Bound By One Scandalous Night

The Scandalous Summerfields

Disgrace is their middle name!

Left destitute by their philandering parents, the three Summerfield sisters—Tess, Lorene, and Genna—and their half-brother, Edmund, are the talk of the ton…for all the wrong reasons!

They are at the mercy of the marriage mart to transport their family from the fringes of society to the dizzy heights of respectability.

But with no dowries, and a damaged reputation, only some very special matches can survive the scandalous Summerfields!

Read where it all started with tempestuous Tess’s story

Bound by Duty Already available

Read Edmund’s story

Bound by One Scandalous Night Available now

And look out for the rest of the family’s exploits, coming soon!

Author Note

In my author note for Bound by Duty I said that I’d based The Scandalous Summerfields mini-series on my mother and her sisters and brother. Not their life stories, mind you, but as inspiration. Edmund Summerfield, the hero of this book, represents my uncle Ed.

My mother was very close to her sisters, but her brother was older and never quite a part of that close-knit group. We’d see my uncle Ed at least once a year, but it was always for brief periods—an afternoon visit, an evening meal—always shared with lots of family. As a result, I did not know Uncle Ed very well. What I do remember about him, though, is his infectious laugh. When my uncle laughed, everyone laughed with him.

The only similarity between my uncle Ed and my hero Edmund is that both were somewhat separate from their close-knit sisters. In Edmund’s story I wanted to explore what it might be like to be in a family but not really a part of it. Edmund has dealt with this sense of being separate his whole life. Like so many of us, he pretends it doesn’t matter to him, when in reality he yearns to feel he belongs—as we all do.

Sometimes where we truly belong is not entirely clear to us, but I believe everyone has such a place. Will Edmund believe it as well?

Bound by

One Scandalous

Night

Diane Gaston

www.millsandboon.co.uk

DIANE GASTON always said that if she were not a mental health social worker she’d want to be a romance novelist, writing the historical romances she loved to read. When this dream came true she discovered a whole new world of friends and happy endings. Diane lives in Virginia, near Washington, DC, with her husband and three very ordinary house cats. She loves to hear from readers! Contact her at dianegaston.com or on Facebook or Twitter.

To the memory of my uncle, Edward Gelen, with his shock of white hair and infectious laugh.

Contents

Cover

Introduction

Author Note

Title Page

About the Author

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Epilogue

Extract

Copyright

Chapter One

Early hours of June 16th, 1815—Brussels, Belgium

Brussels was in chaos.

Bugles blared in the streets, their sounds echoing off the huge buildings of the Grand Place, repeating, over and over the call to arms. All officers and soldiers must report for duty!

For battle.

Wellington had learned that Napoleon and his army crossed into Belgium and were marching towards Brussels. Wellington’s soldiers needed to mobilise quickly to stop him.

Lieutenant Edmund Summerfield of the 28th Regiment of Foot wound his way through townspeople of all shapes and sizes and well-dressed gentlemen and ladies still waiting for carriages to bring them back from the Duchess of Richmond’s ball. Everywhere men were shouting, women wailing, children crying. Soldiers in uniforms of all colours rushed to and fro. British and Hanoverians in red, Belgian and Dutch in dark blue, British light cavalry in light blue, Rifles in dark green, Highlanders in plaid kilts. The array of colours mimicked a carnival, but the mood was tense, a tinderbox that with one spark could turn to riot.

Edmund forced himself to remain calm. He shifted his bag from one shoulder to the other and wished his head were clearer. He’d spent the evening in a tavern, drinking and playing cards with fellow officers too low in rank and importance to be invited to the Duchess’s ball. The bugle’s repeated call, still resounding through the tension-filled air, had sobered him greatly.

He pushed his way to the curb of the rue du Marais. Horses, wagons, carriages, men and women dashing on foot, blocked his way. Through the kaleidoscope of colour he spied a vision in white across the street, an angel amidst the tumult. While he watched, a man in labourer’s clothing grabbed her around the waist. She beat on the man’s arms with her fists and kicked his legs, but this man, rough and wild-eyed, dragged her with him.

Edmund bounded into the busy street, heedless of the traffic, narrowly missing being run down. He made it to the other side and chased after the man abducting the woman. Her shimmering white gown made it easy not to lose sight of her. The man ducked into an alley between two buildings. Edmund reached the space a moment after.

‘Let me go!’ the woman cried. Her blonde hair, a mass of curls, came free of its bindings and fell around her shoulders.

The man pinned her against the wall and took the fabric of her dress in his fist.

‘Vous l’aimerez, chérie,’ the man growled.

‘No!’ cried Edmund. He pushed his bag like a battering ram at the man’s head.

The man staggered and loosened his grip.

Edmund dropped his bag and slammed his fist into the man’s jaw, sending him sprawling to the cobbles. ‘Be off with you! Allez! Vite!’

The man scrambled to his feet and disappeared into the dark recesses of the alley.

Edmund turned to the woman. ‘Did he hurt you? Vous a-t-il blessé?’

She looked up and the light from a street lamp illuminated her face.

He knew her!

‘Miss Glenville!’

She was Amelie Glenville. Her brother, Marc Glenville, was married to his half-sister Tess.

Her eyes, wide with shock, looked past him.

‘Miss Glenville?’ He touched her chin and made her look at him. ‘Do you remember me? I am Tess’s brother, Edmund. We met at your parents’ breakfast two days ago.’

Her face crumbled. ‘Edmund!’ She fell into his arms. The beautiful Amelie Glenville fell into his arms. Who would believe this?

When Amelie entered the room that morning, for one heady moment he’d been caught in the spell of her unspoiled beauty. Fair of face. Skin as smooth as cream. Cheeks tinged with pink. Eyes as azure as the sea. Hair, a mass of golden curls, sparkling in the light as if spun from gold. Lips lush and ripe for kissing. Innocent. Alluring.

And smiling at him during their introduction.

The next moment, though, he had been introduced to her fiancé, a most correct young man, a Scots Greys cavalry captain and son of an earl. Reality set in and Edmund had instantly dropped her from his mind. Even if he wanted to court some young woman—which he did not—a viscount’s daughter like Amelie Glenville would never do for a bastard like him.

And here she was embracing him.

‘What are you doing here?’ he asked her. ‘Why are you alone?’ She’d obviously been to the Duchess of Richmond’s ball. Her white gown must have been lovely before it had been so roughly handled.

She drew away and tried to sort out her clothing. ‘Captain Fowler left me here.’

The fiancé? ‘Left you? Why?’

She huffed. ‘We had words.’

‘He left you because of a quarrel?’ No gentleman, under any circumstance, would desert a lady on a city street in the middle of the night, especially not on a night like this. ‘What about?’

‘It does not matter,’ she snapped.

She sounded more angry than alarmed, at least. That was fortunate. Did she even realise what had almost happened to her?

‘And I have no idea how to walk back to the hotel,’ she continued in a peeved tone. ‘Could you direct me?’

Good heavens! The man had abandoned her without her knowing the way back? ‘I think I had better escort you.’

She rubbed her arms.

He shrugged out of his coat. ‘Here, put this around you.’

‘Might we go back now?’ Her voice wobbled a bit. ‘It is the Hotel de Flandre.’

She’d be better off staying angry. ‘I remember what hotel it was.’

He picked up his bag and offered her his arm, which she readily accepted and held with an anxious grip.

They stepped from the relative quiet of the alley back into the cacophony of the street.

‘Hold on tight,’ he cautioned, and she squeezed his arm as people bumped against them, the soldiers hurrying to battle, the others to somewhere safe.

What on earth had possessed Fowler to abandon her on such a night? This was not an afternoon stroll through Mayfair. It was after one o’clock in the morning, and the soldiers on these streets would soon be facing battle; the townspeople, possible occupation by the French. She’d already discovered what could happen to a beautiful, unescorted woman when emotions were so high.

She was lovely enough to tempt any man. Even him.

But he must not turn his thoughts in that direction.

‘Do you not have to go to your regiment?’ she asked as a company of Belgian cavalry rode by, the horses’ hooves drumming on the stones of the street.

He did need to reach his regiment as soon as possible, but why stress her with that knowledge? ‘I am more in fear of what my sister and your brother would do to me if I left you alone on the street. My sister would draw and quarter me. Your brother would probably do worse.’

‘Why would they ever know, unless you told them?’ she retorted peevishly. ‘I have no intention of speaking a word of this night to anyone.’

So much for trying to use levity to counteract this nightmarish episode.

‘Then blame my conscience,’ he said. ‘I would think very ill of myself if I abandoned you.’

‘Unlike some gentlemen,’ she muttered.

‘There will be plenty of time for me to reach the battle.’ He hoped. ‘I doubt Napoleon will disturb his sleep.’

Fine words, but who knew how close Napoleon was to Brussels? Edmund had heard varying accounts. One thing was certain, though. Men would fight soon. And die.

He concentrated on getting her through the crowd without further mishap. The streets cleared a bit when they reached the Cathedral of Saint Michael and Saint Gudula. It rose majestically into the night sky, its yellow stone glowing against the black sky. Men would be stopping at that Gothic church for a few prayers before battle, Edmund would wager. It could not hurt to pray a little.

Pray not to die.

Edmund shook his head. Don’t think such thoughts, he told himself, but he’d seen too many battles on the Peninsula, seen too many good men die while he survived. Soldiers always talked of having only a finite number of battles in which to remain unscathed before it was their time to die.

Miss Glenville swiped her gloved fingers across her eyes. Was she weeping? If only he could have prevented this ghastly night from happening to her. She was too lovely and unspoiled to have been so roughly treated. To think what that ruffian had in mind to do to her made him tighten his hand into a fist.

He needed to distract both of them from their thoughts. ‘So what did happen with Captain...Captain Whatshisname?’ He only pretended to forget.

‘Fowler.’ She spoke the name as if it were a term of contempt.

‘Captain Fowler.’

‘We quarrelled and he walked away and left me.’ She turned her head away.

The scoundrel. ‘What sort of quarrel would make a man abandon you?’

The doors of the cathedral opened, revealing the glow of candlelight inside. A man in uniform emerged, head bent. Edmund hoped the man’s prayers would be answered.

He turned again to Miss Glenville. ‘Tell me what you and Captain Fowler quarrelled about.’

She swiped at her eyes again. ‘I certainly will not.’

He persisted. ‘Is that what is making you weep?’ He feared it was the other man’s mistreatment of her.

‘I am not weeping!’ she cried. ‘I am angry.’

Anger was better. Good for her.

Better for him, too. He was caring too much, caring about never seeing a beauty such as Amelie Glenville again if he lay dead on the battlefield.

‘It is really none of your business, you know,’ she snapped.

‘No doubt,’ he persisted. Ungentlemanly of him, but it distracted him from morbid thoughts. ‘But you say you will not speak of this, say to your brother or my sister. You should talk about it with someone, since it is plaguing you so. I am unlikely to say anything to anyone.’

After all he might soon be dead.

‘Why would I talk to you?’ she responded in an arrogant tone.

He’d almost forgotten. He’d been talking with her as if she’d consider him her equal. ‘Yes, wise not to tell the likes of me.’

‘The likes of you?’ She sounded puzzled.

Need he explain? ‘Surely the scandalous details of my birth were whispered into your delicate ears.’

‘What has that to do with it?’ she asked, then smiled wryly. ‘But you are correct about the details of your birth being whispered in my ear.’

He gave her a smug look.

‘Your sister told me more about you,’ she went on.

He laughed. ‘What did she tell you? That I was a horrid boy who teased her and played pranks on her?’

‘Did you?’ She glanced at him but quickly glanced away.

This was better. Who would guess that he’d think talking about himself was desirable? It kept them both from more painful thoughts, though. ‘Tess could not have informed you of my wayward activities in the army. My sisters know nothing of that. Their ears are delicate, too, you see.’

She batted her eyes at him. ‘Wayward activities? Are you some sort of rake? I have been warned against rakes.’

‘Oh, be warned, then,’ he joked. ‘I am a shameless rake.’

‘Are you?’ Her voice lowered almost to a whisper.

Had he gone too far in this bantering? Had he reminded her of the ruffian who’d accosted her? ‘You are quite safe with me, Miss Glenville.’

She glanced at him again, and her good humour fled. She turned away. ‘Yes. Safe.’

If only he really were a rake, he thought. He would steal a taste of her lips and take the memory with him into battle.

They walked in silence until they reached the Parc de Bruxelles, its main paths lit by lamps. The parc looked almost as busy as it did in the daytime, but now other couples were not leisurely strolling on the paths. They were either hurrying into the shadows or clinging to each other.

‘Shall we cross through the park?’ he asked. ‘It will be safe enough tonight. Or would you prefer we walk around it?’

‘We may cross the park,’ she responded.

She was still lost in her own thoughts. Edmund wanted her to talk to him again. Seeing so many sweethearts clinging to each other affected him. How many would be torn apart for ever? He supposed they were trying to grab one more moment of feeling alive. Perhaps that was what she and Fowler quarrelled about. Perhaps Fowler asked her for more than she could respectably provide. Soldiers leaving for battle often wanted one last coupling with a woman.

As they walked through the park, he heard faint sounds of lovemaking coming from behind the shrubbery. Surely she had noticed, too. Surely she could hear the sounds.

‘I have a suspicion that your Captain Fowler might have asked for liberties,’ he tried to explain. It did not excuse Fowler’s abandoning her, but maybe it would help explain his behaviour toward her. ‘Men often want a woman before battle.’

She stopped. ‘You think he propositioned me?’

Now he was not so certain. ‘That was my guess, yes.’

* * *

Amelie kept walking. He really could not be more wrong. Fowler had not propositioned her. But he had left her.

‘He put you in danger by leaving you,’ the lieutenant went on. ‘That was unforgivable.’

Could he not talk of something else? Anything else?

Was it possible to grow older in an instant? Because that was how it felt to Amelie. One moment she was young and in love; the next...

‘Unforgivable,’ she repeated. But his leaving was only part of his unforgivable behaviour.

Not that it mattered to Fowler.

They continued across the park, heading to the gate on the other side. As they reached it, another couple entered, a plainly dressed young woman and a tall, red-coated infantryman.

The young woman halted. ‘Miss Glenville?’

Amelie stared at her. ‘Sally?’ She glanced back to Edmund. ‘My maid,’ she explained.

‘Oh, miss!’ the maid cried. ‘Are you back from the ball? There is to be a battle, and your father wants to leave early in the morning for Antwerp. I have packed for you. Must I come to you now? I—I hoped for a little while longer.’ Her words came out in a rush.

Next to Sally a young infantryman stood at attention, eyeing Amelie and Edmund warily. But when he gazed at Sally his countenance turned soft and worshipful. Amelie envied her so acutely the pain was physical.

She glanced from the maid to the infantryman and back. ‘Of course, you must have as long as you like, Sally. In fact, I do not need you at all tonight. I will manage quite well without you.’

The maid grasped Miss Glenville’s hand in both of hers. ‘Oh, thank you, miss! Thank you so much.’

The maid pulled on the infantryman’s arm. The young man bowed quickly to Edmund, and the couple disappeared into the park.

‘He is, I believe, an old friend of Sally’s,’ she said, as if she owed Edmund an explanation. ‘Amazing that they met here in Brussels with all the soldiers here, but, then, your sister and I met my brother in this park the first hour we arrived. And a friend of yours with him, as I recall. And a friend from London, as well.’ Now she was babbling.

‘Such lucky happenstance,’ he remarked.

Not as lucky as she had been that Edmund had happened to be across the street when that horrible creature attacked her. She could still feel the man’s hands gripping her, smell his unwashed skin—

She buried her nose in Edmund’s red coat. Its scent—his scent—banished the memory.

‘You were very kind to your maid,’ he said.

She shrugged. ‘How could I refuse her? It was her one chance, perhaps.’

It was a chance she would never have. When Fowler first paid her court, she had woven joyous dreams of living happily ever after in her very own fairy story, but she learned that real life was not a fairy tale. It was more often filled with lies, deception, painful words and grave disappointments.

At least Sally might be able to capture a few moments of joy. Amelie hoped the girl would have many such happy moments.

Amelie would not.

‘I commend your liberal attitude,’ Edmund said.

She was startled. She’d been lost in her own miseries.

He grinned.

She blinked and really looked at him for the first time this night.

He was taller than Fowler. More muscular, easy to see now that he was without his coat. The hair beneath his shako was as dark as night, his thick brows the same hue. His lips were finely formed as if some master sculptor had created them; his chin, strong and shadowed by what was probably a day’s growth of beard that made him appear more like the rake he claimed to be. His smile robbed her of breath.

When she’d met him two days ago, she’d immediately felt taken with him. He’d appeared so handsome in his regimentals, the bright sunlight from the windows making his red coat even more vibrant, his smile even more dazzling. He’d looked then like a fine man, a strong soldier, a brother Tess could be proud of. Even with her head full of Captain Fowler as it had been, she’d thought how nice it would be to know Edmund Summerfield better and how sad it was that his birth made him even less acceptable to society than her own family.

What did birth matter, though? Fowler’s was as respectable as one could be, but he’d behaved abominably, walking away without a second glance, leaving her utterly alone just because—

Edmund’s smile faded. ‘Your Captain Fowler must not have appreciated you.’

Tears stung her eyes. ‘No, he did not. Not at all.’

To her surprise, he put his arms around her. She knew he meant only to be comforting, but, his strong arms wrapped around her, his muscular body flush with hers, other emotions were stirred. It gave her a hint as to what she so desired, what she could never have. She knew that now.

She did not pull away from him. This might be the only time a man’s arms held her.

Edmund released her and they resumed walking.

‘So what was it that caused the words between you and Captain Fowler?’ he persisted. ‘If it was not him propositioning you.’

‘I do not wish to say,’ she responded. ‘Not to you.’

She felt him bristle. ‘I forgot. One must not confide in a bastard.’

‘It is not because you are a bastard,’ she shot back. ‘It is because you are a man.’

He nodded, and an amused look came into his eyes for a moment but vanished as quickly. He lowered his voice. ‘That is precisely why you should talk to me. I am a man. I may be able to explain the actions of another man, perhaps explain the actions of both of the men who hurt you tonight. It may ease your mind.’

She felt the tears threaten again. ‘Nothing will ease my mind.’

They reached the entrance of the hotel just as a throng of Belgians, obviously full of drink, filled the pavement, blocking their way. One of the men seized Amelie’s arm, jabbering in French, and tried to pull her away from Edmund. His uniform coat fell off her shoulders and her heart raced in fright.

It was happening again.

But Edmund grabbed the man’s clothing and shook him. The man lost his grip on Amelie. Edmund lifted him off the ground and thrust him into the crowd, knocking several other men down. They jumped back to their feet and came after Edmund, who took hold of Amelie, picked up his coat and charged into the hotel in one swift movement.

The men did not follow them into the hotel.

‘There,’ he said. ‘You’ll be safe in here.’

She was beginning to wonder if she would ever feel safe again. Napoleon could be knocking at the door by morning. Men in the street seemed to feel entitled to do as they pleased, and even men who had once professed love could speak words that wounded more grievously than a sword.

‘Will—will you escort me to my room?’ she asked.

He put an arm around her, but, again, it was meant only in sympathy. ‘Directly to your room, and I will see you safe inside.’