A Scandalous Lady by Rachelle Morgan Page A

“Oh, no, milord, I’m afraid I shall be too busy enjoying myself to dine with you this evening, but thank you for asking.
    â€œRed flatters the roses in my cheeks?” she flipped her hand in a “pshaw” gesture. “Oh, your earlship, you are too kind!”
    Letting her imagination take flight, she pressed three fingers to her heart and batted her lashes. “Me? Oh, but Your Grace, you’ve certainly collected a bevy of admirers much more beautiful than I!”
    She dropped into a deep curtsy, “I am flattered, Your Highness, but I cannot possibly accept.” She smiled coquettishly and whispered, “You see, I am to dance with the Baron Westborough.”
    Faith giggled and swirled around. It didn’t matter if she’d mucked up the proper form of address, she didn’t care. In her pretend world, she could be as improper as she wanted and the masses loved her anyway for the beauty, the grace, the privilege, and wealth—qualities she didn’t possess in real life. And in her pretend world, she could renounce a prince for a baron who would smile his blinding white smile, take her arm in his, and lead her across the room. Ladies and gentleman of the highest order would recede like a confidence man’s hairline. And she would feel like the princess of her mother’s stories as he twirled her around the floor—
    â€œ What in heaven’s name do you think you are doing?”
    Faith stopped in midwhirl. At the sight of the duchess glaring down at her, she crumpled the gown and tried to hide it behind her back. A deep blush burned into her cheeks.
    â€œI asked you a question, and I demand an answer.”
    What could she say? That for the space of a few moments she’d completely lost her mind? “The trunk fell. Your man went to fetch some tools to mend the latch, and I was repacking your clothes. . . .”
    â€œIs that what you call it?” Lady Brayton asked with an imperious lift of her brows. She sauntered closer to Faith, her arms crossed, her eyes condemning. “How a woman of your questionable . . . charms, shall we say, convinced my brother into bringing you into this house, I cannot imagine. But what do you think Lord Westborough would say were he to learn of the liberties you’ve taken with my personal belongings?”
    Faith was so unsettled she could hardly form a coherent thought much less a full sentence. For the life of her, she couldn’t think of a single thing she’d done to earn this woman’s animosity. They didn’t know each other from Adam. “I don’t know, mum.”
    Her porcelain-pretty features contorted into a mask of rage. “Do not ever address me in such a vulgar manner. You shall only address me as Lady Brayton or ‘Your Grace,’ never again as mum. Is that understood?”
    And something inside Faith snapped. In the last twenty-four hours, she’d been bullied, intimidated, and threatened. She’d been torn from the only home she’d ever known and thrust into a world into which she’d been disdained, belittled, and shamed to her core. She would not take it anymore. “I understand you perfectly, Your Grace. And you will address me as Faith or Miss Jervais. Never again as guttersnipe or louse. Is that understood?”
    As Faith stalked off, shoulders squared and spine stiff, she might have been satisfied at the shocked look on the duchess’s face if she wasn’t so deuced angry.
    And humiliated.
    She wished the ground would open and swallow her whole. To be caught in her moment’s whimsy by the lady of the house. How completely, utterly degrading. Better Chadwick had caught her. Or Millie. Or even Lucy.
    No, it would have been just as bad, for even among them she ranked lower than an egg-thieving weasel.
    God’s teeth, she hated this place. She hated its people—the way they walked, talked, looked at her as if she were slime