A Most Unusual Scandal by Erin Rye

Author:Erin Rye [Rye, Erin]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Scarsdale Publishing, Ltd
Published: 2018-05-14T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter Eight

A Consolation Prize of the Most Alluring Kind

Ashton handed the elderly dressmaker from the carriage with care, relieved to finally be free of the cantankerous woman. He pitied Ella for having to deal with the old biddy—but then, perhaps the old woman directed her ire solely toward men. For Ella’s sake, he could only hope.

“That’s quite a grip you have, lad.” Mrs. Pitt flexed her fingers as if he’d crushed them. She turned a censorious eye on the carriage and rubbed the base of her spine. “My aching bones. You really should replace your carriage wheels. Better yet, replace the carriage.”

Ashton smiled—as much to appease her as the fact he would soon be rid of her—and replied with a simple, “Aye.” During the short ride, he’d quickly learned a simple ‘aye’ was by far the best response.

From the corner of his eye, he saw Ella strolling around the corner of the castle, her cheeks and full lips rosy from the crisp winter air. Upon seeing them, she smiled.

Something about that smile summoned his possessiveness streak and, when she neared them, he allowed a note of pride to creep into his voice as he said, “Mrs. Pitt, allow me to introduce my bride, Lady Strachan.”

A soft light entered Ella’s eyes and his body tightened in response. He couldn’t stop his gaze from wandering over her figure as she joined them.

“I thank you for coming to my aid, Mrs. Pitt.” Ella nodded at her short hem with a rueful smile. “I am in dire need of clothes. With my height, it is so difficult to borrow dresses.”

The dressmaker eyed her up and down, then to Ashton’s surprise, her aged face broke into a smile. “Delighted, I’m sure. So very delighted, my lady.” The way she cackled reminded Ashton of the proverbial witch. “I’ve the perfect selection of fabrics, my lady, just perfect for your coloring.”

He watched as Mrs. Pitt grasped Ella’s arm and, ignoring him entirely, set off toward the castle. Did the old biddy treat all men with such gruff disdain? Or just him? Had she, perhaps, heard one too many tales about The Demon Earl?

He retreated to the library. He spent the better part of an hour perusing the shelves in search of a book, but none grabbed his attention. He returned to his father’s desk and pulled open the drawers. His gaze fell on his mother’s sketchbook. Ashton stared. He had thought the sketchbook lost long ago. Slowly, he withdrew it and began to flip through the pages.

She hadn’t been much of an artist. The sketches were largely unfinished images of women in fine dresses with men at their feet. This was how she saw herself, the life of the party, to be worshiped. He stopped on a sketch that stood out amongst the others, that of a young boy reading a book. He hadn’t remembered this sketch. He recognized the room, the very same library where he now sat.

Was the drawing of him? His chest constricted. The

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