Scandal Before Sunrise

By Sabrina Darby

Abigail Billings is a bad girl. She loves fun and excitement and the sort of wit that flows after a few glasses of wine. And boys, she definitely loves boys. Though three years ago she fled town with scandal on her heels, now she’s back in London. She’s determined to make a respectable and advantageous match before everyone knows that there is nothing behind her father’s title but more scandal. Everything would be going rather well if only The Honorable Elliot Jones weren’t so determined to bring her to ruin.

As the younger son of an earl, Jones did his duty fighting for England and then happily put duty aside. He’s far from ready to settle down. It’s the fast set that draws him in, the one that pairs poetry with wagers and women with gossip––the same gossip that tells him there’s more to the beautiful and painfully straight-laced Abigail than her high neckline suggests.

She’s a contradiction in a pale muslin dress. Behind every modest smile, he sees the sharp gaze, the trapped free spirit. It’s a lark at first to make Abigail crack. But music and moonlight leads to love and romance, and soon Jones wants nothing more than to convince this very scandalous lady to be his most honorable wife.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Sabrina Darby
• Release date: Sep 10, 2015

Book preview

Chapter 1

Abigail Billings is back in town.

Jones raised an inquisitive eyebrow at the statement. He didn’t know who Miss Billings was, but he fully expected Manfrey to inform him. There was only one person in the world who loved gossip more than the Honourable Elliot Jones, and that was the Duke of Manfrey.

God, this thing is a mess. How is a man supposed to find anything when the articles are jumbled this way and that? Manfrey said, flipping through the pages of the latest issue of Sporting Magazine. In any event, you were in the Peninsula during her first two Seasons.

Whose? This from the Marquess of Peyton, who slouched in one of the comfortable leather seats and waved a hand for a servant to come bring him a drink. He was wearing stripes—a dashing look. Jones would have to see his tailor again. Thank God for this club. My mother is being insufferable.

Abigail Bill—

Oh, yes! I spotted her on New Bond Street, Peyton said, sitting up straighter, sandy hair flying with the movement. Demmed if the years haven’t been kind to her!

New Bond Street was where Gosling presided over his store. The tailor was always leading the charge in men’s fashion, but he was ridiculously expensive. Jones’s tailor had an employee who would sneak in and examine the newest patterns, and then copy them for a fraction of the price. Do you still frequent Gosling?

It’s only been three years, Peyton, Manfrey said. I hardly think she’d sprout white hair overnight.

Jones directed his gaze to the duke, who was as elegantly turned out as Peyton but in a far more subtle way. Boring attire, really, not that the man himself was. Three years… Ah, right, Miss Billings.

There was something very peaceful about the disjointed nature of the conversation, that a man could enjoy his drink with friends, discuss everything and nothing without need to attain some goal.

Three very long years. Peyton pointedly rubbed his slightly thickened waist. Of course, it had been nearly a decade ago now since they’d all descended on London as young bucks, the marquess a trimmer man.

So tell me, who is she and why is her return something that is to be remarked upon? Jones said. His own absence from town had been much longer than three years and he loved being back in London. It was so much more civilized than the battlefield.

Despite being the second son, there had been no expectation that Jones would join the military. Instead, he had enjoyed a year in town before Napoleon’s Berlin Decree inspired Jones to purchase a commission and make himself useful. When his older brother was said to be in very ill health, he took the excuse to return home. Perhaps war was still afoot, and honor dictated that rather than sell his commission as he had, he should return to his regiment at the earliest possible moment, but he had paid his dues. Let a new generation go and fight. He was no career soldier, no Wellesley gifted with command. He was merely a man nearing thirty. A man who wanted to enjoy the last days of his youth. Now that Stephen had made his remarkable recovery, Jones was free to do as he wished. And as he wished was...at the moment, another glass of port.

In ‘09, she was the lady most likely to be found in a compromising position.

Jones choked on that port and stared at Manfrey, who had a small smile playing about his mouth. Are you quite serious?

"She was in one compromising position, Peyton clarified, and Jones let out a sigh of disappointment and turned his attention back to the port, and the need for steady hands as he topped off his glass. But she was scads of fun, three sheets to the wind more often than not, never passed up a wager or a glass of champagne."

Jones raised his eyebrows again. What was the compromising situation? he asked idly. After the descent from ‘most likely to be found in a compromising position’ to ‘one compromising position’, he half expected to hear some inanity that was hardly scandalous at all.

Speaking of champagne, Manfrey said, finally throwing the magazine onto the table in disgust, "my man managed to procure me a case of last year’s Cuvée de la Comète. Have you heard of this new remuage technique to remove the sediment?"

Jones shook his head. He had nothing against French wine, despite the fact that Manfrey so casually mentioning that he had procured some suggested he was no stranger to smuggling. In truth, Jones had nothing against the French people. The entirety of his ire against that highly confused country rested with its so-called emperor. Not that he had appreciated the officer who’d sliced through his arm the year before last either. Thankfully that wound had healed without leaving any but the most minor twinge of discomfort.

Come, Manfrey, he said with a slight wave of his glass of port. I like to drink my wine, not write treatises about it.

Peasant. Manfrey grinned. "In any event, we were all soused. She was good fun back then. Unafraid of anything. And knows her carriages."

Jones laughed. That would impress Manfrey. His friend had been remarkably consistent over the years. All he ever cared about was wine, women, and vehicles. A fine philosophy of life, as it was. One that Jones had endeavored to take on since his return to London the month before. There was certainly no greater virtue to the battlefield.

‘09 was a good year, Peyton agreed. I only remember a fraction of it.

Yes, before Lord Winterbottom stole our Sasha away.

Both Manfrey and Peyton looked wistful. Getting maudlin after a single glass of port. Or had it been two? Regardless, not enough to begin singing and crying in one’s cups.

I thought Lady Winterbottom’s name was Alexandra, Jones said.

Manfrey laughed and Peyton joined him while Jones looked on.

Jones had the distinct sensation of having missed out on an experience. It was a sensation he detested above all others. The damned war.

And Lady Grinnell, too, Peyton added. Stolen away.

All respectable matrons now, Manfrey said sadly.

Except for Miss Billings, Jones reminded them, pushing for more information. After all, it was not every day one heard of an unmarried young lady acting as infamously as her male peers. Particularly roguish men such as Peyton and Manfrey. I’m shocked her family didn’t whisk her away into a rushed marriage. A compromising position usually leads to such a thing. Or to forced exile.

One day she was just gone, Manfrey said. He seemed puzzled and concerned now. As if he cared a bit more than simply imparting salacious gossip. Her whole family decamped at the height of the Season. No one had the slightest clue why.

The compromising situation, surely.

No, no. Manfrey waved his hand. That was at the beginning of the Season. In fact, it was my fault. Jones snickered. No! I don’t mean my fault in that way. But I did feel responsible and adopted her, you might say.

Out of the goodness of his heart. Peyton met Jones’s eyes with a grin, as he shook his head.

Of course, Jones said, because getting soused with the Duke of Manfrey is excellent for one’s reputation.

"My interest in her was."

This is true, Peyton agreed with slightly less levity. "For the rest of the Season, she was the girl to be seen with. I was certain Lumley and Delius would come up to scratch."

Freddie Lumley had been around when Jones was last in London. He was married now and decamped to the country. However, he’d never met Delius. To the best of his knowledge, the viscount was as yet unmarried. Why didn’t they?

We were all having fun and the season felt endless, Peyton said with a rueful shrug. No one expected her to simply disappear.

Another week and I might have married her myself.

Both of Jones’s eyebrows rose at this blustering pronouncement from Manfrey. Apparently, you shall have your chance.

Manfrey flushed as Jones called his bluff. Might have, he said with a cough. That was then.

Peyton waved for the servant again. Be a good man and fetch me Miss Abigail Billings’s address in town. He met Jones’s curious gaze with another shrug. She was a demmed fine sight for sore eyes. More women should take after her. Certain to enliven the Season and I, for one, plan to call on her.

We should, Manfrey agreed with alacrity, despite his assurance that he was not interested in marriage. That in itself was interesting. What pull did this young lady have that two irrepressible bachelors were eager to be in her company?

Jones might no longer be in the market for a wife, but he still enjoyed the pleasure of an attractive woman’s company. And, as boredom was the unexpected consequence of choosing a life of leisure, he was happy to dispel it.

I’ll join you, Jones said firmly. Tomorrow afternoon?

•  •  •

Three hours later, Miss Billings and her propensity for wagers were the farthest thing from Jones’s mind. Instead, he was standing with his brother on the edge of the ballroom, surveying the field. Ennui itched like an old wound. He loved music, dancing, and women as much as the next man, but—

If every ball were like Almack’s, the Season would be far less of a draw, he said. In fact, neither Manfrey nor Peyton were anywhere to be seen, proof that more exciting entertainment was to be found elsewhere.

He’d agreed to join his brother and mother at Almack’s despite his aversion to the place. For the four months that Jones had thought his brother at death’s door, he had known his duty was to marry and propagate as soon as possible. But now, that duty belonged to Stephen once again. Except their mother was secretly concerned that the fever might have eradicated Stephen’s ability to continue the line. Not that she kept this concern a secret from Jones, and not that she had any reason to believe this other than her tendency toward hyperbole and drama.

I don’t know why you are here, in any event, Stephen said, but he didn’t spare Jones a glance. Instead, he lifted up slightly on his toes as if to see above the heads of the crowd. Jones was not exceptionally tall, but he certainly possessed a greater height than his brother. A fair enough trade. Stephen had inherited the title, and Jones inherited the good looks of their mother’s side.

I don’t either, Jones said flippantly. Regardless of his mother’s concern, he was not yet in the market for a wife. And if his brother didn’t care about Jones’s presence, then perhaps it was superfluous after all and he could join his friends elsewhere. Not that his mother would be gracious enough to let him leave. She rarely attended society events and claimed she could only bear them if she had family at her back. A claim proved to be a patent lie, as she had abandoned her sons for her friends upon arrival. "Who are you looking for?"

I heard Abigail Billings would be here. And now his brother, the least likely to be fond in a compromising position, was spouting that name.

Do you know her? Manfrey says she’s scandalous in the best way.

Stephen laughed. I wouldn’t know, but I suppose Manfrey would. I’ve only seen her once from a distance.

Jones glanced at his brother from the corners of his eyes. Usually Stephen acted as if he were uninterested in the more salacious aspects of society. But then, though no one would admit to it the way Jones would, everyone loved gossip and scandal. Society would hardly exist without those two elements. One would think a woman such as she would stand out in the crowd. Not the usual sort to receive vouchers, despite being the daughter of a viscount.

The lady most likely to be compromised. Definitely not Almack’s usual sort.

Or perhaps she has not and is not here. But now Jones searched the crowd, too, looking for someone who appeared scandalous.

What he saw was a sea of perfectly respectable personages. Absolutely boring, though likely they were not all boring all of the time, considering Manfrey’s erstwhile bosom friends were Lady Winterbottom and Lady Grinnell and both of those esteemed ladies were present. Almack’s simply brought out the worst in people.

There she is! With Lord Norwood and Mrs. Fairchild.

With a tingling of anticipation, Jones swung his gaze to the far side of the room where the trio stood. Discounted the pompous Norwood and the older woman. Focused on the young—but not too young—lady who accompanied them. She was tall. Brown hair. Pretty, but not in an astonishing sort of way. She was dressed demurely in pale pink, and she looked up at Norwood with one of those pleasant society smiles that all of Stephen’s friends wore, as if they had all bought it from the same milliner. There was no hint of the free-spirited bon vivant Manfrey and Peyton had described. Before him was not a woman who made wagers or drank an unadvised amount of spirits in her first Seasons out.

His gaze turned back to Norwood. Despite that smile, there was a familiarity between them, as if they had spent many more hours together. Was marriage to the earl her goal? Was Norwood pursuing her? Perhaps after setting her cap for Manfrey and failing—not that he knew for sure she had set her cap for his friend, but what marriage-minded woman wouldn’t pursue a young, eligible duke—she had shifted tactics and was now wooing the stodgy Norwood.

An opportunist. Changeable. With no true identity of her own other than the goal to become a nobleman’s wife.

That changeability underscored how very like all the other marriage-seeking females she was.

There was nothing exceptional about her at all, and he was quite frankly astonished that Manfrey and Peyton, usually men of excellent discernment when it came to women, would be so deceived.

She’s rather lovely, Stephen said with some warmth.

His gaze slid to his brother in surprise. What did his fairly unimaginative brother see that he did not? Jones studied Miss Billings again. Lovely. The term could be used to describe a wide range of attributes. It was likely the fact that she was unobjectionable that made his brother consider her so. To be fair, she did have a slender body that gracefully moved across the