Page 119 of Lady Waldrey’s Gardening Almanac for Cultivating Scandal

She took the gallantly offered arm of Lord Cavendish, who leaned in and murmured, “Be grateful—at least when the evening’s over, we have to take them with us.”

Candace smiled. “Of course I don’t know what you mean.”

“I’ve long suspected that Beaufort was in his cups when he proposed; this evening has only served to confirm it.”

She hid her laughter behind a glove and pretended not to notice the ladies claiming the seats on either side of James with a fervor that might have been appropriate if they were playing the parlor game of musical chairs.

Candace sat between Daisy and Lord Cavendish, with Vera on his other side. She supposed that she could survive one dinner at Daisy’s side, even though the lady stiffened when Lord Cavendish held out Candace’s chair.

The table was splendidly set. Maids had polished the crystal and silver before Mrs. Penn inspected each piece herself. Now, candlelight from the candelabras shimmered and flicked over every shiny surface. Low silver bowls held arrangements of artfully drooping tulips, ruffled roses, and large fig leaves.

As the footmen began to serve the first course, Candace thought that perhaps the splendid appearance of the dining room would be enough to silence Daisy.

“Oh, I almost forgot,” Daisy said, a cruel smile upon her face. “We have the most diverting news.”

Candace’s hope curled in on itself and withered like a tendril of ivy thrown into a fire.

“Oh?” Miss Ritten said in a stiff manner that made Candace suspect this conversation had been rehearsed beforehand. “Do tell us!”

For some reason, Candace’s stomach clenched, as if it knew what approached before the words were even out of Daisy’s mouth.

“The Marquess of Shelbourne is engaged.” Daisy said the last word with titillated delight, her eyes firmly on Candace to drink in her reaction.

Candace, thankfully, had seen the blow coming and had already produced her stage-worthy, serene smile. Of course, there was no way she could have predicted the precise news Daisy delivered, but she was intelligent enough to know that if Daisy was delighted, it was bound to come at someone’s expense.

James frowned, as did the marquess, but the ladies were too deep into their script to notice.

“That is delightful news,” Miss Ritten said. “After all he’s been through, he deserves happiness.”

The table as a whole disagreed about where to look. The gentlemen, save for James, largely focused on the food upon their plates, as if it their fish had chosen that moment to reanimate and perform a dance. The women were torn between staring unabashedly at Candace and looking to each other to see whose line it was next.

“Who is the lucky lady?” Miss Ritten asked.

“Miss Clark.” Daisy dropped all pretense and stared at Candace. “She’s the most beautiful young lady, newly arrived from America by way of France. I daresay no one can compare to Miss Clark’s charm.”

“Her family is supposed to be scandalously wealthy, too.”

Daisy affected a wistful sigh. “To be that beautiful and that rich—it isn’t fair. To be sure, Shelbourne couldn’t have done any better.”

Candace did her best to pay no attention to them—after all, they scarcely needed her input to continue—but her stomach sank with a queasiness that was harder to ignore than their words. This was what she’d come to Devon to avoid, but it had arrived on her doorstep all the same.

Across the table, James caught her eye and gave her a bolstering smile that threatened to crack her facade far more than the words designed for cruelty. Perhaps it wouldn’t affect her so if there weren’t so many witnesses. And Daisy and the other ladies had waited until they were seated to share the news, so there was no escaping.

On and on they went, through the first course and the second, leaving hardly any room for someone else to interject or change the topic. Even when the gentlemen tried—valiantly—to turn the topic to hunting, the weather, or even unrest in foreign lands, the ladies at the table brought it right back to Shelbourne and his perfect bride-to-be. James especially tried to steer the topic to other items of note, but the ladies were a well-oiled machine intent upon travelling their chosen track; they plastered anyone who stood in their way.

Miss Clark is the loveliest; no one can compare to her in beauty and style.

It’s said that Shelbourne cannot wait to marry her; the wedding is to take place within the month.

The conversation was a rubber ball that they threw back and forth to each other with all the swiftness and cruelty of keep-away. It was as if they had made a pact before dinner that they would be relentless with the topic, leaving no minute detail of the betrothal unexamined—and perhaps they had.

It might not have been so bad, except it felt as if every line was a dagger they’d sharpened especially for Candace’s heart.

They are to travel to Paris for their honeymoon. He longs to show her the city he spent so much time in this past year.

He purchased trunkfuls of Chantilly lace for her trousseau. Sent his steward to acquire it, since Shelbourne cannot bear to leave her side.

Did you hear the romance of their engagement? He sent her a bouquet every hour they were apart—the poor butler got no sleep at all—then delivered the last of the twenty-four arrangements himself and got down on both knees to beg for her hand!