Page 2 of Lady Waldrey’s Gardening Almanac for Cultivating Scandal (Love from London #3)

SEVERAL MONTHS LATER…

F rom the Quentin Daily -

Rumors abound in the most exclusive neighborhood in London this week.

A young lady was caught in an embrace with one of her beaux behind a curtain at the theatre!

Their engagement was announced the next morning, with a wedding planned for a fortnight hence.

One wonders who got the better part of the hastily made betrothal, as the Miss is lovely but has very little dowry.

Best for her, then, that her intended is from a well-established family!

Candace Felicia Waldrey loosened her death grip on the parasol handle and tried to soften the edges of her smile.

The curve of her lips, the entire width of the thing, felt manic, even to her.

She could only imagine what she looked like.

It wouldn’t do to snap her delicate parasol handle, wouldn’t do for her to bring it down in a swooping arc onto Miss Daisy Knope’s head .

Daisy. What a misnomer for the lady staring at her with all-too-naive eyes. Though she looked the part of a flower—blonde curls, big doe eyes, and a perfect little pink pout of a mouth, Daisy Knope was a social vulture, and she had come to pick Candace’s bones clean.

“When do you think the marquess will be back from Paris?” Daisy asked, tilting her head just so.

It was an innocent enough question—for those who hadn’t heard the rumors.

But Candace had long ago learned that there were only two kinds of people who asked painful questions in full hearing of others—well-meaning, ignorant people.

..or the exceptionally cruel. Daisy, for all her pale-yellow flounces and fluttering ribbons, fell into the latter category.

“Once he’s amassed the lace I require for my trousseau, I’d imagine.” Candace punctuated the casual tone of her reply with a little shrug, as if she couldn’t care less about her missing fiancé, as if it weren’t all she thought about every waking moment.

“He must be very dedicated.” Daisy leaned forward with a conspiratorial smile. “One would think fourteen months would be plenty of time to gather a mountain of lace and ribbons.”

“I’m sure you’re right, if he were buying lace and ribbons of the common variety.” Candace pointedly raked Daisy’s ensemble from head to toe, a little moue of displeasure on her lips.

The dress was actually quite pretty, and the quality nice enough. But as expected, Daisy wilted a little under the scrutiny, under the implication that her outfit was found wanting.

Daisy’s eyes narrowed; her smile turned brittle and sharp. “I’m sure you will make the most magnificent picture when your wedding day finally comes. We all wish you well.”

She smiled and looked over toward the refreshment table as if she didn’t feel the barbed words snagging and pulling at her skin. “I wish you the same joy someday.”

Candace’s pointed reference to Daisy’s enduring singleness hit its mark. Daisy flounced away toward her mother, ribbons trailing in her wake—most likely she was off to demand another trip to the modiste.

Candace sighed but did it with a smile. She hated what she’d just done—hated that in order to not be flayed alive by the words of these women, she had to bring out knives of her own.

It had been a mistake to come here. This wasn’t a garden party; this was the Amazon River, full of piranha, and Candace was a bleeding side of beef.

Candace knew why some of the ladies treated her so—in her first Season, she’d been the proverbial belle of the ball.

A string of suitors lined up outside her drawing room doors every day; the florists loved all the business as bouquets and nosegays perfumed Candace’s brother’s townhouse.

She’d reveled in the attention, just as any young lady would.

That, Candace reflected, had been her biggest mistake. She’d bought into the lie that the quality of a man’s affections, of a man’s character, could be discerned by the way he wooed her. What utter poppycock.

The green lawn of the Earl and Countess of Pembroke’s estate sloped gently toward a stand of birch trees in the distance.

Leaves danced on the same gentle wind that ruffled the ends of Candace’s feathers in a pleasing way.

The countess had lucked out; it had been a notably chilly spring, but the day was sunny.

It couldn’t have been more perfect weather if she’d ordered it directly from heaven.

The countess was known for her largesse toward the church and orphan programs in the city, so it was a distant possibility.

Candace watched a blue songbird fluff itself in a marble bath a distance from the pastel flock of ladies and bemoaned the fact that it was far too early to leave.

Previously, such a slight indiscretion may have been overlooked as a fancy of youth.

Now Candace was betrothed. The rules for her were no less sturdy than the formidable scrolled-iron fencing that delineated the edge of the Pembrokes’ garden.

Candace flicked the bottom of her engagement ring with her thumb, as if to assure herself it was still in place.

It was a habit she’d developed over the last several months.

It started because the ring was as new and unfamiliar as her joy at being engaged.

Now it was a reminder that she wasn’t free.

The ring was a heavy gold thing, set with a polished cabochon ruby.

She’d viewed it with the eyes of a romantic at first—how sweet Shelbourne was, to have chosen it for her.

Now she resented it. Too big, too clunky, and not at all something she would have chosen.

Plus, the blasted thing didn’t go with any other color, and she’d been forced to have Hortense cut slits in all her favorite gloves to fit over it.

Though her fingers hadn’t grown, Candace swore the ring kept getting tighter.

Candace smiled benignly and sipped her punch as if she had not a care in the world, as if the most pressing concern she had was whether her lilac satin, ostrich-feather-tipped bonnet coordinated well with her dove-grey shantung silk morning dress and eggplant lace parasol.

It did, of course—the entire ensemble set off her red hair to perfection.

Candace had always been an impeccable dresser.

She had an eye for design and fabrics, and an innate understanding of precisely what cut of gown in which exact shade would be the best combination to highlight her features.

Prior to her current debacle, her clothing was a fun outlet, an expensive hobby that her brother indulged with his nearly endless supply of money.

Now, her outfits were armor. She put them on piece by piece with the grim resignation of a soldier conscripted to the front lines. Candace wondered if it was enough for her to look perfect—that maybe, if she looked the picture of a fashionable, carefree lady, they might believe it.

That maybe, if they believed it, she might, too.

“What did that harpy want?” Vera sidled up to Candace. “Excellent restraint, not strangling her with all those ribbons.”

Candace nearly laughed, and that was a feat, indeed. Her eyes flicked to her friend, the one safe island in her sea of misery.

“Dear heavens,” she said, truly shocked. “What did your mother dress you in this time?”

Vera lifted her arm as if to better display the nauseating plaid of olive green, pumpkin orange, and chartreuse. “I think it might be someone’s old curtains, perhaps. Either that, or the dressmaker certainly won some sort of bet when my mother purchased the yardage.”

“Why on earth would she?”

Candace wasn’t being cruel—or at least, not intentionally so.

Lady Ashbury was well known for her horrific taste in clothing.

Everyone assumed that her only daughter, Vera, had inherited the trait, but that wasn’t the case.

Vera had lovely taste when left to her own devices, but Lady Ashbury was a battle-axe, so Vera’s own devices were rarely on display.

“A gentleman spoke to me at the last ball. Granted, he only asked me where I had procured my glass of punch, but it was enough to send Mother over the edge.”

Candace pressed her lips together and exhaled through her straight nose.

Lady Ashbury had grown accustomed to having Vera at her beck and call.

She had two sons who were married and working on large families.

Her daughter, apparently, was to serve an entirely different function: she was to be companion and caregiver until Lady Ashbury shook off this mortal coil.

Horrendous clothing was just one of the weapons in her mother’s arsenal for keeping potential suitors at bay.

Lady Ashbury’s sharp tongue was never far away, and she wasn’t above speaking ill of her own daughter in public in order to prevent an attachment of any kind.

This, unfortunately, included friendship.

Candace would never forget the first time she’d invited Vera for tea. Lady Ashbury, though not on the invitation, came along and gave shrill reprimands to her daughter for every perceived slight. Lift your chin, Vera. Don’t crunch the tea cakes, Vera. Sip, don’t slurp, Vera .

Vera’s cheeks had reddened, her eyes downcast. She’d followed her mother out the door with an apologetic look and a quiet thank you , doubtless thinking that her horrid mother’s tactics had worked yet again.

But Candace was, by nature, a competitive person who hated to lose, especially when she had it in her power to win.

So the very next day, Candace had invited Vera for tea once more, at precisely the same time that Lady Ashbury had been invited to the Duchess of Devonshire’s house. There was nothing for it—Vera arrived alone, albeit in a putrid yellow get-up that nearly made Candace’s eyes cross.

Candace shook her head. “You could refuse to wear the gowns, you know.”

“It’s not worth the battle. At least I’m still allowed out of the house, at present.”

Candace frowned. Though she and Vera both made light of the situation, it wasn’t funny in the least. They both had man problems, in varying degrees. Vera had no male attachment, and Candace desperately wished she could say the same.

Unfortunately, she was engaged to a man who apparently had wanted to woo her but not actually wed her. Though they’d never spoken directly of it, Candace suspected Vera knew her secret.

“Did you read the Quentin Daily this morning?” Candace’s eyes slid sideways to take in her friend’s expression.

As expected, Vera rolled her eyes and sighed. “You know I don’t read that publication any longer. Ever since the paper changed hands, they print absolute drivel.”

“Granted, it does lean toward the salacious side of things as of late, but they still occasionally print things worthy of note.”

“You said it yourself—’occasionally.’ Why would I read something that’s only occasionally worth reading? And even then, the noteworthy news is always at someone’s expense.”

“But if you don’t read it, you won’t know what the latest gossip is.” Candace blinked. “What if they’d written about you? Wouldn’t you rather know than not?”

“I don’t care for the opinion of journalists—if one could even call them that—who use a heavy sprinkling of exclamation marks to make up for weak content.”

“You might be the only one in society who believes such.”

“I’m convinced that half their stories are complete fiction. There cannot possibly be as many runaway carriages or accidental decapitations as they claim. Nor can there be as many young ladies being besmirched in public.”

“Then again, if their articles are fiction, one would think they might at least entertain you.” Candace laughed nervously and changed the subject. “Are you attending the Mortimers’ ball tomorrow?”

Vera sighed. “I’ll be the one in beige and brown.”

Candace winced. She wished she could get Vera alone with her modiste, Madame Aubert, for an afternoon.

What fun they would have! Vera had the most lustrous ash-brown hair (which her mother was always clashing with odd tones), divine skin (which was always washed out by color choices), and an appealing figure (which was always hidden beneath terrible clothing cuts and bulky undergarments).

“The Mortimer ballroom is painted those same colors; you’ll blend right in to the walls.”

“I think that is precisely the idea.”