Page 2 of How to Start a Scandal

Violet’s mouth fell open. ‘Papa, it is most likely only three weeks until the end of the Season. Perhaps a month at most.’

He steepled his fingers. ‘So it is.’

‘Might I have the summer to think it over?’ The chair cried out beneath her, but she didn’t care. ‘Perhaps next Season—’

‘You’ve had six already.’ He spoke drily as his fingertips found their way to tap against the stack of bills. She didn’t have to look to know they were from the modiste, the milliner and other various shops she frequented.

She had needed that clothing. In order to glean gossip for the Lady Observer, she had to move freely among the ton. How was such a thing possible in an old frock?

‘There will be no negotiation.’ Lord Hollingston got to his feet and indicated the door.

She had been dismissed with the worst of choices laid out before her.

He walked around the desk and followed her out of the study. ‘I am not doing this to be cruel.’ His tone was gentler. ‘You cannot simply exist in life like this, Violet. You need purpose.’

She pressed her lips together. She did have purpose. The Lady Observer occupied all her free time. Except no one knew she was the author of the column and she didn’t care for them to know. Instead, she simply nodded and made for the stairs. Her feet hesitated as she got to the landing and considered her options.

Going up the stairs would lead her to her chamber. Walking down the hall in the opposite direction, however, would lead to the kitchen where Cook had made the most delicious pastries earlier. Violet knew well enough that Cook made more than would ever possibly be eaten in only one day.

She shouldn’t, she knew.

Except that she could practically taste the sweet, tart strawberry jam against her tongue. Her teeth longed to press down into the flaky dough and meet the delicate crunch and pop of the sugar crystals that glittered over the top like frost.

Yes. To the kitchen. She shifted.

‘I wouldn’t bother.’ Lord Hollingston lifted his gaze over the top of a paper he held in front of his face as he walked. ‘Your mother anticipated you might be emotional over this and had Cook lock away all the pastries.’

Emotional? All of them?

She tried to swallow her sorrow, but still a squawk emerged. It was bad enough to be given such dismal choices. It was entirely another to be deprived of consolation.

Tears blurred her vision.

‘Good evening, Violet.’ Her father’s gaze swept up the stairs, a silent order to proceed to her chamber.

She nodded, unable to speak, and backed away from him, this time climbing the risers as she was bid.

As her feet trudged upwards in a slow march, she concocted an article in her mind.

Scandal-sheet writer disappears from society rather suddenly. Speculation abounds, but rumour has it she’s gone to take on the menial task of unpaid governess to her sister’s four children. A scandal, indeed!

Not that anyone would truly even notice if she was gone. What was one less wallflower floating in the background at a ball? The knot in her throat tightened and she almost burst into tears right there.

She couldn’t, just couldn’t, act as governess to Sophie’s children. Not when countless others who had far more experience and patience than she had given up the task as hopeless. But marriage...

Well, she couldn’t do that either. She pushed through the door to the bedchamber and glanced at the silver-tissue gown on a dressmaker’s form propped at the side of her room. To some it might be considered a fashionable form of decor.

For Violet, it was a painful reminder. Of what she had lost, of how she had failed. That she always needed to try harder. A surge of anger overtook her.

A pox on trying harder.

She shoved past the gown to the small box in the drawer behind it, the one filled with toffees. She snatched one up, unfurled the crinkly wax wrapper, popped it into her mouth and practically moaned as the decadence of sugary confection dissolved against her tongue.

She shouldn’t be doing it, she knew, but could scarcely help it any more than she could stop breathing. After all, food was a way of remembering for her. Well, for remembering and for forgetting and, at that moment, she wanted to forget it all.

Even if it was fleeting.

A sob choked out around the sweet in her mouth, a pitiful sound to be sure. She put her face into her hands and gave way to the desolation ringing hollow in her chest.