A Proper Scandal by Charis Michaels Page A

To him .
    The result was, of course, she’d embarrassed herself by calling out a marchioness. She’d embarrassed the viscount by leaping to his defense. She’d embarrassed her aunt for—oh, well, Lillian received nothing more than she deserved. But now Elisabeth must see it through.
    â€œI was . . . unacquainted with the viscount before tonight,” she told the marchioness, “but I . . . I intend to apply for his charity donation on behalf of a cause that I support. Naturally, I learned as much about the man and his history as possible. In order to have every advantage. For my charity.” Taking up her fork, Elisabeth stabbed a carrot and ate.
    The marchioness waved away a hovering footman. “A charity, you say? And what is this cause you support?”
    Elisabeth weighed her options. This question would be next; it was always next. It was one thing to defend the viscount but quite another to defend her own life’s work. Not with any delicacy. Not in a way that did not betray the girls she fought to save or put off small-minded people. And here the stakes were very high indeed. She glanced around the table. The busybody marchioness. A roomful of esteemed strangers. Young, sheltered debutantes. And— oh, God —Rainsleigh himself.
    If she intended to apply for his charitable gift, she would need to term the whole thing very vaguely. Too much detail had scared away legions of well-meaning benefactors. Not to mention, the specifics might trigger a memory she would rather not share. With the viscount. Not now. Not ever.
    She looked up, smiled brightly, and said, “The charity is called ‘The Well,’ and it is a foundation for lost girls and young women of London.”
    â€œLost, you say?” asked the marchioness.
    â€œHmmm,” Elisabeth confirmed. “Lost. Without parents, proper homes, food, access to a doctor’s care. The foundation offers these poor souls a way to get on in the world. A path to a future that is less bleak.”
    The marchioness shocked Elisabeth by nodding knowingly. She waved her fork in the air. “A worthy cause, no doubt, and I salute it. Rainsleigh would do well to support it, if he’s in the business of giving away money. Certainly any money redirected from that house of his would be a gift to us all.”
    Of all responses, Elisabeth had expected this one the least. She was momentarily speechless. She stole a look at Aunt Lillian, who sat back in her chair and silently watched the exchange, a small smile on her face. In no way , Elisabeth thought, does she appear to be suffering her due. In fact, she looks gratified.
    The Marchioness of Frinfrock appeared entirely unfazed by the conversation and was presently dickering with a footman about the cut of her fish.
    Slowly, softly, chatter emerged up and down the table—couples whispering among themselves, debutantes giggling, oohs, and ahhs as the footmen set down the trout. Without thinking, Elisabeth stole a look at Rainsleigh. He looked up too, catching her gaze.
    Their eyes locked, and Elisabeth’s breath seized in her chest. Every part of her, in fact, seemed to tense and freeze. She felt immobilized by his very look. By great force of will, she was the first to look away.
    Oh, God, his eyes were so blue, they shone. At this range, she could see the roughness of his emerging beard. She wondered absently what it would feel like to trace her fingertips across the stubble.
    It was ridiculous—nay, it was madness— because her priority at the moment should be to stew over her own mortification and determine some way to make amends for her outburst. Instead, all she wanted to do was study him again, compare the man he had become to the boy of that night fifteen years ago. She wondered, and not for the first time, how he could not yet have married. How he enjoyed London. How he chose his home and the changes he made. Why he did not recognize her.
    No, not