Embracing the Scandal
Naughtiness is its own reward…eventually.
Harriet Bentworth escaped the worst of her stepfather’s punishments thanks to her childhood friend Jonathan. Now she’s grown, Jonathan isn’t there, and even the kindly vicarage ghost can’t prevent her from being banished to teach in a dismal girl’s school. Then a wicked rake threatens to reveal her past sins if she doesn’t give in to his advances. Just in time, thanks to another helpful ghost, she’s offered a job as governess and is whisked away to the country for Christmas. Jonathan Beaumont liked Harriet as a girl and fell in love with her when she grew up—but when he asked for her hand in marriage, her stepfather told him she was dead. More than a year later he’s still grieving. When he arrives at his cousin’s estate for Christmas, he can’t believe his eyes: Harriet is there, working as a governess. She’s desperate to keep her past sins hidden, certain he will despise her, while he is determined to learn why she was declared dead. Can Harriet trust Jonathan enough to confess, or will he have to find out on his own? As for the wicked rake…has he at last met more than he bargained for? |

Here's an excerpt from Embracing the Scandal
A wood in east Gloucestershire, summer 1794
Harriet Bentworth feared that posing nude for Mr. Frederick Kent was a mistake even before she did it, but he’d asked so very politely, and he’d offered to pay her one hundred pounds!
How could she refuse? The money would bring freedom for herself, and eventually for her mother as well. And to tell the truth, sometimes one is absolutely desperate to take a risk.
Now the midges had found her, and the ivy Mr. Kent had draped over her made her itch, too. But again, she would persist, for money and freedom’s sake.
“Don’t scratch,” he said, and when she turned her head to tell him how much he would like it if he were naked, plagued by insects, and draped in ivy, he merely said for about the tenth time, “Head turned to the side, facing slightly downwards, please. I’m almost done.”
“Good,” she shot back, “for so am I.”
She had no idea how very done she was until two minutes later, when her stepfather charged into the clearing, brandishing his fowling piece. He took one look at her, shuddered, and averted his face in disgust.
He turned, bellowing, on Mr. Kent. “Dastard! Ravisher of innocent maidens! Give me that sketchbook.” He strode forward, hand stretched out to grab it.
Mr. Kent backed away, clutching the sketchbook to his chest. “I—I’ve done her no harm, Mr. Gain,” he said. Meanwhile, Harriet sprang up from the stool and retrieved her shift. She clawed the ivy away from the breast it partly concealed, but it tangled around her legs and wouldn’t come off.
“Give it to me now!” Her stepfather lifted the fowling piece, and Mr. Kent turned and ran into the wood.
She didn’t blame him, but that left her at the mercy of the horrid old man who was married to her mother. “Cover yourself, girl!”
“I’m trying to,” she cried, managing to get the shift over her head, then bent over to release her leg from the ivy.
The old man made a strangled sound in his throat and cried, “Limb of Satan!” He struck her across the buttocks with his gun, knocking her to the ground. “I should shoot you here and now.”
She struggled up, terrified, and dove for her gown.
“But that would be a sin,” he snarled.
With trembling fingers, she pulled her gown over her head, but she couldn’t fasten the ties behind herself without help. She threw her shawl over her shoulders to conceal the gaping back, grabbed her shoes, and ran barefoot toward home.
It wouldn’t be home for long.
“Henceforth, you are dead to me,” Mr. Gain said that evening—his solution, she supposed, to getting rid of her without actually committing murder. “I don’t care where you send her,” he told Harriet’s mother, “as long as it’s far from here, and she never, ever returns.”
A wood in east Gloucestershire, summer 1794
Harriet Bentworth feared that posing nude for Mr. Frederick Kent was a mistake even before she did it, but he’d asked so very politely, and he’d offered to pay her one hundred pounds!
How could she refuse? The money would bring freedom for herself, and eventually for her mother as well. And to tell the truth, sometimes one is absolutely desperate to take a risk.
Now the midges had found her, and the ivy Mr. Kent had draped over her made her itch, too. But again, she would persist, for money and freedom’s sake.
“Don’t scratch,” he said, and when she turned her head to tell him how much he would like it if he were naked, plagued by insects, and draped in ivy, he merely said for about the tenth time, “Head turned to the side, facing slightly downwards, please. I’m almost done.”
“Good,” she shot back, “for so am I.”
She had no idea how very done she was until two minutes later, when her stepfather charged into the clearing, brandishing his fowling piece. He took one look at her, shuddered, and averted his face in disgust.
He turned, bellowing, on Mr. Kent. “Dastard! Ravisher of innocent maidens! Give me that sketchbook.” He strode forward, hand stretched out to grab it.
Mr. Kent backed away, clutching the sketchbook to his chest. “I—I’ve done her no harm, Mr. Gain,” he said. Meanwhile, Harriet sprang up from the stool and retrieved her shift. She clawed the ivy away from the breast it partly concealed, but it tangled around her legs and wouldn’t come off.
“Give it to me now!” Her stepfather lifted the fowling piece, and Mr. Kent turned and ran into the wood.
She didn’t blame him, but that left her at the mercy of the horrid old man who was married to her mother. “Cover yourself, girl!”
“I’m trying to,” she cried, managing to get the shift over her head, then bent over to release her leg from the ivy.
The old man made a strangled sound in his throat and cried, “Limb of Satan!” He struck her across the buttocks with his gun, knocking her to the ground. “I should shoot you here and now.”
She struggled up, terrified, and dove for her gown.
“But that would be a sin,” he snarled.
With trembling fingers, she pulled her gown over her head, but she couldn’t fasten the ties behind herself without help. She threw her shawl over her shoulders to conceal the gaping back, grabbed her shoes, and ran barefoot toward home.
It wouldn’t be home for long.
“Henceforth, you are dead to me,” Mr. Gain said that evening—his solution, she supposed, to getting rid of her without actually committing murder. “I don’t care where you send her,” he told Harriet’s mother, “as long as it’s far from here, and she never, ever returns.”