A Most Scandalous Engagement

By Gayle Callen

“Gayle Callen is wonderful!”
—Cathy Maxwell

A wager made by three gentleman to find a scandalous woman has unexpected romantic consequences in A Most Scandalous Engagement—the second in a delicious new series from USA Today bestselling author Gayle Callen. A true master of historical romance, Callen writes the kind of sizzling love stories that fans of Samantha James and Loretta Chase will adore—and A Most Scandalous Engagement, centered around the search for the exquisite model who posed for a most revealing painting, is the exemplary Gayle Callen at her breathtaking best.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Open Road Integrated Media
• Release date: Nov 30, 2010
• ISBN: 9780062030566

Gayle Callen

After a detour through fitness instructing and computer programming, Gayle Callen found the life she'd always dreamed of as a romance writer. This USA Today bestselling author has written more than twenty historical romances for Avon Books, and her novels have won the Holt Medallion, the Laurel Wreath Award, the Booksellers' Best Award, and been translated into eleven different languages. The mother of three grown children, an avid crafter, singer, and outdoor enthusiast, Gayle lives in Central New York with her dog, Uma, and her husband, Jim the Romance Hero. She also writes contemporary romances as Emma Cane.

Book preview

Chapter 1

London, 1846

Peter Derby was not the only man calling on the very eligible Lady Elizabeth Cabot that summer afternoon. At least a dozen men meandered in the sumptuous drawing room beneath frescoed ceilings, waiting their turn to speak to the lady herself. She gave each man his few minutes, dumbfounding them with the radiance of her smile, making each of them dream that they could have her in their marriage bed, connecting their family to that of the Duke of Madingley forever. But of every man in this room, only Peter knew her secret—she’d posed for a nude painting, and even now it was hanging in the saloon of his gentlemen’s club.

Through the movement of the slowly thinning crowd, he caught glimpses of Elizabeth, and still, he could be so moved by her beauty. She had the midnight hair and eyes of her Spanish mother, contrasting with a peach English complexion. Those eyes could have been mysterious, yet instead showed her cheerfulness. She could have been cool and remote, a lady so high in rank that mere mortals must look up. But Peter knew Elizabeth had never been like that. She was friendly and compassionate, inquiring about one suitor’s ill mother and another suitor’s recent broken arm, making everyone feel like a friend.

But Peter no longer wanted to be just her friend. He’d known Elizabeth her whole life, had gotten her out of one scrape after another in her youth. And through it all, she’d never treated him as anything other than a friend. He knew his place in the ton—so far beneath hers he might as well have been in a shadowy valley to her shining mountaintop.

But the painting changed everything.

Elizabeth’s gaze collided with his, before she quickly looked away, flustered, embarrassed. He’d never flustered her before, and it intrigued him. He liked the pink in her cheeks, the way she linked her hands together—which in turn accented the faint hint of cleavage at the neckline of her respectable blue gown.

Now he had another image that changed his every thought of her. The painting was burned into his brain: against a black background lit only with candles, she reclined on her side, body arched, dark, curling hair teasing at the juncture of her closed thighs. A long, diaphanous scarf draped around her, enhancing rather than concealing. Her head, thrown back, was lost in the shadows, but he hadn’t needed to see her face to know it was she.

That Elizabeth would risk everything to pose for something so scandalous it could lead to her utter ruin, suggested that she hadn’t outgrown her recklessness, regardless of her proper behavior these last few years.

She still had a wild side, one he now hungered to see. They had something in common.

The last suitor left the drawing room, and the little maid, after a nod from Elizabeth, grinned at him and departed, carrying her needlework. Then Elizabeth dismissed the two footmen, who left the door properly open behind them.

Several clusters of plush chairs and sofas grouped around tables stood between them. Elizabeth remained frozen, a new wariness in her eyes as she studied him. He began to move toward her, each step bringing him closer to an unknown future. Lately he’d been taking risks, and she might be the most dangerous one of all.

He stopped before her and waited. The moment drew out, fraught with tension, as embarrassment pinkened her cheeks. Would she run from him, perhaps refuse to speak about this new secret between them?

At last she rolled her eyes. Well, what do you have to say for yourself, Peter Derby?

He laughed aloud. She put her hands on her hips, emphasizing her elegant slimness, drawing his gaze to her other curves, so properly tamed by layers of garments.

She gave a little gasp. Is that how it will be now, that you’ll look at me like . . . like . . .

Like you’re a woman, and I’m admiring your beauty?

You’ve never looked at me that way before.

In a low voice he said, Then perhaps you should have considered how men would look at you before you posed for that painting.

Her frantic gaze darted to the door once more, but no one had heard him.

Or before you and your cousins dressed as boys, he added, and snuck into a gentlemen’s club to steal it. Thank God Julian, Leo, and I were there to keep you from making things worse.

That was another image that would never leave his brain—Elizabeth’s hips, sensually rounder than he’d imagined, encased in a pair of boy’s breeches.

That painting was supposed to be in a private French collection, she insisted, not on display before you ogling men!

I don’t understand how this all happened. Were you tricked into posing?

But she only pressed her lips together and glared at him. Very curious. Why didn’t she want to explain herself?

So the artist needed money when the deal fell through, Peter continued. "Perhaps he should have come to you for help. You would have done anything to protect your indiscretion."

Folding her arms across her chest, she tapped her foot as if he bored her.

I know how close you and your cousins are, he continued. You thought you’d divert our questions, protect each other, by each claiming to be the model. It didn’t quite work out the way you’d planned it.

"I imagine we should have guessed how foxed the three of you were, she said with exasperation. But a wager, Peter?"

He spread his hands wide. We have to discover who the real model is—how can you blame us? And how else could he protect her, by making sure only he focused on her? But he couldn’t tell her that part of it. He needed to know why she was suddenly reverting to her old risk-taking ways.

Elizabeth sank back into an upholstered chair, and her blue skirts flared and settled around her, the silk rustling almost erotically. But then all his thoughts about her were erotic. He sat down in a nearby chair, their knees almost touching. She didn’t move away, so she was clearly distracted.

I hadn’t imagined the Earl of Parkhurst would join you and Mr. Wade in such foolishness. She gave him a suspicious look.

"You practically invited us to determine the truth. And how could I not bet that you are the model? Your cousin Rebecca? I had just seen her at a ball wearing the same diamond pendant that was in the painting. She would never have worn it in public if she’d known it could identify her as the scandalous model."

Her gaze stilled on him. You never mentioned that last night.

Why should I give Julian and Leo any advantage? At least we’ve given you the chance to win the painting outright.

In a month’s time, she added between gritted teeth. But time won’t matter. You’ll never be able to prove for certain that it was I. My word alone isn’t enough in your game.

And you don’t want to help me win for old times’ sake?

She blew out her breath and rose to her feet, leaning over him. He lounged back, head against the chair, and enjoyed the view of her lovely fury. He’d never seen her like this before, and was enjoying it far too much.

Mr. Derby, I cannot believe you’re treating me this way!

He grinned, eyes half closed as he watched her. Lady Elizabeth, I cannot believe you think you deserve special treatment, not after what you’ve done. If your brother hears—

Chris is hunting in Scotland, as you well know.

Ah, but this helps you, doesn’t it? No brother wondering why you’re suddenly so ill at ease.

I’m not—

No brother catching you sneaking around dressed as a boy.

"No, I have you for that."

His smile died a quick death. I’m not your brother.

I know that! Her brow furrowed. But you’ve always been there to help me. Last night, when I saw you, I was actually relieved!

Liar—you were embarrassed.

That, too! But I thought—I hoped—

That once again I’d ride to the rescue? I thought you didn’t need me for that anymore. You’d thoroughly convinced me that you were all grown up, a sedate, proper young lady.

She studied him impassively. You’ve changed, Peter. Something happened in this last year.

He didn’t flinch, wouldn’t give her any reason to think she might be correct. You’re wrong. But you, Elizabeth—you only pretended to change.

Whatever she saw in his face made her suddenly back away, then whirl toward the double doors. You know the way out.

I’ll see you tonight.

She stopped and looked over her shoulder. What is tonight?

Lady Brumley’s ball. You’ll save me a dance or two, won’t you?

She only groaned and left him. Peter’s smile slowly returned.

Elizabeth couldn’t unclench her jaw. She strode through the entrance hall, ignoring the marble columns, the graceful beauty of twin staircases winding up three floors above her, the pastoral paintings on every wall, some as large as the walls themselves. She could only march, and hope her fury—and fear—would somehow abate.

Peter Derby might as well be a stranger to her. To say such a thing was shocking and unexpected, but there it was. He’d been a neighbor she’d relied on when she didn’t want her family to know the foolish things she’d done, like accidentally setting loose her father’s prize stallion, misplacing her pet frog in the house, or exploring caves. Peter had understood her. When at last she’d realized her escalating stunts might hurt her family or even harm their reputation—and she had her brother’s example to follow there—she’d followed maturity and common sense and become the proper lady her family expected. She and Peter had remained friends, as much as possible with the disparity in their backgrounds.

But now . . . but now . . . he’d seen the painting. She would have closed her eyes in mortification, except it might cause her to trip up the stairs. She could still remember the exact moment last night when she, Susanna, and Rebecca had walked into the shadowy saloon and seen the painting, so large it almost filled one wall. They’d thought to steal it, had even tried to lift it, before being discovered by—them. Those arrogant, amused men. And Peter—her friend Peter!—had been one of them. She could have melted through the floor when he looked at her standing by all that nudity. She hadn’t wanted to meet his eyes, but she couldn’t be a coward. And in their depths she’d seen a new awareness that had never been there before. Even now she didn’t know what to make of it.

This afternoon she’d looked across the drawing room and seen Peter lounging near the door, just waiting to be alone with her. For the first time, she’d observed him as other women might. He was tall with sandy blond hair, and blue eyes that seemed to blaze as he studied her through the milling suitors. She knew those eyes were bracketed by the faintest laugh lines, for regardless of his circumstances, he’d always approached life optimistically. He had a lean, square jaw: a scholarly sort of face, she’d once thought, though his family hadn’t been able to afford to send him to Cambridge, so temptingly close to where they’d both grown up.

She’d hoped he had come to apologize, to say he’d talked his friends out of it and somehow would retrieve the painting for her. He could have fixed everything.

But no, that version of Peter had disappeared this last year, and she didn’t know why. She’d heard a whisper or two from friends that he’d behaved in quite a roguish fashion, from gambling with his newly earned wealth, to being glimpsed in the company of questionable women. Now that his circumstances were much improved, she would have thought he’d begin to look for a wife, but he seemed to have no interest.

She could no longer be surprised that Peter was going to prove she was the model. He’d crassly wagered money over it! A lot of money. Surely he couldn’t afford to lose it.

But she was going to make sure he did. And he’d brought it on himself. Save him a dance, indeed.

Peter wasn’t going to ruin the Season for her. She was a popular young lady, with the perfect husband all picked out. She’d put aside her girlish mistakes—mostly.

Lady Elizabeth! Lady Elizabeth! One of the footmen ran to keep up with her as she began her march up the stairs.

She looked over her shoulder, forcing a smile, for surely the servant didn’t deserve to bear her anger. Yes, Wilfred?

His large Adam’s apple bobbed in his throat as he swallowed. Miss Gibson is here. I showed her to your bedroom, as usual.

Thank you, Wilfred. Will you please send for tea and cakes? Miss Gibson loves her cakes.

Of course, milady.

In her bedroom, she found Lucinda lying across the bed on her stomach, reading a novel. She was fair to Elizabeth’s dark, her eyes bright green to Elizabeth’s black, short to Elizabeth’s tall, thin to Elizabeth’s curves. Elizabeth could chatter with anyone, from servant to prince, where Lucinda was more reserved. They seemed like opposites, but matched in all the important ways: temperament, sense of humor—and loyalty.

Elizabeth felt a pang of sadness, because she would have to forget loyalty for the moment. She could never be honest with Lucy about the painting. She’d sworn a new vow to her cousins, protecting all three of them, just as they had when she and Rebecca were sixteen, and Susanna, already a grown woman, insisted on swearing a real oath to protect each other. And now the painting had placed a barrier between Lucy and her, and Lucy didn’t even know it.

Lucy, you didn’t lose my place in the novel again, did you? Elizabeth asked, throwing herself dramatically down beside her friend.

Lucy made a face. It’s only the tenth time you’ve read it. I hate to ruin the ending for you, but the girl wins the prince.

Elizabeth gave a weary sigh.

You’ll win the prince, too.

Elizabeth turned her head and stared at her friend, whose expression was just as determined as Elizabeth usually felt. Really? she asked wistfully.

Really. We will be sisters in truth. We will make it so.

Elizabeth sighed. If only your brother would cooperate.

He will. William is simply oblivious sometimes.

I know it has only been a few years since my coming out. William is in the prime of his life. Most men at his age are not ready to settle into marriage and all it entails. But his flirtation and hints that I was just the sort of woman he’d marry—I wasn’t wrong to think he was showing an interest in me, was I?

No! He’s never shown another lady such favoritism.

Elizabeth shivered as she remembered how wonderful William’s initial notice of her had felt. She’d been nervous and excited—and so very curious about what happened next between a man and a woman. Too curious. She had not allowed herself to be alone with William, couldn’t take the risks she’d once gladly accepted without thought. It had felt dangerous and far too tempting to be alone with a man. Bad things happened in her family when one lost control. The painting was ample proof of that, proof that a dare had gone too far.

Then I’ll continue to be patient, Elizabeth said with a sigh. But when I see all those men wanting to marry me, I sometimes feel . . . frustrated.

Surely you are used to such men, Lucy said gently.

I am. And I’m flattered. Like anyone else, I enjoy the attention. But I spent my girlhood waiting to be grown, so William—sweet handsome William—would notice me at last. And he did—but not enough. She indulged in a rare pout.

Lucy giggled. Give him time.

You’ve been saying that for far too long. I feel like I’ve been waiting for him forever.

Lucy bumped against her shoulder, laughing. I hear you had many callers today.

More than usual, I admit.

As they discussed the merits of her suitors, they ate their cakes and drank their tea, fortifying themselves before the ball that night. Elizabeth settled in to their laughter and gossip, enjoying herself as she briefly put aside her troubles.

At last Lucy rose to her feet and donned her bonnet. I will see you there tonight. My brother says he’s attending . . . she added in a singsong voice.

Elizabeth laughed. Then I’ll have to be there.

And I promise to keep telling you his social schedule—he’s bound to realize you’re perfect for him if he keeps seeing you all the time!

Elizabeth’s spirits lifted. She would dance in William’s arms—and leave Peter dangling.

Chapter 2

That night, in Lady Brumley’s overheated ballroom, Elizabeth found herself watching Peter from where she stood with her mother. The dancing had not begun yet, but already two men had signed her dance card. Almost impatiently, she looked past them. Though trying to pretend she was only studying the guests, she could not delude herself. She wondered what Peter, Lord Parkhurst, and Mr. Wade, would try to pull tonight in their attempt to defeat each other over something so intimate as that painting.

But Peter was not with his two friends—he was with the Clifford sisters, Lady Alice and Lady Athelina. They were simpering and laughing at whatever he said, gazing up at him with worship in their eyes. Elizabeth thought he was standing a bit too close to them than was proper, and wondered why their mother, a dragon if she ever met one, was not paying more attention to them.

Surely he hadn’t always pushed the boundaries of Society’s rules, she told herself. She would have noticed—wouldn’t she have? Lately she’d begun to hear a mother or two talk about Peter’s exploits at the racetrack or in a gaming hell, whispering that they received their information from their husbands. Shaking their heads with fond regret, they believed that a young woman would come along and teach Peter the error of his ways, calling him a regular rascal waiting to be tamed. Before Peter had made himself rich, none of them had even noticed him.

It had been several years ago, Elizabeth recalled, when she had at last decided she had to mature and represent her family, that she’d no longer needed Peter to help extract her from adventures that had gone . . . unexpectedly. They’d socialized in the country as neighbors, but not so much in London. She’d taken his occasional presence for granted.

Now she watched Peter take Lady Athelina’s gloved hand between his and lift it to his mouth. He looked up at the young woman with what could only be a hint of sin in his eyes.

What had happened to spark such a change in Peter Derby?

She was saved from gaping like a fool when Lord Dekker approached to lead her into the first waltz. Powerful, stocky, barely taller than herself, but twice her width through the shoulders, he moved them through the other dancers with confidence, if not absolute grace. He grinned down at her, and she smiled back, reminding herself that she wouldn’t let the rest of her life be a reaction to that painting. Sometimes, she needed to simply enjoy a dance, enjoy being an eligible young lady.

And then she felt a breeze at her back, and realized that Lord Dekker had waltzed her toward the open terrace doors. Her smile vanished as she caught a glimpse of torchlit darkness. She tried to come to a stop, but he only took her motion in stride, taking an extra turn before he attempted to pull her through the doors, right in front of a group of astonished elderly ladies.

Lord Dekker, she said through smiling, strained lips, the dance floor is the other way. She tried to pull back her hand.

He didn’t let go, only winked at her and turned her about again.

With her back to the ogling ladies, she replaced her smile with a glare. Lord Dekker, I do not wish to leave the ballroom.

"But I know you do." His voice was a murmur, his smile a leer.

She couldn’t have possibly heard him correctly—could she? She was about to come to a complete stop, perhaps force him to make spectacles of them both if he still intended to drag her out the door.

Excuse me, Lady Elizabeth, she heard a man say. I believe this was my dance.

Lord Dekker released her immediately, and she caught herself from stumbling. Together, they turned to face her rescuer—and instead of being grateful, her heart sank further.

It was Lord Thomas Wythorne. He was the younger son of a duke—and she’d turned down his proposal of marriage just last year. He hadn’t spoken to her since. Even her brother had been disappointed with her refusal, for he’d long considered Lord Thomas the best match possible for her. From the beginning, Lord Thomas’s mother had treated her own mother, the dowager duchess, as a friend, and their attachment only deepened through the years. Many thought her engagement to Lord Thomas a sort of destiny. But expectations were not a reason for her to marry.

Lord Thomas was smiling innocently, looking from Lord Dekker to her.

Whatever Lord Dekker saw in his face—and Elizabeth couldn’t tell—it made the man bow.

My mistake, Lord Dekker said, then walked away.

Elizabeth continued to smile at Lord Thomas, even as she surreptitiously wiped her perspiring hands on her skirts. Her heart was still pounding, and she wasn’t sure why. She’d been out on a moonlit terrace before, after all. There were certainly couples strolling in the shadows. But it was one thing to agree to a walk with a man one trusted, another to be forced.

Are you well, Lady Elizabeth? Lord Thomas asked politely.

She nodded, trying to make her smile more genuine. Of course, my lord. A misunderstanding, that is all.

He arched a dark brow and said nothing. He had wavy brown hair that framed his narrow face, emphasizing the aristocratic bone structure of generations of dukes. She had always liked him well enough, but she certainly didn’t love him. A romantic, she was lucky enough to be able to wait for the right offer of marriage—the only one she wanted.

Lord Thomas cleared his throat. I believe several of the gentlemen overimbibed earlier this evening.

That must explain it, she said, telling herself to relax.

You could dance with me, my lady, he said, cocking his head as he awaited her response.

Accepting his offer would be polite, since he seemed to be attempting to make amends for his angry reaction to her rejection of his proposal. But before she could agree, she saw Peter Derby—standing with her mother. The evening was getting worse. Her mother might be the Dowager Duchess of Madingley, but she had once been a common Spanish girl, swept off her feet by a future duke touring her country. British Society had not taken well to the unusual duchess, although she was never openly snubbed. Consequently, she did not normally care for London, preferring the peace and gentility of Cambridgeshire, the duke’s country seat.

"Oh do excuse me,