Page 13 of Lady Waldrey’s Gardening Almanac for Cultivating Scandal

“How are you?” he finally said, then shoved the end of the sandwich into his mouth as if to prevent himself from saying anything further.

“As well as can be expected, but thank you for asking.”

The three of them chewed in silence. It would have been pleasant, cozy even, if Candace didn’t feel as if she were some maimed survivor of a cataclysmic shipwreck. She didn’t know if she was glad or regretted the fact that her family wasn’t home to witness this. Percy and Adelaide had departed on their honeymoon, and Sophia was shopping for her trousseau in Paris with her soon-to-be mother-by-law.

Percy would have raged and blustered, probably threatened to seek justice at the end of his pistol until Adelaide talked him off of that precarious emotional ledge. Sophia would have behaved much the same as Vera did—a silent, understanding presence at her side. The only difference was, Vera would have to return home, while Sophia could have curled on the other side of Candace’s bed, whispering clever insults about Shelbourne that would have had Candace laughing through her inevitable midnight tears.

“Candace?” Vera wiped her fingers briskly with a cloth napkin, her eyes on the fine clock on the mantel. “I hate to be abrupt, but may I trouble you for your carriage? Mother will already be cross when she hears I left my chaperone behind.”

“Of course. Take Hortense with you as chaperone, if that will help.” She flicked her fingers in the air carelessly.

Vera looked between James and Candace. “You don’t need her here?”

“We’ll control ourselves,” she said, her tone drier than the gin in the cabinet that she was already considering. “Won’t we, James?”

“Yes, of course. Good evening, Vera.” He rose and bowed when she stood.

“Thank you, Vera. For tonight. I’ll send word tomorrow.”

Vera gave a hasty curtsy, one last uncertain look at Candace, and departed.

James observed propriety by shifting his seat to the sofa opposite Candace. “Are you sure you’re quite well?”

“Of course I’m not. But I hardly see what can be achieved by admitting it.”

“You can always be honest with me.”

She smiled—real for a moment, then it faded into a half-wince. “Do you think there’s any way to salvage the situation?”

“Your betrothal?”

His tone and raised eyebrows told her all she needed to know.

“What will people say? I’ve shamed my family⁠—”

“Nonsense. The shame lies completely with Shelbourne. Your family knows you; they’ll see it clearly.”

The sudden shot of warmth from his words dissipated quickly, like a thimbleful of whiskey against a raging winter chill. It wasn’t just that Shelbourne wanted out of their engagement; it was what that meant for her future. She would be seen as tarnished. Though her brother’s title and wealth would help, it couldn’t save her from recrimination of the cruelest kind.

“You cannot use duty to your sister and brother as a shield anymore, Candace,” he said into the silence, interrupting her thoughts. “Their futures are well secured. Your sister will be a viscountess, and your brother is working at starting a family with the woman he loves.”

She raised an eyebrow at the implication.

“I don’t mean to be crass. I’m only pointing out that they’ve moved on. They’re living their lives as they desire. Don’t you want the same for yourself?”

“Of course I want that. But certainly you see what a broken engagement will do to my prospects.”

Candace’s reputation would suffer, and men who only months ago would have considered her above them would feel no hesitation in approaching her. The men in the highest echelons who’d once waited at her door would feel as if they’d dodged a bullet and avoid her altogether. In a single year, she’d gone from the darling of high society to a veritable pariah.

All she’d wanted was to be a wife, a mother. She’d fancied herself in love with Shelbourne—at least at the very beginning. Now she realized she’d only been swept up in a romance of her own imagining. And who would have her as a wife now? No one but men too old to have children, or men Candace would prefer not to speak to, let alone share a lifetime with.

“Then do it—live a life of your choosing.”

She scoffed. “You speak as if it were a simple option, a choice that’s mine for the making—lavender or blue, silk charmeuse or wool.”

“It is.”

“It isn’t.”