Page 44 of The Reclusive Earl’s Scandal (Vows and Vanity #1)

Lord Simon Hayes stood in the library of the Hayeswood town house, a volume of classical poetry in his hands. He had read and reread the passage before him almost five times already, but had not absorbed a single word.

He snapped the book shut, sighing heavily and staring into the flames of the fire before him.

The room was gloomy, the evening pressing at the windows as he heard the shout of a young boy in the street and the patter of rapid footsteps past the window.

I cannot recall what it felt like to be that young and carefree.

He ran his thumb over the book's spine, feeling the ridges of it bump against the pad. He adored Lord Byron’s poetry, and this copy was crinkling at the edges from the number of times he had read it.

The likes of Wordsworth, Byron, and Coleridge had nurtured his early years. Their gentle words and lyrical brilliance had comforted him when he had felt alone, and he felt alone often.

The door opened as his father came into the room. His dark hair, streaked with gray, glinted in the firelight as he closed the door behind him.

Simon grunted under his breath at his father’s expression; he looked as if he were there either because something had vexed him or he had something important to impart. Either way, Simon knew it would involve him in some way—it always did.

Alistair Hayes, the Duke of Hayeswood, was tall and slim, far slimmer than his son. Simon spent hours riding, fencing, and took pride in his physique. His father did not care for exercise but never seemed to gain any weight, no matter how much port he drank in an evening.

Alistair walked across the space between them, his heels clicking over the polished floor until he reached the wide rug where Simon stood. His dark eyes met his son’s, and there was a weight in them that made Simon’s heart sink.

“It is all arranged,” the duke said shortly, nodding his head vigorously. “I have just received the missive. The banns is all prepared for this Sunday, where you will do your duty to this family, and take her as your intended.”

Simon plucked at a loose thread on his sleeve, the blood pounding in his ears as he placed the book on the mantelpiece.

“You speak of Lord Bradford?” he said, a lightness overwhelming him. He had not dared to hope that this would come to pass, and yet here it was, clear as day.

“I do. Lady Scarlett Bradford is to be your betrothed.”

Simon’s heart was beating so loudly he wondered if his father might hear it.

“It is a good alliance. I have known Bradford since Eton. My side is heavier than his in the affair, but he is a sensible man, and this will enhance our reputation rather than mire it in scandal as some have in the past.”

Simon felt himself nod. His father’s expression brooked no argument, and he had learned from a young age that when his father spoke, he did as he was told.

“Lady Scarlett Bradford,” he repeated, the name like a psalm in his heart.

He had watched Scarlett from afar for most of his life. First as a young girl growing up, and then as a woman in her own right.

From the first ball he had attended, there had been something about her that drew him in.

Across the room of dancers, he remembered seeing a beautiful mess of raven hair, the pins in it loose and flying to the floor as she spoke animatedly with her friend.

It was as if he were seeing her for the first time in that moment—the gangly girl of his youth with the opinionated air about her had become a woman.

I should have known right from the start how spirited she was.

He had witnessed many occasions where Scarlett had set rooms muttering with disapproval at her bluntness.

She did not suffer fools gladly and never held back with her opinions.

She was unlike any of the other ladies in society.

Scarlett exuded a confidence and intelligence that far surpassed any other. He had never met a woman like her.

Whenever the Bradfords were confirmed to be in attendance at a ball, he would always ensure he was there too.

At first, he had been intrigued by her sharp tongue and acerbic wit, wondering what wonderful statement she might come up with next. But over time, he had begun to admire her.

She was tenacious, forthright, and wickedly funny. There had been many a supper gathering where her jibes and gentle commentary had him hiding smiles while their hosts looked at her with deep displeasure.

In short, he adored her, and the prospect of marrying her thrilled him beyond measure, but the joy in his breast died almost as quickly as it formed.

That is not how she will see it. She probably does not even remember me.

The longing and excitement he felt at their alliance was a quiet torment.

How could any real partnership be formed from such a weighty sense of obligation?

Scarlett would marry him because their parents had willed it so, not because she wanted to.

Simon could yearn for her privately in his heart forever, but she would never see him as anything more than a promise made by another.

“Simon!”

He looked up at his father’s irritable tone and nodded, not sure what the duke had been saying but agreeing with it nonetheless.

“You will prepare for the announcement of the banns at this Sunday’s service at St James’s Church. The wedding is set for three weeks from that date.”

Simon nodded again, remaining mute, knowing his opinion on the matter was irrelevant. His fate had been sealed, the duke had decided, just as he always did.

His father did not smile, simply turned on his heel and left the room as quickly and silently as he had entered it.

Simon picked up his book again, his eyes lingering on the emerald green of the cover as he thought of Scarlett’s beautiful, captivating eyes. He had watched her for so long, never truly knowing her—and now he was obligated to know her as intimately as anyone ever could.

He swallowed, a lump forming in his throat.

I shall approach her respectfully and seek to bridge the chasm this arrangement has caused between us.

He knew of Scarlett’s spirit, her wildness like a stallion upon the moors, and he would never wish to tame it. He wanted her unbridled and alive as he had seen her on that first night, pins flying from her hair as she spoke so vibrantly on the topic of her choosing.

Simon listened to the crackle of the flames, trying to imagine approaching her and striking up a simple conversation but he shuddered at the thought.

He had never been gifted in social situations, often being described as aloof and closed off.

He tended to stay quiet, listening to whoever might choose to approach him, but finding idle conversation a struggle.

The thought of talking directly to Scarlett in an intimate setting between the two of them filled him with dread.

What if she thinks me a simpleton? She is a thousand times more intelligent than I. She will assume I am a dullard.

But still, he could not shake the images his mind conjured of her as he contemplated their future together. He was a lucky man indeed—he just had to find a way to show her how he felt about her.

***

Later that evening, Simon sat in his club, the low hum of conversation and the clink of glasses a melodic background to his raging thoughts.

Since his father had left him alone, Simon’s mind had been occupied with nothing but Scarlett. Every thought in his head seemed to create another, and eventually he had found himself caught in a spiral of self-doubt so acute that it had formed a terrible headache.

Riding to his club had cleared his mind a little, but even now, as he sat in the gloom beneath a pall of smoke, those entrancing eyes still lingered at the back of his mind.

In the chair opposite, Lord Henry Carter sat and watched his friend with some interest.

It was not unusual for Simon to frequent the club fairly regularly, but rarely this late in the evening. He had not looked this perplexed for some time.

Henry chewed his lower lip, wondering what had caused his mood. Simon and his father had a complex relationship, despite Simon’s loyalty to his family and his responsibilities, and Henry had often seen him in a lather of self-doubt when they had quarrelled.

But tonight felt different. Simon seemed contemplative, as if he were considering an outcome that brought him both pleasure and pain.

Henry sipped his brandy, squinting at him before sighing heavily.

“Very well, I shall extract the information from you, as you are so averse to conversing with me this evening. Whatever is the matter, old chap? You look positively miserable.”

Simon’s wry smile was quick in coming, and he sat straighter in his seat, giving Henry a long stare.

“My apologies, old friend, am I boring you?” “

“In all ways, as you usually do,” Henry said teasingly. “Have you received some terrible news? I would have thought you would be pleased with your betrothal. It is a good match and she is a good lady.”

Simon’s eyes darkened at those words as he sipped his drink, almost finishing it in one swallow.

“She is far more than that, as you well know,” he said, as Henry’s heart went out to his friend.

Unrequited love is a heavy burden.

Henry had known Simon for most of his adult life and had watched the rare occasions where a pretty face had turned his head, but only one woman held his heart.

Whenever Scarlett Bradford entered a room, Henry would lose Simon’s attention until the lady was settled, and then for the entire evening, his friend would cast furtive glances her way.

Absolutely besotted, and even though he is marrying the woman, he looks as if he is being sent to debtors' prison.

“I am aware that you like her,” Henry said, deliberately provoking a reaction from his friend.

“I do not like her, Henry. She is exquisite. Her brilliance and unapologetic nature sets her apart from every other vapid simpleton by a ten yard start. I have been circled by mamas and debutantes for months but none of them compares to her a jot.”