Page 30 of Prince of Scandal

Sir Alan tilted his head as he finished his cake. “I never wanted to pry, but I did wonder if perhaps you’d had a bad experience in the past. Something that made you shy away from the parson’s mousetrap. Because, and forgive me, I mean no offence, you aren’t a chap with a different companion in his bed every week.”

A bad experience, that was one way of putting it. Complete disaster wrapped in a scandal that had earned him disownment from his parents and banishment from Prussia was another. Even now, his experience with Virginia—and the humiliating thunder and brimstone audience with her father, the Duke of Lansbury, when she’d broken their betrothal—had the power to make him cringe. Not to mention the way society had shunned him for being the Prince of Scandal. No one would permit him in their drawing room, the patronesses at Almack’s had turned up their noses, and every single one of his memberships at the gentlemen’s clubs and high-end gaming hells were abruptly cancelled. He’d been a pariah; no amount of apologies to the duke or Virginia would make amends, and any letters were returned unopened.

But it only got worse after Virginia married bloody damned Rupert. Then the shackling lie was further embellished to include increasingly ludicrous details like midnight Prussian dungeon rituals, Ashton being a spy, and leading a plot to poison every barrel of ale in England. All of it pointed to a truly malicious source, and there was no doubt in his mind that it was the major actively and deliberately destroying his former rival’s reputation.

But he’d no recourse. None. Everyone had believed the English baron and serving soldier over the foreign prince.

Ashton winced at the memories, forcing himself to take a sip of tea with lemon even though the beverage was a poor substitute for coffee. “I did have a bad experience. Broken betrothal. Her choice. And she…she wed a cretin. An absolute sack of excrement. Then passed away six months later.”

“Christ,” said Sir Alan, his eyes bulging. “I had no idea it was that bad. Forgive me for asking.”

“No apologies needed,” he replied, confused at how telling someone other than Franz felt helpful, somehow. “Actually, I appreciate the friendly ear. It has weighed on me for some time and I find…I do not wish to keep carrying that burden. It was a long time ago and those people are no longer in my life. I wish for a different future. Something brighter.”

“You deserve nothing less,” said Sir Alan, clapping him on the shoulder. “And should it come to pass, Phoebe and I would cheer on a match between yourself and Mrs. King.”

Ashton laughed, although it was all too easy to imagine himself and Georgiana standing in front of the altar at St. Laurence’s as Reverend March read from his prayer book. “Easy now, Dunmore, I’m not choosing fabrics and china patterns just yet.”

His friend grinned. “Too late, Latimer. I can see you are well and truly caught. I won’t even be offended if you wish to run outside and help the lady into her carriage.”

“They’re done with the sewing circle?” Ashton replied, glancing out the hall window, his brow furrowing. “That was quick.”

“Hmmm. Maybe Mrs. King has a prior engagement. No one else has come out of the parsonage. Oh hell. I certainly hope Indy hasn’t been up to mischief again.”

A frisson of disquiet made Ashton’s neck itch. He needed to investigate this at once. “Forgive me, but I might just check to see if all is well. Give my best to Miss March.”

Sir Alan nodded and waggled his fingers in farewell, then wandered over to join the group of farmers.

Taking a deep breath, Ashton hurried out the hall door, thankful the vicar was still distracted so he wouldn’t be waylaid. He needed to get to Georgiana. However, once he got to the line of carriages and raised his hand in greeting, shockingly, she ignored him completely.

What on earth?

He marched forward, determined to get answers for such strange behavior, but Georgiana practically dived into her carriage and it soon pulled away from the church at great speed. However, as the vehicle passed him, she was peering out the window and gesturing frantically at the ground.

His disquiet turning into out and out unease, Ashton glanced around the leafy lane, eventually spying a folded piece of paper on the ground next to a large rock. Snatching it up, he began to read.

A,

Meet me at the dwelling this afternoon. Forgive the subterfuge, but we cannot be seen together in public.

Ashton frowned as shoved the note into his waistcoat pocket. While a part of him was relieved that he hadn’t inadvertently done something to her change her mind about him, this didn’t answer one rather burning question:

What the hell was going on?

CHAPTER 7

Thunk splash. Thunk splash.

From her precarious perch on a large tree branch, Georgiana glared at the stones in her hand for disobediently not skipping across the forbidding surface of the River Yare like they were supposed to. Xavier had deigned to teach her the skill many years ago at the pond of the country estate; Lilian had been too busy learning deportment, and Pippa loathed the outdoors, so the two of them had spent many happy hours laughing, teasing each other, and getting decidedly damp and muddy, before returning to the manor to be scolded by Grandmother for boisterous and unseemly play.

Please God, let Xavier be well.

She’d not heard anything further from Pippa about his quest to find Rupert in France; half of her wished her big brother would just forget the whole thing and return home. The other half hoped for his success, if only so she could publicly slap Rupert’s face and tell him what a sniveling coward and terrible lover he was.

Not knowing was the worst thing, both for Xavier’s wellbeing and if she carried Rupert’s child. Yet thanks to bloody India Dunmore’s malice, she now had another matter to twist up her insides: not being able to see Ashton.

Fury howled and swirled within her until she thought she might scream. Or break a window. Anything to release the pent-up emotion inside that was becoming nigh-on unbearable. No young lady should have to endure this nonsense; yes, she’d made mistakes—exceedingly foolish ones—but it was all so damned unfair.

“Georgiana! What on earth are you doing?”