Page 43 of The Reclusive Earl’s Scandal (Vows and Vanity #1)
Scarlett Bradford sat at her writing desk, her quill pen scratching wildly across the page in front of her. She didn’t know how long she had been seated in her chair, but judging from the piles of crumpled pages around her feet, it must have been several hours.
The large window before her looked out onto the rear gardens of her family’s London town house. The Bradfords had owned the property for many generations, and the garden had flourished in recent years under her mother’s guiding hand.
Scarlett scowled at the flowers that bobbed their heads outside the window. The merry blooms reminded her of how a proper lady should spend her time, flitting about between the roses and exclaiming how glorious a day they were having and how marvellous it would be for a garden gathering.
I can think of nothing worse than yet another day trapped at a picnic forced to make idle chitchat.
The sunshine warmed her feet where they rested beneath her desk, the thin leather of her shoes absorbing the rays and making her toes curl.
Scarlett sat back, her shoulders aching from being hunched over for so long. Placing her quill to the side, she read through the latest poem she had written, assessing each line with a critical eye.
The stanzas spoke of her frustrations with the season and her anger at being forced to live the life of a debutante when all she wanted was to be with her books, expand her mind, and learn all she could about the world.
One verse she was rather pleased with, and marked it as something to come back to later.
Hope is a wayward word, it seems
Where naught but love can hope to glean
A path I do not wish to tread
Yet for my sins, it lies ahead
Certainly not worthy of Lord Byron, but there was a spark of something in it, if she could only grasp it for amendment later.
Her heart sank as she heard rapid footsteps approaching across the entrance hall outside the room. Soon her peace would be disturbed, and she had no means with which to prevent it.
I must find a place where my mother cannot discover me. Perhaps inside a chimney, she would not be able to find me there.
She read over the poem one last time, hid it beneath a blank sheet of parchment, and waited, staring out of the window in silence. It was better for her mother to find her gazing outside than writing—no occupation, in her mother’s eyes, was worse than reading or writing.
The door to the room burst open, and Lady Beatrice Bradford came in, her dark red dress rustling over the carpet as she waved a hand excitedly in the air.
Scarlett suppressed a sigh. She and her mother could not be more alike in looks, sharp, elegant features, dark, almost black hair, and emerald eyes that had been remarked upon many a time by the dolts who courted Scarlett.
In looks, perhaps they were the same, but in everything else, they were vastly different.
“It is official, Scarlett, your father has gone ahead with the banns.”
Scarlett turned in her chair, her feet losing the warmth of the sun as they swivelled onto the rug, a different kind of coldness spreading through her whole body, like mist creeping over a field at dawn.
Her mother handed her the paper, the colour on her cheeks too bright, and made all the starker by the shade of her dress.
Scarlett looked down at the paper, attempting to hide the tremble in her fingers as she read the words upon it.
“Banns of Marriage between Lord Simon Hayes and Lady Scarlett Bradford”
The date of the wedding was less than three weeks away.
Her throat tightened, the hand that had remained resting on the desk clenching.
In less than a month, she would be bound irrevocably to a man she hardly knew.
She would be forced to give up her pursuits, her passions. Her urgent need to expand her mind would be lost forever to a world of birthing children and tea gatherings—her love of poetry buried forever; her voice muted.
She felt sick.
Scarlett handed the paper back to her mother, rose to her feet, and walked to the window. It was impossible to school her features into anything other than horror, and she knew her mother would be most displeased to see it.
Despite her attempt to mask her raging emotions, her mother still spoke lightly under her breath as Scarlett passed her. She closed her eyes as she reached the window, wishing she could place her forehead against the cool glass, or even jump through it altogether, running away, never to look back.
The street below her hummed with activity, carriages passing by while the clop of horses’ hooves were loud in the quiet room.
All those people going about their day as if my life were not being ripped to shreds above them.
“You should embrace this alliance, Scarlett. The Bradford name aligning with that of the Duke of Hayeswood will bring prestige beyond your wildest imaginings. You will be settled for life. That is more than many women can ever hope for.”
Scarlett said nothing, her nails digging into the palm of her hand so hard as to draw blood.
She watched a mother and daughter through the window pass by, straight-backed, cold, and featureless.
They regarded Scarlett’s eyes as if they were mere machines, moving about in the world without any connection to it.
The woman was a copy of her mother, barely distinguishable at all.
She walked beside her mother, silent and respectful, the image of a proper lady.
Scarlett swallowed the bitter taste that formed at the back of her throat. No. She would not comply, she would not conform, she would fight!
I care not for prestige or my family name. I will find a way out of this, no matter the risk.
***
Later that afternoon, Scarlett was still at her writing desk, the notice of the banns crumpled beside her where she had thrown it.
She dipped her quill into the ink pot again, determined to finish the poem she had started, defying her parents' wishes in any small way she could as she tried to think of a way to save herself.
“I hear you are to become a duchess, sister. How amusing.”
The voice from the doorway scattered her thoughts, and Scarlett did her best to ignore it.
“I wish I could rely so heavily upon my looks as you have. Father has bargained you away, it would seem. Your pretty eyes have won the day.”
Scarlett barely looked up from her paper to look at her brother who was leaning against the doorway at the top corner of the room, watching her with a wide smirk on his smug face.
“I did not know you thought my eyes were pretty, Owen. How thoughtful of you to notice,” she quipped, refusing to allow her despair at the topic of conversation to show through.
Owen did not need any more fuel to add to his fire, his favourite activity was to jest with her.
“Are you sulking?” he asked with infuriating accuracy, “how tedious. I don’t suppose you have considered that this will save your entire reputation.
In one fell swoop, Father has saved you from a life of derision.
You won’t be a scandalous bluestocking any longer—you will be a duchess , Lettie.
You should be grateful. It’s more than you deserve with the way you carry on. ”
Scarlett looked up at him as he sauntered into the room. Whereas Scarlett was the picture of her mother, Owen resembled their father, Silas Bradford, in both his mannerisms and his looks.
He was tall, lean, and well-built, the same sharp features as their mother, but softer around the jaw and growing a belly even at his young age.
Scarlett scowled at him as he ran his fingers over the books on the shelves that covered the walls of the room.
“I am sure you will miss Father’s library, once you are away from it,” he murmured. “It has been your best friend for years.”
“At least I have read a book all the way through, brother. Perhaps my absence will allow you to do the same,” she muttered.
Owen’s jaw clenched, his shoulders tensing as he turned from the shelves. Her brother was many things, but a wit was not one of them. They had sparred many times, but Scarlett was invariably the winner.
“What need have I of books?” He asked. “You know nothing of the world of business, or the estate I will one day inherit. You can while away your days happily entertaining guests, while the men of this world must learn to ensure the safety and surety of their families.”
Scarlett crossed out a line with some vigour and scoffed under her breath.
“If I were given the opportunity to manage a business, I would excel at it. I have always had a head for figures, and I am far more sensible than you.”
Owen’s fists clenched by his side as he advanced on her. Scarlett continued writing. It always infuriated Owen when she did so. Sometimes he would churlishly steal her quill or deliberately spill ink over her work to make his point. He was a child when he didn’t get his way.
“I suppose you are in this mood because you wish to avoid the match? Good luck to you if you attempt it. Father’s mind is unyielding when he has made a decision; he won’t renege on this. You had better accept your fate.”
He loomed over her, trying to read what she had written, but he had never been good at deciphering her handwriting. Scarlett had taken to plotting out her poems in shorthand for that very reason, and she could feel the confusion coming off him in waves.
“Besides,” Owen continued, picking up another sheet of paper she had scribbled down some notes on and appraising it like a school master. “The Hayeswood fortune is vast. You know he is the duke’s only son? He shall inherit it all. You will be swimming in endless riches before the month is out.”
Scarlett snatched the paper out of his hand, finally meeting his gaze, her irritation spiking. “Would you prefer to marry him then? You seem to like him more than me. I can petition Father to have you aligned with the duke instead. I am sure you would be very happy together.”
Owen laughed derisively. “You are a spoiled woman.”
You cannot find a retort of your own, so you use insults to make yourself feel stronger.
But no matter how much she deflected and ignored her brother’s barbs, his words made fear twist in her stomach.
Scarlett imagined storming into her father’s study, demanding that he reconsider his position. But her words would be ignored.
She did not need to see her father’s stoic, angry gaze to know that she had no say in her fate now. Everything had been decided, and Owen was right; he would not change his mind.
She knew of her father’s cold, unyielding logic of old. His wealth and ambition would drown out any emotional reasoning. To Lord Silas Bradford, the alliance with the Hayeswood line meant security forever more— how can I possibly compete against that?
Her thoughts moved to other avenues—to a world of mad escapes and running away to the docks and boarding a ship to a wild, foreign shore.
Perhaps she could escape to the country under the cover of darkness and stage a scandal to ruin her eligibility for the match.
Surely, she could persuade an unsuspecting stable boy to be found in a compromising position with her—then she could forever remain a spinster with her books, and one day, perhaps a cat.
Owen, having grown bored with his jesting, wandered away, muttering under his breath about how privileged she was. Scarlett watched him go, her stomach twisting unpleasantly.
She might fantasise about escaping, but in reality, she knew it was folly. There was no possibility that she would undertake any of her schemes. Indeed, her father had chosen her future without consulting her, but she would not be the means by which her parents' reputation was destroyed.
The iron grip of propriety, even from someone who loathed society, its expectations, and its rigid customs, still held her in its thrall.
Her hand gripped her quill more tightly as she looked down at the pages.
How many more words will I be permitted to write? How much time do I have to pour my yearnings onto a page, before it is all swept away and burned under the guise of a dutiful wife?
She shivered at the thought, but even as the images of her future came into starker focus, another idea occurred to her.
What if I could manufacture a scandal that is not of my making—what if it is linked to the Hayeswoods instead? Perhaps they have secrets they would not wish to have exposed to the world?
Her pulse quickened as she considered that thought, the thrill of rebellion extinguishing the despair that had been threatening to overwhelm her since her mother’s visit that morning.
The Hayeswood family was an old and traditional set. Scarlett knew all too well how many scandals they might have had to hide in their history. If she could pinpoint one that her parents would not approve of and bring it back into the light of day—perhaps she would be saved from her fate.
She glowered at the door as she heard her mother’s voice calling for her to review her gown for the upcoming church service on Sunday.
She had three weeks and three banns announcements before the wedding. It was now her mission to find fault with the Hayeswoods as swiftly as she could, to tear apart her father’s agreement and ensure her freedom—by whatever means necessary.
She rose, smoothing down her skirts as something new began to stir beneath the anger and fear churning through her body.
Scarlett let the mask of an agreeable daughter fall over her face once more as she went to join her mother, even as the spark of defiance flared to life once more.