Ruined by the Wrong Earl (Daughters of Scandal #1)

Chapter One

Miss Nora Magarian disliked Society events and the thought of captivity during a week-long country house party would normally make her stomach tighten like a corkscrew.

But this house party, hosted by the Duchess of Everly, was different. First, it meant time to plan an escape from an unwanted betrothal. Second, because the location was an estate in Cornwall, it gave her an opportunity to work on her scientific endeavors in the study of seashells.

Strains from the orchestra interrupted her thoughts.

The Duchess was hosting a ball to celebrate the beginning of her gathering.

Along with a dozen guests who would stay for the week, she’d invited neighbouring gentry and aristocrats for the evening.

Standing alongside her mother, Nora scanned the opulent ballroom.

Ladies dressed in colourful silk gowns and adorned with glittering jewels mingled with men sporting brightly coloured waistcoats, snowy cravats, and finely tailored jackets.

‘Stop fidgeting, Nora,’ her mother said. ‘We should join the line to greet the Duchess.’

Nora smoothed the skirt of her blue silk dress. ‘We’ve already spoken with her upon our arrival yesterday, Mother.’

Her mother raised a delicate brow. ‘Rules may be relaxed in the country, but we must still be vigilant. Need I remind you that the Duchess and I went to finishing school together.’

Nora did not need reminding. Her mother had mentioned this fact on more than one occasion. It was the reason they’d been invited for the week.

‘Also, do not forget that your behavior here may affect Lord Umbridge’s suit when we return home.’ A warning note sounded in her mother’s tone.

Nora’s fingers tightened in her skirts. As the oldest of three sisters, she was expected to wed soon.

It had been a fortnight since her matchmaking mama had decided that Nora, at the ripe age of twenty-six, should accept Lord Umbridge’s courtship and anticipated proposal upon their return to Town from the house party.

Lord Umbridge! The baron, thirty years older than she, made her heart quiver not in anticipation but dread.

He was as dry as stale toast and obsessed with speaking of himself and his fortune.

He was unattractive with a balding pate, sagging midriff and bowed legs.

Fond of garlic, his breath smelled. What was her mother thinking?

A title. Her mother had ambitions for her three daughters to become English aristocracy. She’d grown even more motivated after Nora’s father, a Middle Eastern merchant, had died five years prior.

Umbridge was the answer to her mother’s prayers. He’d inherited his father’s title and, additionally, was rich in coin. He was also stingy and in need of a good tailor.

Many in the beau monde were prejudiced of Nora’s mixed blood—her mother was the daughter of an English lady and her father a Middle Eastern businessman—but the elderly Umbridge cared only for a beautiful young woman to decorate his arm.

So far, Nora had been unsuccessful in persuading her mother against the match.

Madeline Magarian possessed a shrewd intelligence—or ambition, depending on how one perceived it.

Now in her late fifties, her mother’s once vibrant auburn hair was fading gently to gray.

She was still an attractive woman but her hopes and efforts were focused on her daughters’ future marriages rather than on seeking a second husband for herself.

Nora had inherited her mother’s auburn hair and her father’s green eyes.

Many in Lebanon had dark eyes, but there was a fair share with green or hazel, and Nora was a blend of her parents.

Nora bit her bottom lip. ‘Mother, I do not think the Baron and I would be well suited.’

Her mother’s brow furrowed in a familiar fashion. ‘Why? Because you fancy yourself a scientist?’

‘Well, yes. I do.’

‘Nonsense. No gentleman wants a lady whose nose is buried in thick treatises and talks about shells. May I remind you that you are no longer a fresh-faced debutante but a twenty-six-year-old miss. If you hadn’t discouraged all your prior suitors, you would not be in this position.’

There was no sense in arguing. Her mother did not approve of Nora’s interest in biology and conchology.

Ever since she was a little girl, her father—who imported rare goods from the Middle East—would bring home seashells from the Mediterranean Sea and she had been fascinated with them.

Her scientific notebooks were filled with sketches and research facts.

Her interest in seashells was even more special since it was connected to memories of her father.

It had been a stroke of luck that the house party was in Cornwall, which was known for its rugged coastline and abundance of shells.

She hoped to make some more findings here then present her research to the London Scientific Society.

Eventually she hoped to join a travelling contingent of scientists and travel to Spain or Italy where the seashells were unique and she could develop new research skills.

But her goal to present to the Society would be dashed if she was forced into a betrothal with Lord Umbridge. The one time she’d mentioned science, his disapproval was as loud as a trumpet blast. She did not wish to marry—ever.

Thankfully, the invitation to the country house party had delayed her mother’s matchmaking goals.

The event was a perfect opportunity to thwart her mother’s ambitions as well as Umbridge’s intentions.

The more Nora had thought of a plan, the more it had solidified in her mind.

No one, not even Umbridge, would want a ruined miss.

And there happened to be a notorious rake in attendance… Sir Simon Gilbert.

With his golden locks and green eyes, Sir Simon caused a titter amongst the Society ladies whenever he walked into a room.

He was a renowned lover, and it was rumored his paramours were Drury Lane actresses, bored widows and fallen ladies.

From their brief encounter upon her arrival, Nora had deemed him a flirt.

He’d lingered seconds longer than proper over her gloved hand and complimented her eyes.

He also seemed to possess little intelligence.

But what drew her to him was something else…

He hadn’t a care for scandal and could never be forced to wed.

Perfect.

Tonight at the Duchess’s ball, if all went according to plan, Nora would encourage his flirtatious behavior.

Arrange to slip into his bedchamber only to be ‘accidentally found’ by her maid and mother minutes later.

Surely, she’d be ruined! Only then would she be free to pursue her passion for biology and to study the unique seashells found on Cornwall’s coast.

‘I see Lady Ardmore!’ came Mother’s voice.

Madeline had briefly spoken with the Viscountess upon their arrival.

It was true that formalities were relaxed in the country and her mother intended to take every advantage to enhance her own social status.

An eager light flashed in her mother’s eyes as she watched the Viscountess walk across the ballroom then gave Nora a sideways glance.

‘Please be pleasant when you speak with the other guests. And no mention of science.’

Nora bit the inside of her cheek to keep from arguing until her mother walked away. Her mother’s initial thought to stand in line to greet the duchess seemed to be temporarily forgotten in her haste to track down Lady Ardmore.

She let out a held in breath. Maybe now she could slip a bubbling flute of champagne from a passing waiter’s tray while she plotted her future.

Male laugher drew her attention to a group gathered by the refreshment table.

There were four of them, each with a drink in hand.

The Duke of Everly, an elderly viscount, a middle-aged man she didn’t recognize, and Sir Simon.

Only one was the focus of her attention.

Sir Simon, who was slim and of average height, fashioned his fair hair in the à la Brutus style favored by Beau Brummel and the dandies of the ton.

He wore a garish scarlet waistcoat with a matching ruby pin in his intricately tied cravat.

His poor valet must have spent a considerable amount of time on the many folds of the scrap of silk.

The points of his collar were starched so stiffly they looked razor sharp, as if they could slice his chin if he turned his head too swiftly.

Who better to ruin her reputation than a renowned scoundrel?

Science was the utmost importance in her life.

To achieve her goals, she wanted freedom from the shackles of marriage.

With her target in sight, she forced her lips to curl in what she hoped was an inviting smile.

Strategically weaving through the throng of guests in the crowded ballroom, she never took her eyes from Sir Simon.

Halfway across the room, she ran into a solid mass of man. ‘Oh!’

Her ballroom slippers lost purchase on the polished hardwood floor, and she slipped. Strong arms swiftly grasped her forearms to steady her.

‘Miss, are you all right?’ a low voice rumbled.

Brushing a wayward auburn curl that had escaped from her chignon from her eyes, she tilted her head up to meet sinfully dark eyes.

Her heartbeat tripled. Over six feet tall, he was lean and well-muscled, a towering hulk of a man.

Dark hair framed a face that was all sharp planes from his cheekbones, aquiline nose and straight forehead, softened only by a cleft in his chiseled chin.

Even his lips—his full lips—appeared hard.

He had the look of an unfinished sculpture, rugged and raw and…

compelling. He exuded an unmistakable air of command.

She was aware of his hands on her forearms, his fingers firm but not too tight.

Lord Ralston.