning; it wouldn’t do to walk into the church looking like a man who had just crawled out of a tavern. His mother, in particular, would be watching him closely, and there was no way she would tolerate her son acting—or appearing—like a fool in public. She had endured enough from him over the past few years. He had already caused her so much worry, and her health had suffered for it.

Tristan’s chest tightened with guilt. He owed it to her to look the part tomorrow, to be clean, sober, and properly dressed for his wedding. After all the disappointment he had brought her, the least he could do was stand at the altar as the man she’d hoped he would become—not the wreck he feared he still was.

Tristan’s mother had always held high hopes that he would marry into a respectable family, especially after the turmoil that had consumed his life for the past three years. He had nearly lost everything—his life, his memory, and his place in Society. For two long years, he had wandered through a haze of forgotten memories, unaware of who he truly was, until his brother, Trey, had finally found him and brought him home. It had been a miracle, but the cost was steep. The person he had been before had vanished, leaving behind fragments of a life he barely recognized.

And then there was Diana.

The woman he had once believed he loved—the woman he had thought held his heart—was no longer a part of his life. She was the last vestige of the man he had been before the accident, before the darkness of those lost years. Yet her absence still haunted him, a ghost of what might have been. Tristan knew he had to move on, to finally put her behind him. Marrying Lady Jane Fairbourne was the only way to close that chapter for good.

She represented everything his mother wanted for him: stability, respectability, and a chance to restore the family’s tarnished reputation. And perhaps, if he allowed himself to believe it, marrying her would be exactly what he needed to heal. He could start fresh and bury the memory of Diana once and for all, leaving the past where it belonged—in the shadows.