That Scandalous Summer
Meredith Duran
Enticing . . . Heartwarming . . . Witty . . . Sexy . . . Fabulous . . . Praise for Meredith Duran’s novels of scandal and seduction in nineteenth-century London—“romance at its finest,” declares New York Times bestselling author Liz Carlyle!
AT YOUR PLEASURE
“The unusual setting and fascinating historical backdrop immediately set Duran’s latest novel apart; then she adds in-depth characterization, intrigue, and passion, drawing readers straight into her unforgettable romance. Rich in texture and color, detailed and absorbing, here is a novel to sink your teeth into.”
—Romantic Times (41/2 stars)
“Fast-paced . . . heart-pounding . . . a wonderful read!”
—Fresh Fiction
A LADY’S LESSON IN SCANDAL
A July 2011 Top Pick of Romantic Times magazine and one of All About Romance’s Desert Isle Keepers!
“Compelling, exciting, sensual, and unforgettable . . . a nonstop read everyone will savor.”
—Romantic Times (41/2 stars)
“The fascinating and compelling characters, the vivid imagery and dynamic prose, the wonderful romance—it was all I can ask of a romance [novel]. Meredith Duran just keeps getting better and better.”
—All About Romance
“Delightfully honest.”
—Library Journal
“Well-developed lead characters and a perceptive portrayal of a poor woman’s reaction to the lush lifestyle of the nobility highlight a top-notch romance.”
—Publishers Weekly
WICKED BECOMES YOU
A May 2010 Top Pick of Romantic Times magazine
“So much fun . . . Charming and deliciously sensual from beginning to end.”
—Romantic Times magazine
“Witty, often hilarious, sensuous, and breathlessly paced . . . [an] engaging mystery-enhanced escapade [with] charmingly matched protagonists.”
—Library Journal
“The book to beat for best historical romance of the year . . . Sexy, inventive, and riveting, it’s hard to put down and a joy to read.”
—All About Romance
“A fascinating, passionate tale . . . you won’t want to miss.”
—Romance Reviews Today
“Rousing . . . delightful . . . Wicked Becomes You enthralls with particularly likable characters and a heartwarming romance with deeply affecting emotions.”
—Single Titles.com
WRITTEN ON YOUR SKIN
An August 2009 Romantic Times Top Pick . . . Nominated for the Romantic Times award for Best Historical Romance Adventure
“Remarkable . . . Meredith Duran is one of the shooting stars of romance.”
—All About Romance
“Mesmerizing . . . a glorious, nonstop, action-packed battle-of-wills romance.”
—Romantic Times (41/2 stars)
“Wildly romantic.”
—Dear Author (Grade: A+)
“Everything a great historical romance should be.”
—Romance Junkies
BOUND BY YOUR TOUCH
One of the Best Books of 2009 in All About Romance’s Reviewer’s Choice column
“Entertaining . . . Historical romance fans will enjoy the adventure.”
—Publishers Weekly
“A story that packs a powerful punch.”
—Fresh Fiction
“Sophisticated, beautifully written, and utterly romantic.”
—The Book Smugglers
“A great love story . . . I found new layers and meaning each time I read it.”
—Dear Author
“Sizzling sexual tension.”
—All About Romance
THE DUKE OF SHADOWS
A 2008 Finalist for the Romantic Times Best Historical Debut award
“Evocative and enticing . . . a luscious delight.”
—Liz Carlyle
“Fascinating, emotionally intense.”
—Romantic Times (41/2 stars)
“Riveting . . . emotion-packed . . . A guaranteed page-turner.”
—The Romance Reader (4 stars)
“Without a doubt the best historical romance I have read this year.”
—Romance Reviews Today
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CONTENTS
Acknowledgments
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Rules for Reckless Ladies
About Meredith Duran
For Aunt Jan,
a born storyteller
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Maddie and Steph for genius suggestions on the beginning and ending, respectively; Birnholz for bringing me my glasses and sparing me the indignity of 86 point font; Janine, as always, for a myriad of kindnesses; Faren Bachelis for her skillful copyediting; Lauren McKenna for her enthusiasm and endless inspiration; Alex Lewis and the entire team at Pocket Books for turning a dog-eared manuscript into a beautiful book. My thanks and admiration, always.
PROLOGUE
London, March 1885
His brother’s town house felt like a tomb. Beyond the brightly lit foyer, the lamps were turned down, the windows shuttered. One would never have guessed that the sun was shining over London.
Michael handed off his hat and gloves. “How does he fare today?”
Jones, Alastair’s butler, had once been the epitome of discretion. But this question had become their daily ritual, and he no longer hesitated before answering. “Not well, your lordship.”
Michael nodded and scrubbed a hand over his face. Two early morning surgeries had left him exhausted, and he still reeked of disinfectant. “Any visitors?”
“Indeed.” Jones turned to fetch the silver salver from the sideboard. The mirror above it was still covered with black crepe. It should have been taken down already, for his brother’s wife had died more than seven months ago. But those months had unearthed a series of revelations. Infidelity, lies, addictions—each new discovery had darkened Alastair’s grief for his duchess into something more ominous.
That the mirror remained shrouded seemed fitting. It was an accurate reflection, Michael thought, of Alastair’s state of mind.
He took the calling cards from Jones, flipping through them to note the names. His brother refused to receive company, but if the calls were not returned, the gossip would grow louder yet. Michael had taken to borrowing the ducal carriage and one of his brother’s footmen, waiting on the curb for a chance to leave his brother’s card without being seen. Had the situation not been so dire, he would have considered it an excellent farce.
He paused at a particular card. “Bertram called?”
“Yes, an hour ago. His grace did not receive him.”
First Alastair had cut himself off from friends, suspicious of their possible involvement in his late wife’s affairs. Now, it seemed, he was spu
rning his political cronies. That was a very bad sign.
Michael started for the stairs. “Is he eating, at least?”
“Yes,” called Jones. “But I am instructed not to admit you, my lord!”
That was new. And it made no sense after the note Alastair had sent last night, which he must have known would provoke a response. “Do you mean to throw me out?” he asked without stopping.
“I fear myself too infirm to manage it,” came the reply.
“Good man.” Michael kept climbing, taking the stairs by threes. Alastair would be in the study, scouring the afternoon newspapers, desperate to reassure himself that news of his wife’s proclivities had not been leaked to the press. Or perhaps desperate to find the news—and to learn, beyond a shadow of a doubt, who else had betrayed him.
But he would not learn the names today. Michael had already checked the papers himself.
A wave of anger burned through him. He could not believe they’d been reduced to such measures—reduced again, after a childhood in which their parents’ marriage had exploded slowly and publicly, in three-inch headlines that had kept the nation titillated for years. It went against the grain to think ill of the dead, but in this instance, he would make an exception. Damn you, Margaret.
He entered the study without knocking. His brother sat at the massive desk near the far wall, the lamp at his elbow a meager aid against the larger gloom. His blond head remained bent over his reading material as he said, “Leave.”
Michael yanked open a drapery as he passed. Sunlight flooded the Oriental carpet, illuminating motes of floating dust. “Let someone in here to clean up,” he said. The air smelled of old smoke and stale eggs.
“God damn it.” Alastair cast down the newspaper. A decanter of brandy stood uncorked by his elbow, a half-empty glass beside it. “I told Jones I was not at home!”
“That excuse would be more convincing if you ever left.” It looked as though Alastair had not slept in a week. He took after their late father, as fair as Michael was dark, and normally he inclined to bulk. Not lately, though. His face looked alarmingly gaunt, and shadows ringed his bloodshot eyes.
Some wit had once dubbed his brother the Kingmaker. It was true that Alastair had a gift for wielding power—political and otherwise. But if his enemies had looked on him now, they would have laughed from relief as much as from malice. This man did not look capable of governing even himself.
Michael pulled open the next set of drapes. Not for a very long time—not since his childhood, spent as a pawn in their parents’ games—had he felt so helpless. Had his brother’s ailment been physical, he might have cured it. But Alastair’s sickness was of the soul, which no medicine could touch.
As he turned back, he caught his brother wincing at the light. “How long since you’ve stepped outside? A month? More, I think.”
“What difference?”
This being the ninth or tenth occasion on which they’d had this exchange, the impulse to snap was strong. “As your brother, I think it makes a great deal of difference. As your doctor, I’m certain of it. Liquor is a damned poor trade for sunshine. You’re starting to resemble an undercooked fish.”
Alastair gave him a thin smile. “I will take that under advisement. For now, I have business to attend—”
“No, you don’t. I’m handling your business these days. Your only occupations are drinking and stewing.”
With his harsh words, Michael hoped to provoke a retort. Alastair had ever been mindful of his authority as the eldest. Until recently, such jibes would not have flown.
But all he received in reply was a flat stare.
Damn it. “Listen,” he said. “I am growing . . . extremely concerned for you.” Christ, it required stronger language. “Last month, I was worried. Now I’m damned near frantic.”
“Curious.” Alastair looked back to the newspaper. “I would imagine you have other concerns to occupy you.”
“There’s nothing in the papers. I checked.”
“Ah.” Alastair lowered the copy of the Times and looked dully into the middle distance. In his silence, he resembled nothing so much as a puppet with its strings cut. Damned unnerving.
Michael spoke to break the moment. “What was this note you sent me?”
“Ah. Yes.” Alastair pinched his nose, then rubbed the corners of his eyes. “I did send that, didn’t I.”
“In your cups, were you?”
The hand dropped. Alastair’s glare was encouraging. “Quite sober.”
“Then explain it to me. Some nonsense about the hospital budget.” Michael opened the last set of curtains, and in the process, discovered the source of the smell: a breakfast tray, abandoned on the floor. Jones had been wrong; Alastair had not touched his plate of eggs. The maids were probably too frightened to retrieve it, and too fearful to tell Jones so.
“Whoever told you that we’re lacking funds was misinformed,” he said as he turned back. Devil take these gossips. He should never have let that journalist into the hospital. But he’d assumed that the article would discuss the plight of poverty, the need for legal reforms.
Instead the reporter had fixated on the spectacle of a duke’s brother personally ministering to the dregs. Ever since, the hospital had been overwhelmed by all manner of unneeded interest—bored matrons raised on tales of Florence Nightingale; petty frauds hawking false cures for every ailment under the sun; and, above all, his brother’s political opponents, who mocked Michael’s efforts in editorials designed to harm Alastair. Had his attention not been occupied by his brother’s troubles, he would have been livid with irritation.
“You misunderstood,” Alastair said. “That was not a report of rumors. That was information. You are about to lose your main source of funding.”
“But you’re my main source of funding.”
“Yes. I’m withdrawing it.”
Michael froze halfway to the seat opposite the desk. “Forgive me, you . . . what?”
“I’m withdrawing my funding.”
Astonishment briefly silenced him. He lowered himself into the chair and tried for a smile. “Come now. That’s a poor joke. Without your funding, the hospital—”
“Must close.” Alastair folded up the newspaper, his movements fastidious. “There’s one inconvenience of treating the poor. They can’t pay.”
Michael groped for words. “You . . . can’t be serious.”
“I am.”
They locked eyes, Alastair expressionless.
Christ. He knew what this was about. “The hospital was not her idea!” Yes, it had been named after Margaret, but that had been by Alastair’s suggestion. Yes, Margaret had encouraged Michael in the idea, but it had been his project. His creation. The one thing he could do that his brother could not. “The hospital is mine.” The result of nearly a decade of his sweat and toil, with the lowest mortality rates of any comparable institution in the country. “Good God! Simply because she favored the project—”
“You’re right,” Alastair said. “It has nothing to do with her. But I have reflected on it at length. And I have decided it was an unwise investment.”
Michael shook his head. He could not believe this. “I’m dreaming,” he said.
Alastair drummed his fingers once. “No. You’re quite awake.”
“Then this is bollocks.” He slammed his hands flat on the desk and stood. “You’re right—she deserves no legacy! I’ll call in the stonemasons today. We’ll chisel her name right off the damned façade. But you cannot—”
“Don’t be juvenile.” Alastair’s words might have been chipped from ice. “You will do no such thing. The press would have a field day with its speculations.”
His laughter felt wild. “And you think they won’t when the place suddenly shuts down?”
“No. Not if you manage it with some subtlety.”
“Oh, and now you mean to enlist me in this madness?” He drove a hand through his hair, pulling hard, but the pain brought no clarity, only added a sh
arper edge to his disbelief. “Alastair, you cannot seriously think I’ll help you to destroy that place—the place I built—simply to sate your need for—God knows! Revenge? She’s dead, Al! She won’t suffer for it! The only people who will suffer are the men and women we treat there!”
Alastair shrugged. “Perhaps you can persuade some other charitable institution to take in the sickest of them.”
A strangled noise escaped him. There was no other charity hospital in London with the resources—resources funded chiefly by Alastair, the fifth Duke of Marwick—to minister to every patient in need. And Alastair knew that.
Michael turned away from the desk, pacing a tight circle to contain this savage uproar of feeling. This was more than anger. It was a burning mix of shock, rage, and betrayal. “Who are you?” he demanded as he spun back. For Alastair always had been a fount of encouragement, both verbal and financial. Study medicine? A grand idea. Open a hospital? Very well, let me fund it. Alastair had been his protector, his champion . . . his parent, when he was young, for God knew their mother and father had been otherwise occupied. “This is not you speaking!”
Alastair shrugged. “I am as I have always been.”
“To hell with that! You haven’t been that man in—months!” He stood there a moment, his thoughts spinning wildly. “My God. Is this to be her legacy, then? Will you let Margaret drive us apart? Is that what you want? Alastair, you cannot mean to do this!”
“I anticipated your distress, and I do regret it.” Alastair was studying his hands where they rested, loosely linked, atop his blotter. A bare blotter. He hadn’t looked over his ledgers, or read his correspondence, in weeks. All of it, all of his business, had fallen to Michael.
He’d not minded it. As a boy, Alastair had shielded and protected him. He’d been glad to repay that debt. But now . . . now the thought of all he’d done recently felt like salt in the wound. “My God. That you would do this to me—”
“You’re precisely the reason I do it. And I offer a solution, if you’ll be calm enough to listen to it.”
“Calm!” A strange laugh seized him. “Oh yes, let us be calm!” At Alastair’s pointed look toward the chair, he gritted his teeth and sat again. His hand wanted to hit something. He balled it into a fist.
