Page 1 of A Season for Scandal

CHAPTER ONE

The day that my life veered dramatically off course, you could taste spring in the air, clear and sweet like rain-soaked grass.

As I stood on the footpath in the cold sunshine listening to Simon Earnshaw break off our engagement, I was struck by the pool of golden flowers that surrounded us. Earlier, I had felt nothing but joy at the view of the smudged blue-grey sky hanging over London, at the sight of the cheery yellow daffodils blooming in Hyde Park.ThenI thought those daffodils meant brighter days were ahead.NowI saw the truth. As I should have done in the first place; after all, I understood the language of flowers better than anyone.

Daffodil.Narcissus.Meaning: unrequited love.

Nature was not troubling herself with subtlety today, and even in such a dire situation as this one, I could appreciate the sly humour: the way the flowers nodded their heads like matronly gossips delighting in calamity, as if to say,We told you so.

“You see, this is exactly what I mean, Marigold,” Simon said with a put-upon sigh. He was frowning at me. “I’m trying to tell you that we’re not suited, and you look as though you’re about to burst out laughing. It’s not right. It’s not … becoming.”

Becoming.That was an interesting word, wasn’t it? I could never be quite sure what it meant. Simon, on the other hand, had alotof ideas about what sort of behaviour was becoming for a young lady. It seemed they could mostly be reduced to this: the absolute opposite of Marigold Bloom.

“I’m sorry, Simon,” I replied, swallowing my amusement because the situation really wasn’t funny at all. “I promise I will try harder to—”

Simon cut me off with an impatient wave of his hand. “It’s too late, Marigold. I’ve tried and tried, but there’s no use… You’re just not what a wife should be.”

That was new. Something icy weaselled along my spine. “What should a wife be, then?” I asked, and I hated how small my voice sounded.

Simon’s eyes ran over me, and I knew what he saw: a wild riot of curly rose-gold hair that stubbornly refused to behave, a pair of steady grey eyes in a round, dimpled face, and a body that drew attention wherever it went – a fat body, a voluptuous body, a generous body of soft, wide curves. Mine was a body that tended to inspire one of two reactions – a nose-wrinkling desire that I make myself smaller, or a salacious interest in getting under my dress. Simon had always seemed to feel both.

Perhaps that was the problem.

“You know, Mari, you’re just…” Simon paused, considering. He waved his hands around in a gesture that encompassed all of me. “Too much,” he exhaled finally.

I stiffened, blood rushing to my cheeks.

Too much. It wasn’t the first time he’d said something like that, but it hurt nonetheless.

Because I liked myself. I liked my body. I liked my hair. I liked that I stood out in a crowd.

Once, I thought Simon liked those things about me too. He had certainly seemed to when he had been busy kissing me and telling me how lovely I was while trying to undo the back of my dress, making breathless promises for our future together, as his busy hands moved over me. Then, it seemed, I was perfect.

Now that we were past that part and into the bit where I was set to become his actual wife, things had changed. The rules were different, and they’d shifted so fast I couldn’t keep up.

The comments had started a few months ago – small, innocuous observations about the clothes I wore (too bright, too gaudy, too extravagant), who I spoke to (the boy on the corner selling newspapers, the lady with the yappy Pomeranian in the park, really anyone who crossed my path), the way I laughed (too loudly, too easily, too often). All that soon piled up into a general sense of dissatisfaction.

At first, I laughed it off. Then, when the remarks continued, I told Simon that he was hurting my feelings. He was all sincere apologies, pointing out that he was only trying to help. That I must understand that I would need to behave differently when we were married, that his wife would be a reflection on him. That he was a serious man, a respected man.

I tried to listen. I wanted him to be happy. I wanted to make him happy. But I never seemed to get it quite right. That was when it had started – the hot, queasy feeling that had taken me weeks to identify as shame. Simon’s words had planted that seed of shame, and then week after week I’d felt it grow.

Now, his handsome face was set in grim lines. His blue eyes were cold, his mouth pulled down.

My heart sank as anger and pride and hurt jumbled inside me. And just a sliver of fear. Because this wasn’t only about me. Marrying Simon was a way to look after my family, and right now that plan was in serious jeopardy.

“Simon…” I cleared my throat, trying again, trying to keep the (unladylike) bite of anger out of my voice. “Please, I—”

“I’ve asked Sarah Hardison to marry me,” Simon blurted out, and a splash of pink spread across his cheeks, even as he tipped his chin in a defiant gesture, as if daring me to have something to say about it.

“You’ve…” I blinked. “How could you have asked Sarah Hardison to marry you,” I asked slowly, “when you’re already engaged to me?”

Simon tugged at his collar. “You and I never had a formal arrangement—”

“You proposed a year ago, Simon. We planned an autumn wedding.”

At least he had a tiny morsel of guilt left in him, enough to look uncomfortable. I racked my brain, trying to picture Sarah Hardison. She was nice, I thought. We had spoken once or twice when she had been in the shop. She looked like a tiny porcelain doll and her father was in quite a senior position at a bank.

Simon waved his hand. “That was only talk, Marigold. What we’ve had, it was good, wasn’t it? Pleasant. A childhood fancy. But we’re eighteen now – it’s time to be serious; it’s time to settle down and stop sowing wild oats.”