Page 19 of Lady Waldrey’s Gardening Almanac for Cultivating Scandal

Shelbourne, she’d begin. We don’t suit.

She exhaled a sarcastic laugh. It was the understatement of the century, that. She kept revisiting those moments in the Marquess of Balewick’s library, where Shelbourne’s lip curled, where he’d taken her by the arm. Small smudges had appeared in the wake of his iron fingers, marks that Hortense had hissed at when helping her dress that morning.

Her loyal maid sat across from her now, staring at the side of the carriage as if the window coverings were thrown open to a beautiful vista. Hortense was either lost in thought or averting her gaze to allow Candace privacy—possibly both.

Hortense held an old umbrella with a heavy ironwood handle across her knees. It was the one she took along when Candace insisted on personally delivering soup to the children’s home in Cheapside.

Hortense had armed herself as surely as a knight preparing for battle. Candace smiled at the thought. It was surprisingly easy to imagine Hortense clad in the armor of old. Perhaps it was her impressive stature; perhaps it was her long stride and the easy way she cut through a crowded marketplace.

“Do you like the country, Hortense?” she surprised them both by asking.

“Yes, my lady.”

“Do you prefer it over the city?”

Hortense cocked her head. “They both have their merits, my lady.”

“And if I were to leave the city for awhile, would you be happy to come with me, or would you prefer to stay behind in London?”

“I’m sure whatever accommodations you’d make in the country would be quite suitable, my lady. I would go with you.”

There was something in the way she said the last that made emotion prick at Candace’s eyes. Suddenly choked, she settled for nodding in acknowledgement of her maid’s words instead of responding.

It was possible Candace shouldn’t have been able to sleep well the night before, but she had. She hadn’t even cried. Instead, a low anger simmered in her stomach until she fell into a dreamless dark. The fury burned out by morning, leaving a cold, charred sort of emptiness behind. Resignation—perhaps that’s what the emotion was. Candace knew what had to be done, and she was going to go through with it.

But she was well aware of what would follow.

That was the part she dreaded. It was a shock to admit to herself that she didn’t care about losing Shelbourne as much as she was frightened about the gossip that would come after. It wouldn’t be quite as bad as being ruined, but it was next-door neighbor to it, at least.

What she’d experienced in the Balewicks’ ballroom—the whispers, the gasps, the stares—was just the beginning. The next few weeks would be filled with curious visitors and their false sympathy, the tutting of a hundred secretly happy mamas, the murmurs of those who’d claim they knew it was doomed from the start. The ton would naturally be split down the middle—those who’d claim it was her fault, those who’d side with Shelbourne.

Shelbourne had been a society favorite for years. Besides, in battles of reputation, men could afford to take far more hits than young ladies could. He would end up the winner in this battle. All Candace could hope for was to retain some semblance of dignity.

Candace was exhausted by even the thought of holding her head up. She didn’t want to have to pretend that the whole mess hadn’t affected her. She didn’t want to appear as if she were strong and capable and rising above. An idea had emerged late last night—an improbable, foolish idea that she couldn’t shake.

What if she didn’t have to face them all tomorrow?

What if she didn’t have to pretend?

The carriage gently jostled to a stop, breaking Candace from her reverie. Her back straightened. Hortense gripped her thick umbrella; her jaw flexed.

The stairs were let down, the door opened, and a gloved hand appeared; Candace took it and stepped down. Hortense followed and stared at Candace while Candace stared up at the house. With great effort, Candace held back an unladylike snort. To think she’d actually believed she’d be mistress of this house one day!

She shook her head, ascended the front steps, and nodded her readiness. Hortense didn’t so much knock as bang on the door, so fiercely that Candace arched an eyebrow at her in amused question.

Hortense pressed her lips together as her eyes slid toward Candace’s upper arm—the one bearing bruises. Apparently, Hortense had decided the entire household was to blame for the injury inflicted upon her mistress.

Her maid’s loyalty cheered her; Candace bit back a sudden smile. Perhaps she should give up her idea of escape and just unleash Hortense and her stout umbrella on anyone who’d speak ill of her.

A scrambling sounded, and a wide-eyed butler opened the door; a large footman peered over his shoulder.

“I’m here to see the marquess,” Candace said.

“Begging pardon, my lady, but he’s not accepting visitors at this hour.”

“He’ll see me.”

“This is highly irregular,” the butler blustered. “I’m afraid I cannot⁠—”