To Tempt a Scandalous Lord by Liana De la Rosa

Chapter One

London, 1834

Niall would rather drink a watered-down glass of piss-colored gin than smile one more time.

After all his years as a member of Parliament, smiling should be a natural expression. And yet, more often than not, he found himself gritting his teeth more so than flashing them.

Inhaling deeply, he signaled for a glass of champagne from a footman. Damn, but he wished it was whisky. Something biting and hardy that would chase away his annoyance and fortify his spirits. Champagne was good for nothing more than celebration for its effervescent bubbles fooled you into thinking it was less potent than it was.

And he needed his wits about him for no one had warned him this campaign would wear on him in quite this way. Although, even if they had, he would not have changed course. The desire to elevate Scotland’s place amongst the empire by gathering support and passing legislations had been his goal for as long as he could understand the injustices enacted upon his people. He’d worked long and hard for his place in Parliament. And he would not falter now so close to the end, even if some political tracts painted him as unworthy and unready…

“Ho Inverray, I’ve been hoping to speak with you all evening.”

Swallowing a gulp of the bubbly liquid too quickly, Niall coughed into his hand. “Forgive me, Sheffield, you caught me unawares.”

“My apologies for startling you, my lord,” Sheffield, a member of Parliament from a borough in the Lowlands, said with a brief look of contrition. “I had hoped we could discuss the proposal that circulated today. I find myself very concerned with the language…”

Only the tick in his jaw would hint at his annoyance. While he and Sheffield shared similar unease about the legislation, Niall had already listened to more than ten other such arguments before this, so by now he could barely scrounge up the wherewithal to care. But good sense, and a stubborn streak a mile long, kept the exasperation from his face.

Clasping the other man by the shoulder, Niall said, “It sounds as if we are on the same page in regards to the labor proposal. Let’s have our secretaries schedule a time we can meet and hammer out a competing proposal.”

This seemed to mollify Sheffield, who nodded in acquiescence, promising to have his secretary reach out with possible meeting dates. Before the man wandered away, he clapped Niall on the shoulder and said, “I think it very admirable how you’re handling these infernal tracts. I don’t know that I would be as impassive and confident as you are if some anonymous bloke kept criticizing me in such a public way.”

Bile singed the back of his throat, and it took Niall a moment to contain the anger that bubbled inside him. Dipping his head, he smiled…or hoped he did. “It’s easy to ignore such criticisms when they have no basis for which to make them.”

But that didn’t stop others from asking about them, and wondering if he had considered launching an investigation into determining who the author was. Of course he had. Niall had pondered it since the first tract made the rounds months prior, but the author of the chapbooks that lambasted every politician, no matter the party they belonged to, had not been unmasked. And while Niall affected an attitude of disinterest about the mysterious political tracts, they were just another reason he was slowly grinding his teeth to dust.

When the butler rang the bell for dinner, his shoulders relaxed a tad. Perhaps he’d finally enjoy a bit of sustenance.

Surveying the room, Niall’s gaze landed on a familiar gray head. Gliding his way through the crowd, a genuine smile slid over his lips as he paused at the older woman’s side, extending an arm to her.

“Inverray, how kind of you to assume you were to lead me into dinner,” Her Grace of Claremore drawled, looking up at him with narrowed blue eyes.

Niall blinked. Was someone else supposed to escort the old bird?

“I assumed Ashwood would escort me, as he’s a duke, but you just tossed etiquette right out the window, didn’t you?” The duchess’s tone was more amused than censorious.

Taking a step back, Niall bowed. “I do beg your pardon, Your Grace. Of course the duke is to escort you to your seat.”

“Oh hush,” she hissed, finally looping her arm through his. She smacked his hand. “Ashwood may have been obliged to see me into dinner, but seeing as how he hasn’t been able to tear his gaze away from your sister, I will overlook the breach of etiquette.”

Niall slid his gaze to where Juliana stood with her duke, a fond smile on her lips as she gazed up at her husband. She had married the Duke of Ashwood more than five years prior, and the birth of three children had not diminished the sparkle of love that showed in their gazes every time they looked at each other.

“They’re smitten. I suppose that explains His Grace’s absentmindedness.”

The duchess huffed a breath. “You suppose? In my day, a duke would never dream of forgetting such protocol.”

“I’m sure not. But then your days were in another century, so you are more than gracious to forgive this younger generation their foibles,” he said, pretending interest elsewhere.

If he wasn’t paying such close attention to leading the older woman next to him, he might have missed her smothered snort.

The old dear recovered quickly. “Well, it is a good thing the older generation was taught from the time we were the smallest tots to respect our elders. We were also instructed to be gracious and forgiving.”

“I can tell, Your Grace. You are all that is magnanimous,” Niall intoned as he escorted her into the dining room. “I think of your graciousness when I have to give a speech in front of Commons. It allows me to listen to the conservatives’ complaints with nary a word of rebuttal.”

The duchess humphed. “I doubt that.”

“That I am gracious or that I listen to my rivals’ complaints?”

Her Grace arched a sharp gray brow as she slid into her seat. “Both.”

The duchess proved to be a diverting dinner companion, and her barbed tongue and clever observations made the time pass quickly. A glass of wine and a delicious meal helped as well, but they would not excuse him forever from making conversation. He should be interacting with the guest on his other side, but aside from a few polite comments and observations, his attention kept returning to Her Grace of Claremore.

If only the men in attendance possessed a quarter of the duchess’s wit.

“I know what you’re thinking, Inverray.” The older woman peered at him through her lorgnette, tsking under her breath. “You think me superior company, even as you struggle to be on your best behavior.”

“Sometimes it’s so very hard to be good, don’t you think?”

The duchess snorted. “Well, do not be good on my behalf. I watched you earlier. You barely had a chance to draw breath. I wouldn’t have blamed you…too much…if you threw your hands up and escaped into the gardens.”

“I’d never be Prime Minister if I did.”

“Probably not.” She sighed. “But then perhaps it’s just a glorified position anyway.”

He did not attempt to contain his grin. “I’m honored you would trust me enough to utter something so salacious.”

“Inverray, really.” The Duchess of Claremore skewered him with a glare. “Do try to control your expression. I do not need the women in attendance directing their ire on me because you decided to gift me with your charm.”

“My charm?” He blinked as his gaze swept over the women preparing to depart to the drawing room. “I don’t understand. Why exactly would they look on you with disdain?”

“And here I was under the impression you were an intelligent man,” she grumbled. “I have spent the dinnertime hours chatting with the only handsome, eligible bachelor at this gathering, and now you act as if you’re unaware of your allure. The other women want to tear me to pieces.”

Niall chuckled, raising the old woman’s gloved hand to his lips, pressing a discreet kiss to her knuckles. “As if they would be brave enough to cross you.”

“You make me sound as if I’m frightening.” The duchess pressed a hand to her chest in offense. The twinkle in her blue eyes told him she was anything but.

“But aren’t you,” he drawled, stepping away to join the men, and just in time to avoid the swipe of her fan.

Chuckling to himself, Niall entered the study, where his laugh promptly died on his lips.

His friend Finlay, Lord Firthwell, stood in the corner of the room in conversation with Niall’s old mentor, Viscount Matthews. Firthwell’s brows were drawn low over his eyes and his mouth was pinched as he listened to something the older man was saying. When he looked toward the doorway and met Niall’s eyes, his expression was grim.

Firthwell was never grim. He was optimistic and prone to easy laughter.

Niall’s stomach turned.

Viscount Matthews did not offer any greeting when Niall joined them near the bookshelf. “There’s been another.”

There was no need for clarification as to what the viscount meant, for the damn tracts had been plaguing Niall since he’d announced his intention to stand for Prime Minister.

“I assumed. No less than five different people have mentioned them to me with compliments on how well I’ve handled the criticism, as if they expected me to pull out a claymore and start hacking away at the furniture.”

“I’d imagine that would be quite cathartic,” Firthwell said, a laugh in his voice.

“How bad is it?” he asked, accepting a glass of port from a footman’s tray. He tipped it back, swallowing the entire glass in one mouthful.

Firthwell sighed. “Critical.”

He rolled his eyes. “They’ve all been critical.”

Coughing into his hand, Firthwell nodded. “Yes, well, this issue was particularly pointed.”

“Give it to me,” he snarled.

Without a word, Viscount Matthews extracted a slip of paper from his pocket and slapped it into Niall’s hand. Darting his gaze around the room for curious eyes, Niall quickly read the front section of the political tract.

The headline read, Demand Inverray Do More!

Do more? He had served on Commons for eight years, had worked tirelessly to see reforms pushed through that completely restructured the political apparatus of Parliament to wrest power from those who governed for themselves and give it to the people.

Anger turned his vision red, and he took a long moment to contain it. Swallowing uncomfortably, Niall refocused his gaze on the tract.

Of the two candidates vying for Whig party leadership, the Marquess of Inverray has the most promise. He is intelligent, charismatic, and this writer believes, a genuinely good person.

Unfortunately, good people do not make good politicians.

The marquess needs to be bold. Inventive. Unafraid to challenge the establishment…yet more often than not, he acquiesces to it.

Take his stance on child labor. He has professed a disgust for the practice, yet he has voted against every bill that has come before his committee. It is a travesty. It is a disgrace! If we cannot trust the Marquess of Inverray to advance a child labor bill from his committee to Commons for a vote, how can we trust he will usher the government into a more benevolent entity that this country requires to address the needs of its citizens? In a word, we cannot.

Fighting the urge to crumple the paper within his fist, Niall opted to suck a breath of air into his lungs. And request another glass of port from a footman.

“The writer is being dramatic. An effective tract needs to be dramatic to draw attention,” Firthwell said, sipping lightly from his glass.

“But is he?” Niall pursed his lips as his gaze skipped over the gathering of men in the room. Any of them could be the author. “My committee hasn’t advanced a child labor vote through to the assembly. Not because I do not want to, but because none of the bills have been right. Surely the writer of this drivel knows that.”

“Or he doesn’t because he’s a fool.” Matthews pulled a small case from his coat and extracted a cheroot. Holding it to a candelabra on a nearby console, he puffed on it for a passing moment. “You put too much stock in these silly tracts. Who reads them? The public. The very people who cannot vote. Why should you care if women and the poor read these words? Their opinions do not affect your campaign.”

But shouldn’t they?Niall thought as he studied the older man.

Viscount Matthews had been a fixture in his life since he’d decided to stand for his Parliament seat. As the son of a Scottish duke, Niall had very few friends involved with British politics, and even fewer that desired for him to participate in them. But ever determined, he had conversed with lords at balls and dinner parties, sharing his views and discreetly asking for introductions to men who could help an eager, motivated young Scotsman find his way into politics. Lord Matthews was just such a mentor.

But that didn’t mean Niall always agreed with him. And because they had waged arguments much like this in the past, his answer was probably a familiar refrain to the viscount. “Perhaps we should change the laws of this country so that every citizen can vote, instead of just wealthy, land-owning men.”

Not waiting for Matthews’s retort, Niall turned to Firthwell. “Do others agree with the writer?”

Staring into his eyes for a long moment, the blond man finally sighed. “It would appear so. I have heard whispers at the coffee shop. And”—his expression turned pained—“Charlotte has said several women in the patroness group have mentioned the tracts.”

Niall clenched his teeth so tightly his jaw ached. Even the women who served on the patroness board for the foundling home, one he’d opened and supported for years with his own funds, doubted him? All because some nameless, faceless coward was questioning his abilities. His ideas. His integrity.

“Mo chreach, if I am lucky enough to meet this man in a dark alley”—Niall crushed the tract in his fist—“he’d better hope the worst I do is throttle him.”

…

When Alicia first married, she had longed to join the men for port after dinner.

Lord Lindsay, her husband, used to tell her of the topics the men discussed as they sipped on their Portuguese wine and smoked cigars and cheroots. Such things interested her far more than the conversations the women engaged in while they waited for the men to relieve them from their boredom. That was until Lindsay told her to listen to the things the women didn’t say, and Alicia came to realize how very foolish she’d been to think the conversations were anything but revealing.

For oftentimes, the most titillating information was revealed if Alicia paid close attention to the chatter around her.

“Morrison says he can’t believe I didn’t fire the upstairs maid when I discovered she was with child,” Lady Morrison shared quietly from a couple of chairs away, as she fanned her face with furious strokes.

The viscount is obviously dallying with or harassing the maid. Alicia made a mental note to ask her maid to inquire after the girl and ensure she was well.

A baroness kept up a litany of complaints nearby. “Chauncey refuses to allow me to shop at Madam Tremaine’s any longer. He says their gowns are subpar for the price, and insists I was overpaying.”

Alicia barely kept her eyes from rolling into the back of her head. Baron Chauncey was a scapegrace, who she would guess had not paid the modiste’s bills for at least a quarter. Again.

Is this all these women were concerned about? Or were they just content to complain and receive commiserating comments for their woes because they received no such attention at home?

Alicia knew a bit about being ignored by one’s spouse.

Still, why couldn’t they discuss truly important matters like the political stances of the next candidates to run their empire? But then perhaps these women were taught that these sorts of topics which they discussed should be important to them.

As if someone had read her mind, the next voice immediately snagged Alicia’s attention.

“Inverray is a dear man,” the Duchess of Claremore said in her usual brusque tone, as if daring anyone to refute her words. “He is refined, gentlemanly, and sharp as a tack. It’s unfortunate that tract writer has maligned him so.”

Alicia casually raised a glass of ratafia to her mouth to hide her smile. Maligned? Hardly.

The Marquess of Inverray might be intelligent and handsome as sin, but everything printed in the newest tract making the rounds was true. The marquess could be doing so much more with his power in Commons than he currently was. His hard work on the Reform Act had been a step in the right direction, but it was not enough.

She thought of Morrison’s maid and of the modiste who had the unfortunate luck to work with Baron Chauncey and be stiffed by his complete lack of morals. “A gentleman always pays his vows” was a common refrain. Yet Alicia had learned, time and again, that a gentleman paid his debts only to those he thought worthy of his notice.

It enraged her, and she channeled that rage into targeted action to address the plight of the working poor in London, most especially how their struggles affected their children. If holding the candidates accountable for their Parliamentary action—or inaction—through anonymously penned chapbooks was considered maligning them, then so be it.

The door to the drawing room swung open, momentarily halting some of the conversations, and a line of men strolled in.

Among them, the Marquess of Inverray walked through the doorway with Viscount Firthwell, the two men in contrast with each other. While Firthwell was golden-colored, a smile always on his handsome face, Inverray appeared as if he’d just returned from a warring party on the Scottish hillside.

Even with his mouth tipped up into a semblance of a smile, his gaze was fierce and intimidating. How he had found a dinner jacket to fit his broad shoulders, Alicia did not know, but it stretched across the breadth of him like a second skin. His sharp cheekbones and Roman nose were aristocratic, paired with dark hair he kept long and skirting the tops of his shoulders. But it was his eyes, gray and piercing, that Alicia had always found unnerving. When he looked at a person, he seemed to peer through the pretenses they erected down to the real person hidden under the layers.

Alicia watched as the marquess stopped to converse with several guests, a sparkle in his eye and a shadow of humor on his mouth. The women practically melted under the weight of his regard, and Alicia snorted.

“He really is a kind man.”

Jerking back, Alicia snapped her gaze to the woman sitting next to her.

Lady Firthwell. The viscountess was not a chatterer, and she only spoke when she had something worthwhile to say. It was exactly why Alicia opted to sit next to her when others were still wary of her working-class background and Jewish faith.

Clearing her throat, she asked, “Who are you referring to, my lady?”

Lady Firthwell turned sapphire-blue eyes to her. “Lord Inverray, of course. Was he not who you were watching?”

Drat.

Alicia licked her lips and considered her next words. “It’s hard not to watch him when he’s vying for such a powerful position.”

“Naturally.” The viscountess quirked her mouth. “I worked at the foundling home Inverray endowed before I met and married Firthwell, you know.”

Alicia blinked. “Actually, I didn’t know. He supports a foundling home?”

“He does. As do his sisters, the Duchess of Ashwood and the Marchioness of Amstead. I was the deportment teacher. And I taught French. Now I serve as a patroness for the home.” A fond look brightened her face. “Lord Inverray has always been respectful and kind. And he’s good to the children, as well. So many of them are unused to kind words, but the marquess has such an easy way about him, a friendly demeanor that instantly wins their regard. He is a great favorite amongst the students.

“The party would benefit from his leadership,” Lady Firthwell continued. “As long as he can keep his temper in control in the midst of the worst of the election vitriol, I think he has a chance of securing the position.”

“You do?” Alicia repeated, taken aback by the viscountess’s confident words.

Lady Firthwell raised a sharp brow. “Do you not? Come now, Lady Lindsay, I know you are as attuned to political affairs and machinations as I have to be, so you know Inverray has a good deal of support within the party.”

Fighting the urge to fidget, Alicia raised a shoulder. “He is quite popular. My late husband thought he had a great deal of potential.”

Lindsay had also bemoaned Inverray’s tendency to rebel against the party line at inopportune times, saying the boy needed to be strategic. But Alicia couldn’t share her agreement with this assessment. At least, not in polite company.

“Indeed he does,” Lady Firthwell said. “And I am hoping this leadership race will help him hone his strengths and expose him to more critics.”

Alicia worked hard to not showcase her surprise. “You think he should be exposed to more criticism?”

“Of course. How else is he to sharpen his message and pinpoint the weaknesses in his beliefs if he never hears criticism of them?”

How indeed? A spark of hope exploded in her chest.

Turning to the viscountess, Alicia studied her. “I like the way you think, my lady. If only the men actually in power were of the same mindset.”

Lady Firthwell’s pretty face sobered. “It’s difficult, is it not, to be so close to those making the policies that could aid our country or destroy it, and not have any more power? I may be married to Finlay, confident in his respect for me and my ideas, but I can’t vote for him, nor can I expect him to heed my advice. I did not expect to find it so vexing.”

The other woman’s words so perfectly summed up Alicia’s thoughts, she was left speechless. Even when Lindsay had been alive and actively participating in Parliamentary matters, her opinions and ideas had only ever been suggestions to him. That flare of frustration, so familiar and constant, licked painfully up her throat. Alicia swallowed it down.

She opened her mouth to respond, when movement from the corner of her eye snagged her attention. Viscount Firthwell approached with a smile, but his gaze quickly skipped over her to land on his wife.

Faith, Alicia thought, as she watched the man’s eyes soften with love. Would a man ever look at her with such emotion?

“Finlay dear, you’ve met Lady Lindsay, I hope,” the viscountess said, sweeping her hand in Alicia’s direction. The woman’s gaze did not leave her husband’s face.

Alicia pressed her lips together to smother her smile. The pair had married more than a year ago, but you wouldn’t know it based on the way they practically vibrated like tuning forks for each other. She wanted to be annoyed, but truthfully, Alicia was glad for their happiness. Finding contentment with one’s spouse was a state she would not ever experience.

A dark figure appeared behind Firthwell then, and Alicia’s thoughts stuttered.

…

Who was she?

The thought ran on a loop through Niall’s mind as he greeted Lady Firthwell, politely asking after her health and welfare, while he studiously ignored the woman sitting on her left. Still he sensed her out of the corner of his vision, like a bright light his eyes yearned to turn toward. But Niall did not want to appear too curious; he was much too jaded about the improbable mix of romance and politics.

Niall had never been more thankful that the viscountess was not a loquacious woman, for she responded succinctly to his greeting, although her pretty eyes sparkled with warmth.

“Have you met the Countess Lindsay, my lord?” Lady Firthwell gestured with her hand to the woman next to her.

He all but sighed to finally have an excuse to let his gaze rest upon her. She was…alluring.

Her face was like a melody played across piano keys—whimsical, perfectly symmetrical, graceful, and quite lovely. Her gown was simple and unadorned, but the deep blue color emphasized the dark gold streaks in her blond hair and the rose tint to her creamy complexion.

A gold chain hung around her neck, an engraved locket dangling on the end and drawing attention to her comely décolletage.

Her pink lips were curled up just slightly, not quite a smile but friendly nonetheless. A ruddy flush spread over his cheeks, fanned hotter by the delighted sparkle that seemed to shine in her dark brown eyes.

Damn, what was he about? He was never one to be flustered or unsettled. Yet the knowledge the Countess Lindsay had caught him critiquing her person left him horribly embarrassed. He would apologize to her when a discreet moment presented itself. He had not meant to offend her or make it appear he was scrutinizing her.

Niall wasn’t sure how convincing his explanation would be…to her or himself.

So this was the old earl’s widow. Lindsay had been a friend of his father’s, and had worked with Niall on several bills. The older man had been married to a younger woman, and he knew the earl had kept her locked away at one of his country estates.

Now Niall understood why.

“I had the pleasure of making Lady Lindsay’s acquaintance earlier tonight.” Firthwell bowed politely to the other woman, all charismatic grace. “How are you enjoying the evening, my lady? Have you been bored witless during this last half hour?”

“I have more fortitude than that, my lord, I assure you.” The countess waved her fan in an easy manner. “During my years as Lindsay’s wife, I learned there are a great many things to glean from teatime.”

“And what did you learn?” Firthwell asked distractedly, his fingers discreetly stroking the back of his wife’s neck.

“Mrs. Hanover said that her husband is disgusted with the new reform bill and has considered retiring.”

Niall’s head jerked back. He darted his eyes to Firthwell, who was now staring at Lady Lindsay with a slack jaw.

“I am surprised to hear it. Hanover has been vocal in his dissent, but I never would have thought he’d retire over it.”

“Well, he hasn’t retired yet, my lord.” The countess tilted her head to the side, that small smile playing along her lips again. “But then perhaps he could be…encouraged.”

The word tripped along her tongue like a lover said their beloved’s name. Niall found the sound oddly arousing. He gave himself a quick mental shake, but even the return of his equilibrium couldn’t prevent him from asking, “And how would you suggest he be encouraged, your ladyship?”

Turning her dark eyes on him, Lady Lindsay contemplated him for a long moment. “I would pass that labor bill through committee and bring it to the floor for a vote.”

Niall rocked back on his heels. It was a brilliant suggestion. Hanover had made his disgust for the labor bill known, a bill that would improve the working conditions of factory workers throughout the kingdom. Niall wasn’t sure they had the votes to pass the legislation in Commons, but the debate alone might be enough to push the relic from a past era right out the door of Westminster.

The countess watched him silently as he pondered her proposal, her mien placid. But the small lines that fanned out from the corners of her eyes told him she was curious for his response.

“He will be incensed that such a measure would even be called for a vote.” Niall crossed his arms over his chest, amusement stretching his lips wide. “Excellent proposition, your ladyship.”

She dipped her head, all regal acknowledgement, but Niall did not miss the tinge of pink that touched her cheeks.

“I am impressed, Lady Lindsay,” Firthwell said, his brows high. “Care to share anything else you learned?”

“Oh, I’m sure your lovely wife has more news to share than I do,” she said, with a flick of her fan.

“I do?” The viscountess blinked. “I am still quite new to this political game, so perhaps you would be kind enough to explain what I missed.”

Lady Lindsay chuckled, the husky sound threatening to tease a smile onto Niall’s face. “I assure you that you did not miss much. But if I can help you learn the sort of details and notions to listen for, please let me know.”

Lady Firthwell’s lips quirked up. “That is a kind offer, your ladyship, and I accept. I have fretted over whether I was doing enough to aid Finlay.”

The countess angled to face the other woman. “Then let us help each other. I have only been in London since my mourning period ended, so I have not yet made many friends. Perhaps by assisting you I can gain my first.”

Niall watched as the women continued their conversation, planning future dates, and he was struck that despite the countess’s amiable, polite manner, her pulse raced at the base of her throat. Was she nervous? Feeling unsure of herself? Lady Lindsay was new in town, and as a young widow without children, he wondered if she was lonely and looking for purpose.

His gaze traced over the sharpness of her cheekbones and the tilt to her chin that he wanted to call stubborn, but instead deemed confident. Despite any discomfiture she might feel, the countess seemed to size up the room and its occupants, taking their measure in a mere glance. She was formidable…and he was charmed.

Clenching his jaw, Niall looked away.

He didn’t have the time or inclination to be enchanted by the widowed Lady Lindsay. And if he were practical, and he always tried to be, she lacked the connections or funds that would make a deeper relationship between them beneficial. He had an election to win and reforms to champion, and he would do neither by dallying with a woman who could not aid his future.

With that reminder of his duty, he executed a swift bow to both women. “Ladies, it was a pleasure, but I’m afraid I see Lord Matthews waving me over. Until next time.”

Niall swept away, determined to reclaim his focus and see to the task at hand.