Page 2 of A Lady's Lesson in Scandal
Smart woman. I’m not convinced either.
As Ivy wove through the crowd, her dress winking like a jewel caught in moonlight, Patricia made a clicking sound in the back of her throat. ‘How dare the duchess bring that disgusting girl to my house? All the rumours say the child’s father murdered her brother. The whole family is sick with madness. I’m sure of it. Once you’re married to Viscount Tread, you won’t be permitted to socialise with people like that, mark my words, Millicent.’
Patricia wrenched Millie around and assessed her from the top of her wild, red curls struggling to escape their pins, down her cream evening gown failing to contain her generous curves, to her flat slippers taking nothing away from her lamentable height.
Sighing dramatically, Patricia shook her head, her grip loosening enough for Millie to shake off the offending hand. ‘For the first and likely last time, you are the belle of this ball. Everyone has come tonight to celebrate you and your betrothal. To a viscount, nonetheless. You should be thrilled. And tripping over your huge feet with gratitude tomefor arranging this match. Ungrateful wretch.’
Millie opened her mouth to protest, but Patricia kept talking.
‘Finding a man willing to marry a ginger-haired girl who is too tall and too fat to ever be fashionable was no easy feat.’
Ouch.
Even from her horrid stepmother, the words cut. Millie clenched her teeth and straightened her shoulders.
I don’t care what you think. Your words can’t hurt me.
But they did. And Patricia knew it.
The pernicious woman tilted her head, candlelight sparkling in the amethysts threaded throughout her perfect, blonde ringlets. Millie couldn’t begin to fathom how Patricia thought the purple jewels would complement her hideous gown. ‘Imagine where you would be without my help. An awkward, chubby spinster doomed to a life of solitude.’
‘I prefer solitude, especially when the present company is so tedious.’ Millie stuck out her chin and pressed her lips together. She knew Patricia would have slapped her for talking back – or at least tried – if they weren’t in a crowded ballroom. But Millie savoured the safety of the crush tonight.
Patricia stretched her lips into an ugly smile. ‘Viscount Tread is old, smelly, and rumoured to suffer from gout. He’ll be perfect for you, dear daughter.’
‘Why are you so cruel, Patricia? Do you think it makes you powerful? Because it doesn’t. It only highlights your weakness.’
Patricia grabbed Millie’s arm again, tugging viciously, almost causing Millie to stumble.
Remember your training.
Widen your stance.
Centre your weight on the balls of your feet.
Punch Patricia in the face.
No. Don’t punch Patricia in her pointy little rat nose. She will bleed all over the carpet.
Patricia spoke through clenched teeth. ‘Come out of there this instant. Proper young ladies don’t loiter behind the foliage.’
Millie did many things proper young ladies never dared. She blamed it on being raised at her father’s side. A tomboy through and through. Millie rode horses astride. She threw knives with surprising accuracy. And recently, she had been secretly training with the duchess to become a private investigator. Lady PhilippaWinterbourne was more than a filthy-rich widow. She was fierce. Formidable. Fashion-forward. Femme fatale. And lots of other fabulous ‘F’ words. Everything Millie one day hoped to become.
Under the duchess’ demanding tutelage, Millie was learning the tricks and trade of becoming a private investigator. A career offering her freedom. Not that her stepmother knew any of those things. The very idea would cause Patricia to swoon upon the chalked ballroom floor in a heap of sickly-green silk.
Millie twisted free of her stepmother’s grip, surprising the woman with how easily she escaped. ‘I am not loitering. And I already told you, I will not marry Viscount Treadful.’
It was a nickname she and Ivy devised. She was quite proud of it. When she shared the moniker with Lady Philippa during her weekly visits for tea – which were actually training sessions – she could have sworn the duchess almost cracked a smile. At the very least, the left corner of her liphadcurled and her eyeshadsparkled. Millie was chuffed. It was quite a feat to get the indomitable duchess to show any emotion at all.
Patricia’s lips hardened and her eyes narrowed. ‘You will do as you’re told. Or your father will ship you off to care for his aging sister. Would you prefer that dismal future?’
‘I would prefer any future free from Viscount Treadful. He’s almost as old as Father. Not all of us are willing to go to the lengths you did to ensnare a wealthy man. There’s a word for women like you, Patricia, and it certainly isn’t “Mother”.’ Millie threw back her shoulders and relished a rare moment where her five-foot-eleven frame and fuller-than-fashionable figure put her at an advantage. She towered over her stepmother’s delicate physique.
But Patricia Whittenburg was as intelligent as she was mercenary. She could exert her power over Millie with no more physical strength than crooking a finger.
Patricia had to tip her head back to meet her ‘daughter’s’ gaze. She batted her charcoal-darkened lashes. Everything about the woman was fake. Her beauty, her smile, her calculated kindness. She was a cruel, heartless monster wrapped in a package of perfect, blonde ringlets, a tiny waist, a pert nose, and the Devil’s soul.
‘There’s a word for women like you as well, dear. Women who refuse to marry. Women who prefer the company of other ladies to a man. It’s unnatural.’
