A Marriage to Shock Society
Author
Joanna Johnson
Reads
18.5K
Chapters
15
Enter a world of Regency scandal with this dramatic marriage of convenience! An accidental introduction takes them to the altar! Having lived at the Laycock School for Young Ladies since the day she was born, Emily Townsend thinks she is finally about to meet her father… Only to mistakenly arrive at the estate of dashing Andrew Gouldsmith, Earl of Breamore, instead! Determined Emily needs access to the ton if she's to resume her search, and Andrew needs a convenient wife! But can their unconventional — and surprisingly passionate! — marriage survive Society's scrutinous gaze?
Chapter One
Staring up at the intimidating frontage of Huntingham Hall, Emily Townsend knew there was no turning back.
The five-mile walk from the neighbouring town of Brigwell had taken longer than she’d anticipated and she feared she looked dishevelled, pushing aside a limp strand of hair and wishing the back of her neck wasn’t quite so damp from the summer sun. She had to be at her very best when she finally worked up the courage to knock at the door and, taking a deep breath, she peered up once again at the biggest house she had ever seen.
It was hewn from the same pretty Warwickshire stone as the school she had lived in since birth, but any scant similarity between the two buildings began and ended there. Miss Laycock’s establishment comprised little more than a largish cottage, the second floor reserved for the parlour boarders that included Emily. Despite the lofty claims of advertisements placed in the Brigwell Gazette it was neither particularly exclusive nor prestigious. It had never truly felt like home, even though she had never known any other, and the smallest flutter of excitement stirred now despite her jangling nerves.
If she was right...
The flutter grew stronger and Emily tried her best to check it. If she let herself get her hopes up too high it would be even more painful if they were then dashed, especially with so much at stake. It had been made abundantly—and abruptly—clear that there was no longer a place for her at the Laycock School for Young Ladies and she’d been left with no choice but to act, now throwing all her faith in what she’d seen on a smudged piece of paper more than twelve years before.
The hand she raised to the ornate bellpull shook uncontrollably, and she swallowed rising apprehension as she listened to the chime. In a matter of moments the door would open and she’d step inside, mere minutes away from a scene she’d imagined countless times, and then—
And then—what?
He’d be delighted to see her, this stranger whom she’d given no warning she was coming...wouldn’t he? If he wasn’t, she might die of shame right there in Huntingham Hall’s no doubt magnificent parlour, but she had no choice. There were no other options left to her, and as the door opened Emily forced a smile, clasping her hands together to hide how they trembled.
‘Good morning. I would like to see Lord Breamore. Is he at home?’
She spoke with as much confidence as she could muster, glad of the hours she’d spent rehearsing before her bedroom mirror when the newly emerged butler bowed instead of immediately turning her away.
‘Yes, ma’am. Please come inside.’
The man withdrew and with one final glance over her shoulder Emily followed. She’d succeeded in getting past the front door and that in itself felt like a victory, although any triumph was rapidly replaced by awe as she stepped over the threshold.
The entrance hall alone was bigger than Miss Laycock’s entire drawing room. High ceilinged, gleaming with marble and lit by sunshine cascading in through tall windows, it was more a palace than a house and she’d never felt so out of place in her life as she removed her faded bonnet and handed it to a waiting maid. Even the servants were better dressed than she was and hurriedly Emily tried to hide a visibly mended hole in the palm of one glove. If the other parlour boarders could see her now they’d be amazed at her nerve in daring to set foot in an Earl’s home, somewhere a person of her position had no right to think about let alone visit, and she prayed for the frightening gallop of her pulse to slow as the butler turned back.
‘I shall inform His Lordship of your presence. What name may I give?’
‘Miss Townsend. Miss Emily Townsend.’
She watched keenly for his reaction, but it seemed her name meant nothing to him.
‘Thank you, ma’am. His Lordship will be down directly.’
Emily attempted another smile, although her limbs felt like water as the maid began to lead her away. Her nape was still too hot and her heart still flung itself against her ribs and, when she was shown into what seemed to her the grandest parlour on earth, she all but fell onto a sofa rather than sat.
The maid withdrew, leaving Emily alone and at the mercy of her thoughts.
‘His Lordship will be down directly.’
Another surge of excitement rose and again she attempted to master it. She’d dreamed of this day since she was nine years old, when she had forced open the forbidden drawer of the late Mrs Laycock’s desk to hunt the secrets she knew lay within, and what she’d found had turned her world on its head. Many questions had been answered by that piece of paper, none of which her guardians had shown any intention of addressing themselves then or since, but the biggest still remained and Emily’s heart leaped into her mouth as she heard footsteps approaching and knew the final piece of the puzzle was about to fall into place.
She sprang to her feet, hardly breathing as the door swung open. A man stood on the threshold, his face momentarily hidden by shadow, but then he stepped fully into the room and Emily felt as though she had been kicked in the stomach.
‘Good morning. Miss Townsend, is it? I am Lord Breamore. I believe you wanted to see me?’
The Earl smiled, the unfeigned warmth of it reaching his dark eyes. He was tall enough that she had to lift her chin slightly to look into his face—a pleasant one, as she might have been more aware if a crushing weight hadn’t just come slamming down across her chest.
But he’s far too young. Surely this can’t be right?
It was like being doused by a shower of cold water. Every trace of excitement vanished instantly, all tentative hope draining away as she gazed up at the man who wasn’t who she wanted him to be, and the first words she spoke to him came far more bluntly than she’d intended.
‘You are Lord Breamore? The only Lord Breamore?’
His almost black eyebrows raised a fraction at her forthrightness, but so did one corner of his mouth, a half-smile that even Emily couldn’t miss.
‘I’m afraid so. There’s generally only one of us at a time.’
He seemed to consider for a moment. ‘Perhaps you were expecting my uncle, Ephraim Gouldsmith? The previous Earl?’
Emily swallowed, the sudden dryness of her throat almost choking her. ‘Perhaps.’
‘In that case I’m afraid I have bad news. He died two months ago.’
The unexpected Earl gestured for her to sit and Emily found herself folding back down onto the sofa she had sprung from so eagerly. Dismay and confusion crowded her, although from somewhere she managed to dredge up the only socially acceptable response.
‘I’m sorry, sir. My deepest condolences.’
The Earl inclined his head. He seemed unmoved by the recent bereavement and Emily wondered fleetingly at his coolness before reality returned to eclipse all else.
I’m too late. If Ephraim Gouldsmith was indeed my father I’ll never know him now...and we’ll never have the happier future together I hoped for.
The weight in her chest shifted to make room for a shard of ice. For years the only thing that had made her sad existence in any way tolerable was the dream of one day meeting the father nobody wanted to tell her anything about. No one at the school, where she’d been deposited as a newborn, had ever truly cared for her. Mrs Laycock had occasionally bestowed a tight smile or stiffly encouraging word, but after she died and her daughter took control even that meagre approval came to an end. Miss Laycock was even more austere than her mother, never hesitating to use the cane in her attempts to shape Emily into a respectable young woman, although it seemed illegitimacy was a stain no amount of rapped knuckles could erase. The only future deemed appropriate for such an unfortunate creature was as a governess for a family prepared to overlook her dubious origins in exchange for a pittance, a grim prospect she’d been informed was now imminent. A position had been found for her with a family almost a hundred miles away from Brigwell, practically on the other side of the country and far from everyone and everything she’d ever known, and to evade that fate she’d finally played the single winning card she thought fate had dealt her.
But I left it too late.
Vaguely she heard the Earl ring a bell by the fireplace and then seat himself in a chair to one side of her sofa, the tread of his boots muffled by expensive rugs. Each one must have cost as much as her board and schooling did for a year, and she stared blindly down at the woven designs, despair washing over her like a chilly breeze.
Was this really the outcome of all that time spent looking forward to this day? The paper in Mrs Laycock’s desk had stated her anonymous mother was deceased, dying in childbed and leaving Emily behind, but to discover she had a father still living had given her nine-year-old self the strength to go on. A maddeningly placed smudge had obscured his surname, leaving only his title exposed alongside a smeared impression of a coat of arms courtesy of his ink-spattered signet ring, but that had been enough. There was only one Lord living near Brigwell and that was Breamore, and without ever having laid eyes on him Emily knew it had to be his signature scrawled on the dotted line. Who else could not only afford to pay for her lodging and education in advance but would take the trouble to do so, spending what must have added up to a small fortune by the time she’d come of age?
Such generosity had been enough to convince her that he cared, and as the years had passed that certainty had taken root in her lonely, affection-starved heart, which cherished the notion of her distant papa until she’d built him up into an almost mythical figure for a girl who had nothing else to cling to. In her desperation to belong somewhere she had seized on what she ached to be true, a fiercely held conviction she’d reminded herself of every time her cold life at the school grew too much to bear—that fathers existed to love their daughters, even if they couldn’t always keep them, and that one day hers would come to take her away from the bleak situation he must have had good reason for making her endure. He had invested money and effort in placing her with the Laycocks, surely proof he wanted to know where to find her when the time was right, and only the looming prospect of forced servitude had made her abandon her patient waiting and seek him out for herself.
There was a loaded pause. Clearly her unwitting host expected some kind of explanation as to why he had a silent, obviously unhappy woman in his parlour, but when it became plain one was not forthcoming, he leaned forward.
‘We’ve established I’m not the one you want, but can I assist you anyway? Perhaps if you told me why you’d come to see my uncle?’
Emily glanced up. He was watching her with interest, and for the first time she noticed the liveliness of his eyes, dark but simultaneously alight with intelligence and good humour. He was attractive, she realised now she looked at him properly. Twin grooves beside his mouth suggested he smiled often and the line of his jaw could have been shaped by a sculptor’s knife. His nose was slightly crooked, broken and mended long ago, but the small flaw lent character to what could otherwise have been a far blander kind of handsomeness. In all he was a man it was no hardship to look at, which only managed to make her current position feel even worse.
The only possible justification she’d had for calling at Huntingham Hall had been the belief her father lived there and now her audacity had no basis at all. She ought to leave at once, running away before the new Earl realised what kind of woman he had allowed into his home, but to her horror she wasn’t sure she could. Despair had sapped her strength and made it all but impossible to stand, pinning her to the sofa while Lord Breamore politely waited for an answer she was powerless to find.
What was she supposed to tell him? That she had come to ask if his newly buried uncle was her absent papa, the only person who could save her from being sent miles from home to slave for pennies it was assumed an illegitimate girl ought to be grateful to receive? It wouldn’t paint either of them in a particularly flattering light—his uncle as an errant father and herself as the secret, unwanted product of an indiscretion—and she fumbled for an answer that wasn’t an outright lie.
‘I understood he was a friend of my mother’s.’
That might have been true, she reasoned uncomfortably as she watched Lord Breamore’s brows knit together.
There must have been some kind of relationship between her poor nameless mama and the previous Earl, even if only the most transient. A child could be made in a matter of moments, one of the older school boarders had told her once, and although at the time Emily hadn’t been entirely sure what the other girl had meant, she now had enough of an idea for her current blush to deepen another three shades.
‘You say your mother was a friend of his? That’s...interesting.’
The corners of his mouth turned down. There was a small cleft in his chin and he rubbed it thoughtfully, his uncertainty making Emily hold her breath. ‘I wouldn’t have thought he ever had a single friend in his life, let alone a woman.’
He hesitated, clearly choosing his next words carefully. ‘He wasn’t known for his regard for ladies. I take it you never met him?’
The question struck at the very centre of Emily’s unhappiness. ‘No, sir. I never had that pleasure.’
‘Well. It might be best to consider that a blessing.’
The Earl’s mouth twisted and Emily felt herself frown. What could he mean by that? There was now no chance of her meeting Ephraim Breamore and his nephew was her only link to him, the sole person who could tell her anything about the man she’d never had the opportunity to know.
‘Wasn’t he a pleasant man?’
To her surprise Lord Breamore gave a short laugh. It rang hollow in the room, and at her obvious confusion he held up an apologetic hand.
‘Forgive me. It’s only that there are many words that could have described my uncle, and pleasant wouldn’t be one of them.’
He nodded towards a painting hanging against one richly papered wall. ‘See for yourself. Even in his portrait he glares, and that’s nothing to how he would scowl when he was alive.’
Emily turned at once. She had no idea what the former Lord Breamore had looked like and she braced herself to come face to face with him, even if that face was rendered in oils rather than flesh and blood. Perhaps their noses had been the same shape, or they’d shared the same unusual reddish-gold hair? It was a chance to see whether her imaginings of him had any root in fact, and she almost forgot she was being watched as she craned her neck to take a better look.
She’d expected to find at least some resemblance between herself and the man in the ornate frame...but there was none.
It was as if the artist had been tasked with creating a subject the opposite of her in every conceivable way. The painted face was square where hers was rounded, his skin olive-toned in place of her pink and white, and the thick hair waved in a much less distinctive mid-brown. His eyes were dark too, in stark contrast to her own blue, and the expression in them was exactly as his nephew had described. Ephraim Gouldsmith glowered down at her, dislike etched into every painted line, and for the first time she felt a glimmer of doubt.
Was I wrong?
There was absolutely no likeness whatsoever, not even the most tenuous. Between uncle and nephew there was an undeniable similarity, their colouring and jawlines clearly passed down through the generations, but for herself there might have been no family link at all. If it hadn’t been pointed out to her which painting was Ephraim she never would have guessed he was the man she suspected of being her father, and the longer she gazed up at him the stronger her sudden doubts became.
But if not him...?
Out of the corner of her eye she saw her host likewise studying the portrait. There was little affection in his expression and, when he spoke, she heard a note of distaste loud and clear.
‘I don’t believe he ever thought well of anyone. If your mother was the exception, she must have been a singular woman indeed—he thought ladies a waste of time only fools pursued, which was why he never troubled himself to marry. His money was the only company I ever knew him to enjoy.’
He gave his uncle another lingering look before turning away, and Emily followed his lead. Meeting Ephraim’s painted eye made her feel cold. His gaze was too hostile, as if angry with her for daring to enter his home, and the lack of anything approaching a paternal resemblance...
Was a man who apparently disliked women so much likely to have fathered an unwanted child? To hear Lord Breamore speak of him, the former Earl had been more concerned with his fortune than pleasure-seeking. Between his disinterest in the fairer sex and his looks so opposite her own, the evidence against him was mounting, and Emily’s confusion grew likewise.
First I thought he must be my father, then I discover he’s died, and now I’m not sure he was my father at all. For years I was so certain, but now...
There was too much to process while sitting in such a luxurious parlour, a place she was growing ever more uncomfortable to have invaded with every second that passed. She needed to go away to think and it was an immeasurable relief to find some of the strength had returned to her legs as she prepared to stand.
‘Thank you for your time, my lord. I’ve taken up far too much of it. I’ll bid you good day now.’
She saw him lean forward as if about to speak but the opening of the parlour door beat him to it. A servant with a tea tray appeared and set it down on a nearby table, answering the Earl’s murmured thanks with a neat bob before silently leaving the room.
He smiled as the door closed again. His face had taken on a tightness when viewing the portrait but that seemed to have passed, the upward tick of his lips effortlessly catching Emily’s eye, and she had no time to wonder at herself for noticing such a thing, at such a time, before he reached out.
‘If you’ve decided to leave, at least have some tea first. Without wishing to sound rude, you look as though you need it.’
In what might be considered an uncharacteristic move for an Earl, Andrew picked up the teapot himself, simultaneously stealing a glance at the mysterious Miss Townsend’s downturned face. She was pale again now, the pretty flush replaced by a curiously unhappy pallor, and he couldn’t help but note the way her fingers shook when she unconsciously pushed back her hair. It was a striking colour, somewhere between russet and blonde, and he wondered again why such an attractive young woman had come to Huntingham Hall.
He poured out a cup and pushed it towards her. She did indeed look in need of a drink, although perhaps of something stronger than tea. When he’d first entered the room she’d looked as though she was about to fall over, her blue eyes wide with shock that had rapidly turned to obvious dismay, and he was no closer to understanding why. The only thing that was plain was that she had come expecting to see Uncle Ephraim, and the news of his passing had affected her far more than the old devil deserved.
‘Oh... Thank you, sir. You’re very kind.’
He saw how she hesitated before reaching for her tea. Her thoughts were evidently elsewhere and he took the opportunity to let his own unfold as she stirred a fragment of sugar into her cup.
Had she and Uncle Ephraim been having some kind of liaison? Was that it? The idea made him want to grimace, the thought of such a soft-spoken young woman in that gnarled grasp not an agreeable one, but then he dismissed it out of hand. She had never met the previous Earl, and besides, what he’d told her was the truth. His uncle had never looked at women with desire, only ever disdain, and the likelihood of him being interested in her even if they’d crossed paths was surely less than zero.
She claims her mother had been a friend of his but that has to be a lie. All Uncle cared for was money, and it’s very clear this Miss Townsend has none.
Her clothes were clean but mended, and the soles of her shoes were worn thin, he saw with the empathy of one who had once been in a similar position. His uncle had only ever been able to tolerate those with wealth, as though poverty was contagious...as Andrew knew all too well.
As if sensing he was trying to puzzle her out, Emily looked up, colouring slightly when she met his eye. She shifted uneasily on the sofa and Andrew was glad she hadn’t caught him in his survey of her dress, aware she must already be feeling ill at ease in his grand home.
Just as I did as a boy, whenever Uncle deigned to summon me here. It always felt more like entering a viper’s nest than a house, hoping he wouldn’t notice how my cuffs were frayed and my shirts always slightly outgrown.
It was a memory he didn’t particularly want to examine at that moment, and instead he sipped his tea while pretending not to observe his guest. Every now and again she took a surreptitious glance around the room, apparently marvelling at the costly furniture and rich velvet curtains at each window, and eventually he couldn’t restrain his curiosity any longer.
‘You said my uncle knew your mother, but not why you came here. Are you quite sure there’s nothing I can do?’
He’d expected her to jump for another unconvincing lie but instead she merely shook her slightly bowed head, gazing steadily down into her cup.
‘No, thank you. It doesn’t matter now. I think I made a mistake.’
Her voice was carefully neutral, but the tiniest quiver of a muscle near her mouth gave her away. For some reason she was both upset and trying to conceal it. Despite his piqued interest, Andrew’s conscience pricked him to change the subject.
‘I hope you didn’t come too far. It’s warm today and I assume from your dress that you walked here.’
‘Yes, sir. From Brigwell.’
His eyebrows rose. Brigwell had to be at least five miles away, across a patchwork of fields and lanes too rough to be called roads. To reach it was more of a trek than a stroll, and one that only an individual with a real purpose would set out on...which brought him once again to the lingering question of why Miss Townsend had thought it worth the bother.
‘That’s some distance away. I feel a gentleman would send you home in his carriage.’
For the first time since he’d entered the parlour Emily granted him a smile, small but immediately drawing his attention to the shape of her lips.
‘No gentleman should ever trouble himself on my account, my lord. I enjoy walking. A couple of miles is no hardship for me.’
She sought refuge behind her teacup again, her blue eyes hidden by the sweep of her lashes, and it struck Andrew that whatever she might be thinking was as mysterious as her appearance at his home.
What he did know was that he liked her answer. The days where he had to walk everywhere were gone now, of course, vanished the moment Uncle Ephraim had taken his last breath, and part of him missed the freedom of setting out across a field and feeling the sun shining down on his upturned face. Venturing among the forests and fields had been one of the few pleasures in his old life. His new duties now took up much of his time, the title he’d so recently inherited a heavy responsibility alongside the many privileges—and adjustments—it brought.
Not that I’d wind back the clock, however. Not after what Mother and I endured to bring us to this moment.
More for something to occupy his hands rather than out of any real desire for one, Andrew poured himself another cup and drank it in three gulps, wishing it was port or wine or anything better equipped at helping him outrun unwanted memories.
Andrew’s father had been Ephraim’s intended heir, and when a fever carried him away the Gouldsmith inheritance had transferred to his then barely five-year-old son. Most people would have assumed Lord Breamore would make some arrangements to care for his poor sister-in-law and her now fatherless child, stepping in to support and comfort them in their grief, but that had not been the case. Uncle Ephraim never lifted a finger to help in the dark days following Father’s death and, even now, over twenty years later, Andrew could still picture his mother’s tear-stained face as they’d been forced to pack their things and leave the home they could no longer afford. Mother’s widow’s jointure was small, and in the absence of any other family to turn to she’d had to make it stretch, dismissing servants and selling trinkets until only the bare bones of her once luxurious existence remained. Andrew might have been in line for an earldom, but anyone looking at him in those lean years would have struggled to believe it, and any pride he might have felt at the prospect had faded while he was still a child.
The old Earl’s only interest had come later, when advancing age had made him demand occasional visits from his reluctant heir, although such calls gave neither party much satisfaction. Ephraim had been displeased with his nephew’s lack of regard for wealth and status, and Andrew frustrated by his uncle’s obsession with both, and it was always a relief to leave for his home in Derbyshire again, even if the roof sometimes leaked and the doors squeaked on their hinges with every strong wind.
A movement from Emily’s sofa stirred him. She had set down her cup and looked as though she was about to stand, and Andrew firmly pulled himself back into the present.
‘You’re preparing to take your leave. Joking aside, you’ll allow me to call for my uncle’s—for my carriage?’
Rising, Miss Townsend shook out her skirts. She hadn’t touched any of the dainty biscuits arranged on the tea tray so there could be no crumbs to dislodge, giving the distinct impression she was instead trying to avoid looking at him. ‘No thank you, my lord. I’m very happy to walk, although even if it was a distance of twenty miles I couldn’t accept such a generous offer. It wouldn’t be right.’
‘Wouldn’t it? Why not?’
The careless question slipped out before Andrew thought the better of it. At once he realised his mistake, watching the colour in Emily’s cheeks deepen into a crimson flush.
Of course she wouldn’t accept his offer of a carriage. A woman like Miss Townsend would be painfully aware of the difference in their stations and never want to give the impression she’d forgotten her place, even if he was still struggling to come to terms with his own.
To Emily’s eyes he was privileged and wealthy and existing in a world far removed from hers, even if he knew there was more to his position than the obvious. Doubtless he had more in common with his slightly shabby uninvited guest than with the refined young ladies that showed him such interest when he set foot in a ballroom, although to tell her so would be absurd. She was a stranger; given their opposing social circles it was very unlikely he’d ever see her again, and it would be foolish to behave as though nothing had changed, when in fact his life would never now be the same again.
His mother had tried to prepare him. Since he was a boy she’d told him of the grand inheritance he stood to gain and the title that would be bestowed on him, doing her best to ready him for a world his father’s death had excluded them from so mercilessly, but still Andrew felt like a fraud. Lady Gouldsmith had done as much as she could to mould him into an Earl-to-be, teaching him to dance and play cards and grasp the varying subtleties of upper-class etiquette, and yet the lower sphere their poverty had forced them to enter had influenced him more than anything else.
His playmates as a child weren’t the offspring of knights and baronets as they would have been if his father was still alive. They were apprentice clerks and rectors’ sons, respectable enough but with no prestige, and it was alongside these pleasant but ordinary young men that he’d become a man himself. He’d even sought employment as a tutor once he was old enough, something the ton would have considered an unthinkable humiliation, but he’d taken satisfaction in knowing the money he presented to his mother each week was honestly earned. For years he’d lived as a simple gentleman, never rich but at least comfortable in the modest existence he had carved out for himself, and when the black-edged letter had come that announced Ephraim’s death he had felt as though the rug had been pulled sharply from beneath him.
‘Very well. If you’ve made up your mind.’
A flicker of relief crossed Miss Townsend’s face. It seemed she was eager to make her escape, and he had no wish to detain her, the feeling of having just put his foot in it not one he wanted prolonged.
He bowed. ‘It was a pleasure to meet you, Miss Townsend. I’m only sorry I couldn’t be of more help.’
Another of those eye-catching smiles was his reward for such gallantry, though it struck him that perhaps this time it was a little forced. ‘Please think nothing of it, my lord. I ought never to have imposed in the first place. I apologise sincerely for troubling you.’
Solemnly she dropped into a low curtsey, her knees almost touching the carpet, and began to withdraw. She walked with admirable poise and Andrew realised he wanted to carry on watching her as she turned back, dipping him one final curtsey before she left—to return to wherever she had come from, disappearing, without him knowing why she had come at all.
