The Scandal Of The Season. Annie Burrows

      She didn’t sleep well, though. Her dreams were uncomfortably crowded with images from the darkest time of her life, all muddled up with the things she feared might happen in the future. First Stepfather would be shouting at her and thrusting her from his doorstep. Then Colonel Fairfax would be shouting at her and dragging her out of this house and along the streets of London, where people she’d met over the past few weeks were staring and jeering, and throwing rotten fruit.

      She woke with what felt like a dark cloud hanging over her. A cloud that was all too familiar from years before, but which had been slowly dispersing ever since she’d gone to live with her unconventional aunts. The cloud comprised of the opinions of people who thought she was no better than she ought to be. Who had branded her a hussy and a slut for running away with an officer and coming back unmarried. Before reaching her aunts’ house, nobody had blamed the officer concerned. And even when the aunts had come down on her side, she’d always felt it had been more from habit, since they hated all men on principle, rather than from having any faith in her. Betty didn’t count, because she’d always claimed she had no right to judge anyone, considering the things she’d got up to when she’d been Cassandra’s age.

      And now it turned out not even Colonel Fairfax had believed in her when all these years she’d thought he had been the one person who had tried to protect her.

      For a moment or two, when she first woke up, all she wanted to do was pull the covers up over her head and…and what? She couldn’t hide from her own life. And to be honest, thanks to Godmama’s effervescence and Rosalind’s open manner, she’d been enjoying it immensely of late. Right up to the moment Colonel Fairfax had accosted her and robbed her of all her joy.

      Well, to the devil with Colonel Fairfax, she shocked herself by thinking, as she thrust aside her bedcovers and got out of bed. She wasn’t going to let him make her feel ashamed of herself. Because she hadn’t jolly well done the half of what he’d said. Even the things she had done were only the result of being gullible and naive. Or, to put it another way, young and foolish, and so desperate to escape her stepfather’s tyranny that even Guy’s offer of marriage, and going off on campaign, had sounded perfectly acceptable.

      But now she was older and had learned the folly of allowing some man to divert her from her plans. If only she’d waited, patiently, as her mother had counselled her to do, her stepfather would have had to allow her a Season in London, however grudgingly. Now she was here, she was not going to let anyone, not even Colonel Fairfax, ruin her pleasure in it. Not when she’d been dreaming about having one for such a long time. And what was more, she wasn’t going to let him spoil Rosalind’s chances of finding a husband. Why shouldn’t Rosalind marry a man of rank? She was as lovely a person as many of the better-born girls she’d met in Town. She’d make any man an admirable wife. Nobody had the right to look down their long, thin, aristocratic noses at her just because her father had pulled himself up by his bootstraps rather than having his wealth handed to him on a plate.

      Golly. She’d worked herself up to such a pitch that she needed to go to the window and fling up the sash to get some fresh air blowing over her heated face. She leaned on the windowsill and gazed out over her view of the mews at the back of the house, where the grooms were just starting to amble about, scratching various parts of their anatomy. The sun was already shining from a cloudless sky. It was going to be a lovely day. And she would enjoy it.

      She would.

      Because she wasn’t in disgrace and shunned by society any longer. Nor was she alone and unprotected. Godmama didn’t care what she might or might not have done. And it was thanks to her determination that she was here. And the generosity of Rosalind’s papa, she would not forget that.

      She bit down on her lower lip as she watched the grooms working the pump in the yard. She was going to stop finding fault with Godmama’s motives and her flexible attitude to the issues of right and wrong and remember what she owed to her generous heart and that flexible attitude towards those suspected of great sins. It wasn’t as if Godmama had tried to hide anything from her, was it, not after she’d made her own confession? And hadn’t both her aunts agreed that, in certain circumstance, a tiny bit of subterfuge was justified? And who would know better than they?

      Cassandra went to her washstand and lifted the ewer, which was empty. Because not quite all of Godmama’s staff had been as loyal as she’d claimed. One or two of her more junior employees had defected during the period between the Duke making his threats and Godmama’s coming up with the solution. In the form of Rosalind Mollington, whose father was willing to meet all the expenses of a London Season providing the Duchess could bring her out just as if she was a real lady and find her a titled husband while she was at it.

      However, those who’d stayed with Godmama all pitched in to fill in the gaps. And, since Cassandra was awake before any of the staff had decided to take on the task, she had no objection to going down to the kitchen and fetching her own hot water for washing.

      It was funny, she reflected as she covered her nightgown with a modest wrap before venturing from her room, how Godmama had manged to make her rather rash and impetuous stand against her stepson sound like taking up a noble cause. Even her aunts had applauded her determination to defy the man who was threatening the livelihoods of so many working people. And that was the thing about Godmama. Even though she would do just about anything to get her own way, no matter how unethical, she could always make it sound as if it would be no worse than having a bit of a lark. And to be fair, coming to London and meeting Rosalind, and going to see the sights, and attending a few routs, and balls, even if they weren’t in the homes of people from the very best circles, had all been tremendous fun.

      Until Colonel Fairfax had come storming over, accusing her of all sorts of bad things. Of being a siren, for heaven’s sake!

      She paused to check her rather dishevelled reflection in the mirror before leaving the room, to make sure nothing about her appearance would offend the servants. She was no siren! She had nice hair, she supposed. Or at least, it would look passable once she’d run a brush over it. The hairdresser Godmama had hired had raved about it, actually, saying what a pleasure it was to style, since it had a bit of a curl to it. And Godmama had declared that her lashes were long enough and dark enough that she would have no need to employ cosmetics to make her eyes stand out. But nobody had said anything about her mouth. Well, they couldn’t, could they? Her lips were too full and the top one stuck out a bit, making it look as though she might have buck teeth.

      She stuck her tongue out at her reflection and opened her bedroom door. She was no siren! She was no saint, either, or she would not have got herself tangled up in Godmama’s schemes. She was just a girl. A girl who’d been punished enough for stepping out of line. A girl who, she decided, clutching her ewer to her chest like a shield, was never, ever, going to let some…man…some buffle-headed delusional man…spoil things for her again.