Page 6 of Lady Waldrey’s Gardening Almanac for Cultivating Scandal (Love from London #3)

He was grinning at someone else when he turned to her.

When their eyes met, the smile slid from his face, replaced by a cool sort of detachment.

Candace’s eyes went wide—she’d never seen that expression on his face before, and certainly never directed at her .

Then his gaze went over her shoulder to Canterbury, who’d followed and stood behind her like a stalwart soldier .

Shelbourne’s visage transformed into one of livid fury. Then he did the worst possible thing one could do to another noble in a room full of onlookers—he turned his back squarely to Candace and pretended he’d never heard her.

The cut direct.

Gasps sounded around her, each one a quiet wing—together, the eruption of a flock of pigeons in a town square. She stood, stunned, until Canterbury took her elbow.

“Candace,” he murmured.

She allowed him to lead her across the ballroom, through groupings of openly gaping young ladies. Heads craned. Scandalized half-smiles flitted behind fans. Wide eyes followed wherever she went.

Canterbury walked Candace toward the hall, Vera behind them. They were solemn, silent—a three-person funeral procession in the middle of a party.

For something had died just then, hadn’t it? Her relationship with Shelbourne, possibly. Her social standing, definitely.

“I don’t understand,” she said faintly.

“Hush now. Almost there,” he murmured. His fingers were firm on her elbow, his face drawn in long lines of anger.

Before her mind could catch up with her feet, they were out in the hall. Canterbury didn’t so much as pause—he plowed forward like a draft horse, towing a weak and confused Candace alongside. One of her slow, perplexed blinks later, they stood in a library, the door shut behind the three of them.

“I don’t understand,” she said more clearly .

Her eyes beseeched each of them in turn—for what, she didn’t quite know. An explanation? To tell her that it had all been a terrible nightmare?

“It’s going to be all right,” Vera said—but her voice was trembling; she sounded unconvinced.

“He shouldn’t have done that.” Canterbury paced, swiped a hand through his dark hair. “I can’t believe he did that.”

Candace collapsed onto the edge of a tufted leather sofa. “And everyone saw.”

She shook her head, but it really had happened—her fiancé had given her the cut direct, in front of everyone . In fact, he couldn’t have found a more public venue in which to humiliate her. What she didn’t understand was why .

The word rolled around in her mind like a slightly uneven wagon wheel. Why-why-why? Why had he done that?

“It doesn’t make sense,” she said, inanely repeating her fragmented thoughts. “Why would he do that?”

Vera’s eyes were wide. She shook her head frantically. “I don’t know,” she squeaked.

Canterbury said, “I’m so sorry. Just wait here. I’ll...I’ll fix this.”

He turned for the door and was through it before Candace realized he aimed to leave. She couldn’t think well right now, and she prided herself on her ability to think. She focused on breathing in and out. Slowly. Deeply.

It seemed to help. She became aware of more of the details of the room—the rich leather sofas, the ticking of the clock on the stone mantel, the hissing of the oil lamps. Vera sat next to her, her lips pressed together in a show of concern.

She was exceedingly grateful for Vera—not only had she shadowed Candace all the way out of the ballroom in a show of support, but she was quiet now.

She didn’t prattle, didn’t offer empty condolences or suggestions, didn’t ask inane questions to fill the gaping silence.

She simply sat, breathing the same air, her very presence a demonstration of solidarity.

Candace closed her eyes, took another deep breath, and opened them. “That actually happened.” Her voice was flat. “Shelbourne turned his back to me. On purpose. In public. ”

“Yes.” The word was seeped in sympathy.

Her hands fell open, palms up, on her knees. “I’ve done nothing to him to warrant such behavior, such cruelty .”

“I don’t know.” Vera pressed her lips together and shook her head. “It’s not as if he was forced into your engagement. Why ask you to marry him and then treat you like this?”

Candace stiffened, stunned. She’d never told Vera the full account of their betrothal; she’d never told anyone.

Perhaps her mind had abandoned the facts of the matter in favor of the story that everyone else believed—that Shelbourne, society’s most eligible bachelor and notorious rake, had reformed himself overnight. For her.

The truth was far less palatable, and to her knowledge, only two other individuals knew it—the Duke of Devonshire, and Shelbourne himself. Minutes passed, marked only by the slight rustle of silk as Candace shifted. She glanced at Vera and her gaze tripped over her friend’s dress.

“Oh, Vera. What has she dressed you in this time?”

Candace thought nothing could be as bad as the ensemble Vera had worn to the garden party, but this gown proved her wrong.

It was brown and beige—two innocuous colors, when not patchworked in a dizzying arrangement.

Candace had never seen anything like it—it appeared as if Vera had draped a cast-off rag quilt around her shoulders and attended the ball.

“It’s my mother’s finest work yet.” Vera nodded.

“I could barely view my reflection without feeling dizzy. It’s no wonder you were the first person to speak to me this evening.

Not that I blame them; conversing with this in proximity is enough to make one ill.

” She waved a hand derisively at her outfit.

“You should look on the bright side—my fiasco with Shelbourne will give the gossips much more delicious fodder to devour than your terrible dress.”

“And perhaps my terrible dress will give them something else to speak of, when they wear the first subject out.”

The two friends shared a grim smile and a moment of near humor.

There was a brief knock at the door, and Shelbourne walked in. Candace’s eyes narrowed—was that Canterbury behind him in the hallway?

“I’ll give you a moment,” Vera murmured, slipping out and closing the door.

Now that Candace was face to face with him, all the questions and words in her mind slipped away like street children when a constable blew his whistle. Candace studied Shelbourne as she waited for him to speak.

His cheeks were more hollow than when they’d last met.

On some men, it would have made them look dissolute, underfed, but on Shelbourne, it only served to highlight the stark lines of his cheekbones.

His jacket and trousers were tailored to perfection along his slim lines—he’d always been particular about his dress; it was one of the reasons Candace had singled him out.

But Shelbourne’s face lacked the customary smile that he used to woo ladies and business partners alike. His blue eyes, usually crinkled at the corners as he cajoled and teased, were flat, lifeless. They stared at each other for moments that only served to stretch the tension between them.

When she finally realized he would not be the first to speak, Candace asked, “Why would you do that? Why haven’t you come to see me?”

He smirked cruelly and exhaled an incredulous laugh through his nose. Instead of answering any of her questions, he turned to the fireplace, braced one arm against it, and stared into the low-burning grate.

Candace came to her feet and hurried to his side. “Talk to me, Shelbourne. I certainly deserve something after the way you treated me in there.”

“You can’t possibly be this naive,” he snarled, finally turning to face her.

She took a tiny reflexive step back, her eyes wide.

His lip curled, his frame rigid. He was furious—furious with her . He didn’t let her retreat. Instead, he took hold of her bicep and leaned in .

His fingers dug into her upper arm, his teeth bared. “I thought we had an understanding, you and I.”

“What?”

She couldn’t think past the shock of it—had anyone ever touched her in such a manner? He was hurting her.

“I was off to Paris, keeping my distance. Giving you time to realize that we are not a match.”

“What?” Her mouth gaped in horror. It hadn’t crossed her mind that he’d been acting terrible all this time on purpose .

“It would have been better if you had called off the engagement. But you sent your white knight after me, and he dragged me back. You forced my hand, Candace.”

Shelbourne let her go and she staggered.

“You never meant to marry me.”

Her mind was working at half speed, slogging through a heavy mire of confusion to catch up.

He sneered. “Of course not.”

“Then why...?”

His laugh dripped derision. “With your brother and that duke of yours looming? What else could I do? I wanted a bit of sport in the gardens, not to be leg-shackled to the likes of you.”

“The likes of me?”

“When I do marry, it will be to a woman who knows her place, not some high-in-the-step chit who’ll go running to her brother every time I’m home late from the club.”

Horror thrummed through her veins, souring her stomach.

He leaned closer until Candace had to fight the urge to step back. “If you don’t release me from this, if you don’t call off our engagement, I will. I’ll spread rumors of the worst kind—then no one will have you.”

He turned on his heel and banged from the room. Candace gasped once he cleared the threshold; she’d frozen. Call off their engagement? It would be a scandal, especially after the length of their betrothal, his absence.

But the scene in the ballroom tonight...How could she not back out of their union? He’d humiliated her. On purpose. And what had he meant about the duke? What did Canterbury have to do with anything? Or had Shelbourne been speaking of Devonshire?

Tears collected on her lower lids; one escaped over her lashes. Mortification swelled around her like a rising tide, threatening to drown her in its undertow. Everyone had seen him dance with Miss Harrison. Everyone had seen Shelbourne turn his back on her.

She chewed her lip until it threatened to bleed. There was nothing for it—the longer she stayed in here, the greater the rumors would grow. She had to go out there, had to hold her head up high and pretend everything was all right.

Except she was so tired of pretending.

The door swung open.

“Candace?” Vera said. “The Duke of Canterbury has called your carriage.”

Candace nodded and swiped at her face. Good—that was good. She could go home and regroup there. She could escape the hundreds of eyes in the ballroom.

She could allow herself to fall apart. But not here, not now .

Who knew how many people had found cause to linger in the hallway or just outside the ballroom to witness more of this private tragedy playing out in a public way? Candace had to go, and she had to go now.

“Will you come with me?”

Vera nodded stoutly. “Of course. As long as Mrs. Green will make us toasted cheese.”

“Champagne, too, I think,” Candace said, aiming for an airy tone and failing miserably.

Vera slid her hand around Candace’s elbow. “Let’s go.”