Page 35 of A Season for Scandal

“It won’t be as bad in Yorkshire,” I said. “My family know me so well; it’s much harder to lie, and they’re very … invested.”

“Yes, I certainly got that impression,” Oliver said dryly. “I thought your sister was about to ask me for my suit measurements at one point.”

“She absolutely was,” I confirmed, “but I stepped on her foot very hard.”

I thought perhaps there was a hint of a smile in Oliver’s eyes, but he only said, “Ah, that would explain the strange groaning sound, then.” He hesitated for a moment. “I thought it was … nice, actually. The way they all care about you. I only wish they didn’t care quite soloudly.” He winced. “I suppose real families are noisy things.”

There was something quiet and sad about him that made me want to have strong words with his dead father.

“The point is, the worst is behind us,” I said airily, moving us away from the subject of family. “We’ll have every advantage when we’re in Yorkshire.”

“Are you always this relentlessly cheerful?” Oliver growled. “It’s giving me a stomach ache.”

I was about to reply, when another couple stepped out on to the pavement in front of us.

“Oh. Miss Bloom,” Simon Earnshaw said, full of false cheer. “How nice to bump into you.”

His eyes ran over me from top to toe, a brisk inventory that lingered on my sunny yellow gown, the curls that had slipped their pins, the peek of my red silk shoes, and his mouth thinned, making it clear just how much he found me wanting. My stomach swooped, the shame I was so sure I had left behind, washing over me.

“Mr Earnshaw,” I said, my voice small in my own ears. I didn’t even sound like me and I hated it.

“I don’t believe you’ve been properly introduced to my wife, Mrs Earnshaw?” he continued, and I met the timid gaze of Sarah Hardison-now-Earnshaw, who was just as pretty and sweet-looking as I remembered. “We were married last week.”

“Congratulations,” I managed, wondering why – after all that had happened in the last six months, when I knew I could knock Simon Earnshaw clean off his feet in one move if I wanted to –whydid I still feel so miserably self-aware in his presence?

“Thank you,” Sarah said, her voice shy. “It’s nice to see you, Miss Bloom. I must compliment you on your hat.”

“Miss Bloom always did havesingulartaste,” Simon said, with a smile that felt like a knife slipping between my ribs.

Under my hand I felt Oliver’s arm stiffen. Honestly, I had almost forgotten he was there.

“I’m sorry,” I said, flustered. “I’m being rude. May I introduce Mr Lockhart?”

“Miss Bloom’s fiancée.” Oliver’s deep voice cut in smoothly, and I saw Simon’s eyes widen, saw the same measuring look he’d given me now running over Oliver Lockhart, and I couldn’t help but enjoy the frown this produced.

Oliver held out his hand and Simon took it, failing to hide a wince, that made me believe Oliver’s grip was rather … forceful.

“Mari, you’re getting married?” Simon’s casual use of my name was clearly deliberate, and Oliver seemed to loom taller at my side. “I had no idea.”

“It hasn’t been officially announced yet.” My voice was pitched a little high.

“But it will be soon,” Oliver said, treating Simon to a dismissive glance. “After all, only acompletefool would let Marigold Bloom slip away.”

At this point, I think my grip on his arm was the only thing keeping me upright, because I could have fallen down in shock, and not only at the neat insult directed at Simon – no, my name on Oliver Lockhart’s lips was doing strange things to my insides.

“I mean,” Oliver continued, “you’d have to be abuffoonof the highest order, an empty-headed, witless dunderhead of dazzling proportions, wouldn’t you?”

As if this wasn’t enough, he looked down at me and smiled.

That smile.

It burst through me like a shot of strong liquor, leaving my heart pounding, my limbs tingling. If I had thought Oliver Lockhart was handsome when he scowled, then his smile – soft, full lips, a glint of white teeth, a crinkling of warm, dark eyes – made him simply staggering. I could do nothing but gape, mindlessly, at his perfect face, so perfect that it didn’t make sense, so perfect that my brain struggled to understand what I was actually seeing.

When I finally tore my eyes away, it was to see a wide-eyed Sarah appearing similarly glazed. Simon looked like he’d been presented with a glass of sour milk.

“Yes, well,” Simon sneered. “Good luck with that.”

Instantly the smile dropped from Oliver’s face, replaced with an icy contempt. “And the same to you.” He directed the comment at Sarah, and Simon’s face reddened.