Scandal of the Year by Olivia Drake

hookah, passing the pipe to one another until they all sank into a stupor.
    The truth jolted her. The viscount’s inebriated state wasn’t due to an excess of wine or brandy. Rather, he must have smoked opium shortly before his arrival here. She had heard rumors that such behavior was practiced among the scoundrels and riff-raff on the fringes of society. Opium-eaters, they were called.
    “I need more rhymes,” he complained, raising his voice so that people turned to glower at them again. Not that Kitchener noticed. “Airy, fairy, tarry. Do help me out, Miss Crompton.”
    Mrs. Crompton placed a warning hand on Blythe’s arm and frowned at her as if the situation was all her doing.
    Aggravated, Blythe whispered to him under her breath, “Hairy, scary, dairy.” She certainly wasn’t going to give him any ideas by saying marry . In his present state he might fall to his knees and beg for her hand in front of the entire assemblage. “Now, pray be silent.”
    “But you adore poetry,” Viscount Kitchener whined. “Davy said you did.”
    Her lips tightened. Blast Lady Davina, what other lies had she told him? “She is sadly mistaken. I’ll not hear another word from you.”
    Blythe gave him a stern look that must have penetrated his cloudy senses. His voice fell to a barely audible muttering about maids of dairy and lads so hairy. Thankfully, the orchestra had launched into a lively melody and no one else paid them any heed.
    Then a blessed reprieve happened. The viscount’s chin sagged to his cravat and he dozed off. Other than an occasional light snore, he remained silent for the remainder of the concert. Blythe sat unmoving for fear of awakening him and causing another disturbance.
    At last the music drew to an end and the guests applauded politely. People arose from their chairs, the hum of conversation growing as everyone discussed the performance on their way to the supper room where refreshments would be served.
    “Hurry,” Mrs. Crompton whispered to Blythe. “We must make haste to seek out the duke.”
    “Yes, Mama.”
    But when Blythe attempted to get up, she realized to her dismay that Lord Kitchener’s shoe was firmly planted on her hem. As she tried to tug herself free, it became clear that the fine gauze of her gown would rip if she pulled any harder.
    She discreetly poked the viscount in the arm. “Wake up, my lord.”
    He made no response, his eyes never opening, his chest rising and falling in slumber, his head still tilted askew in a ridiculous pose. What was worse, a few people had noticed the pair of them, the ladies laughing behind their fans—as if her companionship had put him to sleep.
    “Savoy is coming down the aisle,” her mother prodded. “Do stand up at once or we’ll miss our chance!”
    Blythe glimpsed the duke advancing through the throng with Lady Davina on his arm. A bevy of debutantes trailed him. Blast! There was no time to waste.
    With renewed effort, Blythe bent down to shove Kitchener’s foot aside. The awkward task was like moving a leaden weight. While her mother hovered and fretted, at last Blythe was able to slide the hem free, albeit with a black scuff mark marring the pale yellow fabric.
    Unfortunately, the duke already had moved past the last row. While proceeding through the open doorway, Lady Davina glanced back over her shoulder and sent Blythe a triumphant look.
    “You should not have dallied,” Mrs. Crompton scolded. “Come now, we can still catch up to them.”
    “No, it’s too late,” Blythe stated. “They’re departing for another engagement, remember?”
    She had no wish to humiliate herself by pushing and shoving. At least she could be thankful that Kitchener had not embroiled her in an even more horrid scene by falling off his chair or attempting to kiss her in front of everyone, as Lady Davina must have intended.
    That hateful voice resounded in her memory. I would never permit my father to marry so vastly far beneath him.
    Lady Davina had