First Scandal

Prologue

Three years ago…

Margaret was seventeen years old the night her life ended.

Not literally, of course. She continued breathing. Continued eating, sleeping, and performing all the mundane functions that constitute living.

But the girl she’d been—hopeful, naive, stupidly trusting—died on a balcony at Lord Pembrook’s ball.

And she would never come back.

It started innocently enough.

In the stifling ballroom, too many bodies generated too much heat. Margaret’s stays felt too tight. Her head ached from the press of perfume and candlelight and endless, meaningless conversation.

“Would you care to step outside for some air, Lady Margaret?” Lord William stood before her. Tall. Distinguished. A son of her father’s friend. A decorated soldier who’d served with honor in the Peninsula.

Safe.

Or so she thought.

“That would be lovely, thank you.”

She followed him through the crush of dancers. Out the terrace doors. Onto a small balcony that overlooked the garden.

Cool air hit her face. Lovely relief from the pressing atmosphere in the ballroom.

She breathed deeply and let her shoulders drop.

“Better?” Lord William asked.

“Much.” She smiled at him gratefully. Innocently na?ve, some might say. “Thank you. I thought I might faint in there.”

“These events can be rather overwhelming.” He leaned against the railing. Gazed out at the moonlit garden. “Particularly for young ladies in their first season.”

“Is it terribly obvious?” She laughed self-consciously. “That I’m new to all this?”

“Not at all. You carry yourself with remarkable poise.” She knew he meant yes, yet the compliment warmed her cheeks. She was unused to praise from men his age. From men who’d seen the world. Who’d done important things.

“How long before you deploy again?” she asked, making polite safe conversation, the way young ladies should.

“Two weeks. The regiment ships out for the continent.”

“You must be eager to return.”

“Eager?” He considered. “I’m not sure that’s the word. Dutiful, perhaps. Ready to do my part.”

They talked for perhaps three minutes. About his service. About the weather and nothing of consequence.

Margaret didn’t notice Mrs. Winthrop, the gossip, materialize in the doorway behind them. Didn’t see the woman’s eyes narrow, her mouth pursed with disapproval.

Margaret certainly didn’t know that moment would impact her entire future.

“I should return,” she said finally. “My mother will worry.”

“Of course.” Lord William offered his arm. “Allow me to escort you back.”

They turned toward the ballroom.

Mrs. Winthrop blocked the doorway, her face arranged in theatrical shock. “Lady Margaret.” Her voice carried sharply with an accusing tone. “What are you doing out here? Unchaperoned?”

Margaret’s stomach dropped. “We were just—”

“I can see what you were doing.” Mrs. Winthrop’s gaze raked over them, taking in Margaret’s flushed cheeks. Drawing conclusions that weren’t there.

Lord William held up a hand. “Madam, I assure you—”

“You assure me of nothing, milord. A young lady of quality does not meet men alone on balconies. Not if she values her reputation.”

The word hung in the air like a verdict.

Reputation.

Margaret’s heart hammered. “Mrs. Winthrop, please. Nothing improper—”

“I have eyes, child. And I know what I saw.” The woman’s gaze turned calculating. “I must speak with your father immediately.”

No!

Protests screamed through Margaret’s mind even as Mrs. Winthrop swept away, even as other guests began to notice. To whisper. Even as her world tilted and cracked and began to crumble.

Lord William looked stricken. “Lady Margaret, I am so sorry. I should have realized—I should have been more careful.”

But it was too late for caution. Too late for anything except damage control.

Her father appeared within minutes with a thunderous face. “Margaret. Come with me. Now.”

She followed.

Her legs moved. One foot, then another, but she couldn’t feel them as she saw her father’s rigid back, heard his steps strike the floor.

The hallway stretched forever, and she had no escape.

He didn’t speak until they reached a private room. The door closed so loudly that she jerked back. Father’s anger filled the space until she could barely breathe.

“What were you thinking?” The words came out low. Dangerous. “Do you have any idea what you’ve done?”

“Father, nothing happened. We were just talking—”

“I don’t care what happened. I care what people think happened. And right now, half the ballroom thinks you compromised yourself with Lord William.”

“But I didn’t—”

“It doesn’t matter!” His voice cracked like thunder. “Your reputation is ruined. Do you understand? Ruined. No respectable man will have you now.” The disgust in his voice shattered her, and tears fell hot down her cheeks.

“Father, please—”

“Lord William has agreed to marry you.” The words were flat. Final. “The wedding will be before he deploys. At least then people will think it was a love match instead of a scandal.”

Her world stopped.

Married. To a man she’d spoken to three times.

Because she’d stepped onto a balcony for air, and someone had seen… what exactly? Apparently, her reputation mattered more than her happiness. More than her choice. More than anything.

“Father, no. Please. I don’t want—”

“What you want is irrelevant.” His voice went cold. “You brought shame on this family. On yourself. Lord William is being exceedingly generous to offer for you. You will accept gratefully. And you will never—never—speak of this again.”

The tears came unbidden then. Silent. Devastating.

“Yes, Papa,” she whispered.

Because what else could she say? She was seventeen years old. She had no money. No power. No choice.

The wedding took place six days later. A small ceremony. Hastily arranged with a special license deducted from her dowry. Quietly executed.

Lord William was kind. Awkward. He made his vows with duty in his voice, not love.

Three days later, he left for the continent.

Margaret went to his father’s house, as instructed, and cared for the old man for a few months.

When the letter came announcing her husband’s death, she wore black. She did cry—once, hard, in the privacy of her room—because a young man had died in ugly circumstances far from home, and because the future that had been arranged for her had ended before it could even begin.

Then she performed grief for everyone else. For a marriage that had never really existed. For a choice she never made. And, most shamefully, for the girl who’d died on a balcony—killed by scandal, circumstance, and a world that punished women for breathing.

But that happened three years ago. And Margaret Foley had learned her lesson well.

Never again would she be so foolish. Never again would she trust a man’s honor. Never again would she allow herself to be caught, no matter how tempting the balcony. No matter how sweet the air.

Now that her own parents had passed and she was responsible for her younger siblings, she still lived in that old house at the edge of the village with an ailing father-in-law and a burden heavier than she’d bargained for.

Until the Duke of Dashfield looked at her like she was someone worth choosing. And everything she thought she knew began to unravel.