Saved by Scandal by Bárbara Metzger

it came time to make her actual vows, Margot found her mouth so dry and her tongue so numbed with nerves, she could barely pronounce the words.
    “That’s all right,” Galen said. “She’s just saving her voice for her appearance at the theater tonight.”
    At the end of the ceremony, when the bishop declared, “You may now kiss the bride,” his raised eyebrows seemed to imply that Galen already had, repeatedly. So the viscount placed a chaste kiss on Margot’s lips, as a mark of respect. His inclinations were screaming otherwise, but he would let no one treat his lady like a light-skirt, not even himself.
    Then the bishop left and Skippy produced a bottle of wine for a toast that was almost as long as the bishop’s service. Blushing at all the praise he was heaping on her, Margot tried to thank the reverend.
    “Oh, no. You have to call me Skippy, ma’am. Skip the formalities, don’t you know. Everyone does.”
    “Thank you, ah, Skippy. And you may call me Margot, but not for a week or so, if you do not mind. For right now I think I need to get used to being addressed as Lady Woodbridge.”
    Skippy tipped his glass back again. “Well spoken, my lady. Deuces, but you’ll make a grand duchess some day. Woodbridge couldn’t have found himself a better ’un, and I’ll challenge anyone who says otherwise! Couldn’t be happier, ma’am. Unless, of course, you’d married me instead.”
    Then Skippy couldn’t be more eager to head to White’s to spread the news and collect his winnings. Of course no one there believed a word he said, not Skip-brain Skidmore.
    Lord and Lady Woodbridge took the carriage back to Woburton House, Grosvenor Square. Since coming to London, Margot had barely glimpsed the stately homes of the upper classes. Now she was to live in one of them, and one of the grandest at that. Before she could begin to wonder how many times Mrs. McGuirk’s little house would fit into this imposing edifice, the front doors were thrown open, and a bewigged butler was bowing her inside with enough formality for visiting royalty.
    “This is Fenning, my dear. You’ll get used to him,” was all Galen said.
    In the massive hall, scores of menservants in their navy and gold livery and maids in their navy uniforms with crisp white caps and aprons were waiting to welcome Margot to her new home. She would have faltered on the doorstep, but for Galen at her side.
    “Don’t worry, my dear, I understand they are all thrilled to have a new mistress.” He did not add that they were especially thrilled their new viscountess was not to be Lady Floria Cleary. He’d just learned from his valet, Clegg, this morning, over deliberations on the correct attire for an impromptu wedding, how much the staff had been dreading Florrie’s ascendancy. She was a demanding enough guest the few times they’d entertained her, a pretty enough gel with a grande dame’s hauteur. No one would have dared criticize her to their employer, of course, no more than they would show his new bride any disrespect. “They will adore you.” He was not sure about the dog, hearing shrieks from the kitchen regions.
    Clutching her bouquet in one hand and Galen’s arm in her other, Margot made her way down the line of servants as Fenning intoned each name and position. She tried to match names to faces, but gave up midway. When the butler was done and bowing to her again—Heavens, the man would get a permanent crick in his neck if he kept this up—she thanked them all for their welcome and begged them to forgive her if she could not recall their identities at first. “My head is still too full of his lordship’s string of names.” Even Fenning smiled at her, which made her feel better than when she’d passed her first audition at Drury Lane.
    “Tea is served in the Crimson Room, milady. We were not certain if you wished to dine before the theater or later.”
    Fenning made it sound as though she were attending the playhouse as Lord