Page 5 of Lady Waldrey’s Gardening Almanac for Cultivating Scandal (Love from London #3)

F rom the Quentin Daily -

All that glitters is not gold. QD has it on excellent authority that one of the best-dressed men in the ton is being relentlessly pursued by angry creditors, including a bootmaker who exclaims, “He ordered four pairs and didn’t so much as pay for a single heel!”

Candace pressed her hand to her stomach, trying to ease the slight nausea there.

It will be fine, she thought to herself. Everything will be all right. He’s finally returned to London, and tonight all will be set to rights.

She gripped the tufted bench of the carriage beneath her.

It was all she’d wanted for the past months—for Shelbourne to return, for him to follow through on their hastily made betrothal.

So why did her stomach feel as if she stood on the rolling deck of a ship in high seas instead of inside a spring-cushioned carriage pulling up a cobblestone driveway?

Candace inhaled slowly through her nose and exhaled through her mouth.

You are absolutely fine. Your dress is beautiful. You’re about to see your betrothed. Everything is as it should be.

The problem was, she didn’t believe a word she was saying to herself.

Except for the part about her dress being beautiful, because it was.

The grey-blue silk gown had a square neckline that exposed a great abundance of her perfect, pale skin.

The beading around the neckline drew the eye up past her elegant neck to the matching rare blue-grey sapphire-and-diamond earrings that dangled from her delicate earlobes.

Hortense had outdone herself, sweeping Candace’s rich red hair up into a beautiful arrangement of curls and small braids, draping several long ringlets forward over her shoulder.

If Candace had ever looked more beautiful, she couldn’t quite remember when it had been. That should have been enough to secure her happiness, to galvanize her confidence, but her flawless appearance was an insufficient comfort.

Why hasn’t he come to visit me? she thought, for the thousandth time.

It was a question she didn’t have an answer for—at least, none that didn’t make her clench her teeth in worry.

The truth of the matter was, there was no good reason why Shelbourne hadn't called upon her. It had been days . Three of them, to be precise, since she’d first heard of his return.

At least five since he’d re-entered London.

Why didn’t he want to see her? They were engaged , for heaven’s sake!

Candace’s house should have been his first stop—well, perhaps the second, to allow for a bath, a meal, and a change of clothes. But there was no good reason, not even at the far fringes of her wildest imaginings, for him not to have visited.

Everyone else certainly had.

On the cusp of social ruin, Candace found herself very popular, indeed.

She sat in her morning salon, Vera at her elbow, and accepted all number of visitors—namely, social scavengers who scented the fresh blood of scandal on the wind.

The days passed at a torturous pace; she made polite conversation while hyenas wearing lace-edged day dresses took carefully aimed verbal swipes at her, waiting breathlessly for her wince.

Waiting, right along with Candace, for any sign of Shelbourne.

Daisy Knope had been in attendance every single day, her pernicious mother in tow.

Not that they were the only ones. Their poor cook was bewildered at the vast quantity of tea cakes and scones the visitors nibbled as they cast half-smirking side glances to one another under Candace’s very nose.

Not that Candace blamed them for that—gossip was a hungry business.

Shelbourne never showed.

It looked bad. Very, very bad. And if there was one thing Candace abhorred, it was not looking her best at all times.

This morning, under the nearly unbearable pressure, she’d actually lowered herself to sending him another missive, this one asking him to visit.

Candace thought he probably wasn’t aware of how terrible it looked, him not coming to her immediately.

And doubtless he was very busy catching up on things he’d neglected while he’d been in Paris all this time.

And surely, once she pointed out his error in direct language, he would show up, bouquet in hand, to rectify it.

Candace had dressed that morning in a new dress, a pale-blue shantung silk confection that sent Daisy’s nose wrinkling with the stench of jealousy.

Candace perched at the edge of a wingback chair with the light and the view from the garden at her back, as carefully situated as if she were about to be painted.

And still, Shelbourne hadn’t visited.

In response, Candace had arrived intentionally late to the Marchioness of Balewick’s ball.

She reasoned she’d rather arrive late, seemingly unperturbed, than repeatedly turn her face toward the entry looking for Shelbourne, as desperate and hungry for his appearance as a baby bird waiting to be fed.

Everyone else would be watching, judging every flicker of her eyebrow, every slight cant of her head.

She might as well minimize the amount of time the crowd had to study her.

Candace departed her carriage in a flurry of silk and diamonds, her head held high, determined to maintain her composure.

She would give them nothing —not so much as a scrap of emotion.

She would head straight to Shelbourne’s side; he would smile down at her in that charming way of his, and the past few days of social torment would all be forgotten .

Everything will be all right. It will all be fine.

However, when her embellished, soft-soled shoe hit the marble threshold of the ballroom, Candace hesitated. A current ran through the assembly, as palpable as any lightning storm. Goosebumps raised along both her arms and a shiver rolled down her spine—and no one had even noticed her yet.

Every eye in the room was focused intently elsewhere—on the very familiar man in the burgundy coat who swept a blushing Miss Harrison across the dance floor in a waltz.

There was nothing refined about the way he held her so close, nothing subtle about the just-too-low positioning of his fingers.

And perhaps that all could have been explained away and forgiven, if it weren’t for the smile he gave her—lascivious and full of promise, offering many things if the young lady would just reach out and take them. ..

By chance, when Candace glanced away from the scene, her eyes met those of the Duke of Canterbury.

His handsome face was drawn in a grave expression.

He began to slip toward her silently through the tantalized crowd.

Candace’s resolve to be stoic crumbled beneath the weight of Shelbourne’s flagrant betrayal.

It would have been inappropriate for a single gentleman to dance with a lady like that.

But because Shelbourne was engaged, it was so much worse.

It was a full-fledged scandal .

Candace staggered under the realization. She took another step back—she might be able to escape without anyone other than Canterbury realizing she’d ever been there. But just as she had the thought, a lady near the door exclaimed a breathless “Oh!”

Heads turned. A low murmur stirred the crowd, and Candace reflexively lifted her chin and walked forward as if she’d just arrived.

Vera appeared at her side. She didn’t say a word, didn’t reach for Candace’s hand or make any other indication that her friend might need support.

Candace was grateful. Vera knew, as she did, that every moment of this evening would be pored over carefully—much like how a governess combs a child’s head for lice.

Whispers followed in their wake as they made their way through the crowded ballroom. Heads turned; eyebrows raised.

“Punch?” Vera suggested lamely.

Candace nodded, keeping her eyes studiously trained away from the dance floor. It appeared as if half of those in attendance watched Shelbourne; the other half watched Candace. She pretended not to notice, though the corners of her eyes pinched with embarrassment.

Canterbury met them at the refreshment table.

He nodded and offered her a bolstering smile along with a cup of punch. “Good evening, Candace. You look lovely.”

She smiled wanly. A low buzzing, like a thousand tiny bees, hummed in her ears. The music had paused, the waltz ended. The burgundy of Shelbourne’s coat flickered at the edge of her vision. Her nausea threatened to swallow her; she took a sip of punch instead.

Candace couldn’t remember the last time she’d felt so utterly unmoored. Questions roiled in her mind, skittering about like a thousand tiny beads dropped onto a hardwood floor.

Should she go to him? Should she attempt to speak with him? Surely he didn’t realize what he’d just done...did he?

Her companions flanked her as jewel-toned smudges in her periphery circled.

“Breathe, Candace,” Canterbury ordered, somehow managing to issue a whip-crack command in no more than a murmur.

She took a shuddering inhale, and the smudges solidified once more into people.

“Perhaps a walk in the gardens?” Vera offered, her voice a strange, frightened pitch.

It was a walk in the gardens that started this mess.

At the thought, Candace felt an inexplicable surge of courage.

She’d survived that debacle; she could certainly navigate an oblivious fiancé who’d cast their engagement in a terrible light.

Bolstered, she set down her cup, turned, and strode forward to where Shelbourne was engaged in smiling conversation with a small group.

She stood at his elbow, where he couldn’t help but see her, and smiled tightly up at him. “Shelbourne?”