A Scandal Made at Midnight Read online

  Dear Reader,

  When I was asked to write a fairy tale with a twist, I jumped at the opportunity. What a challenge—and what fun! As I considered what fairy tale I wanted to write, Cinderella’s stepsisters leaped into my mind. It couldn’t have been easy, having the wicked stepmother as their mother. I wanted to know more about them, to create a story where they watched Cinderella be the belle of the ball, but maybe Prince Charming had the wrong sister? Updating the story to modern times, social media included, added to both the fun and the challenge. I hope you enjoy my twist on a classic story, and fall in love alongside Alessandro and Liane.

  Happy reading,

  Kate

  After spending three years as a die-hard New Yorker, Kate Hewitt now lives in a small village in the English Lake District with her husband, their five children and a golden retriever. In addition to writing intensely emotional stories, she loves reading, baking and playing chess with her son—she has yet to win against him, but she continues to try. Learn more about Kate at kate-hewitt.com.

  Books by Kate Hewitt

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  The Italian’s Unexpected Baby

  Visit the Author Profile page at Harlequin.com for more titles.

  Kate Hewitt

  A Scandal Made at Midnight

  Contents

  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

  EPILOGUE

  EXCERPT FROM CINDERELLA IN THE BILLIONAIRE’S CASTLE BY CLARE CONNELLY

  CHAPTER ONE

  ‘AREN’T THEY THE most incredible things you’ve seen?’

  Liane Blanchard gave a rueful laugh of acknowledgement as Ella twirled around, blonde curls flying, her musical peal of laughter echoing through the living room, its windows open to the summery breeze wafting in from Central Park.

  ‘That’s certainly one word for them,’ she replied with a smile. With five-inch platform heels, encrusted with diamantes and made entirely of glass, the shoes really were incredible. They also looked painful and potentially impossible to wear, not that either of those, Liane knew, would put Ella off for a second. ‘You’re wearing them to the ball, I presume?’

  ‘Of course. I’ve got quite a plan for these shoes, as it happens.’ Ella winked as she slipped the shoes off, replacing them in the layers of tissue paper in the silver shoe box that came from one of Manhattan’s up-and-coming fashion designers. As a self-made social media influencer, Ella was often getting samples from desperate designers who longed to be the next big thing, just as she did. ‘You should see the dress I’m wearing. It goes perfectly with the shoes.’

  ‘Not made of glass, I hope?’ Liane joked, only to have Ella give her another wink.

  ‘No, but the fabric version of it! But don’t worry, don’t worry.’ She held up one hand as she shook back her long, tumbling blonde hair. ‘It’s perfectly decent. Not too see-through.’ She giggled while Liane smiled and shook her head wryly. Ella was twenty-two, gorgeous, and as happy and carefree as a lark. At twenty-seven innately quiet and cautious, Liane sometimes felt like she was the only thing keeping her younger stepsister from falling headlong into disaster—or at least chaos—again and again.

  ‘What a ridiculous pair of shoes.’

  Along with her mother, Liane amended silently. Amelie Ash stood in the doorway of the living room, tall, grey-haired and unsmiling as she looked down her long thin nose at the ridiculous shoes Ella had just put back in the box.

  ‘They are ridiculous, aren’t they?’ she agreed cheerfully as she put the lid back on the box. ‘That’s the point.’

  Liane had always admired the way Ella refused to let her stepmother get her down. They’d blended their families when Ella had only been six, a cherubic little girl with rosy cheeks and candy floss curls. Amelie, the mother of two awkward preteen girls at the time, had not taken to her at all.

  It hadn’t helped that her new husband, Robert Ash, had loved to lavish presents and attention on his only child, since her mother had died when Ella was just a baby. And yet even though Ella had certainly been indulged by her father, Liane reflected with affection, she hadn’t actually been spoiled. At least not too much. She was simply high-spirited, full of fun—and the complete opposite of her stepmother—as well as Liane—in every way.

  ‘Where on earth are you wearing them?’ Amelie asked with a sniff.

  ‘To the ball, of course!’

  Liane tensed instinctively as her mother’s face became pinched, her cold grey eyes narrowing, lips pursing like a particularly withered prune. She knew that look, had seen it many times over the years as life—as well as her daughters—had continued to disappoint her mother, and she’d done her best to mitigate against it, placate and persevere and please, usually to little avail.

  ‘The ball?’ Amelie repeated icily. ‘Ella, my dear, you are not going to the ball. You weren’t invited.’

  For the merest second Ella’s laughing expression faltered, and her china blue eyes widened as she shot Liane an uncertain, questioning look.

  ‘No, she wasn’t invited,’ Liane interjected quickly, ‘but she’s coming as my guest. I checked with the assistant handling the RSVPs, and plus ones are allowed.’ She could have never gone otherwise, knowing Ella would have to stay at home. She’d offered to give Ella her own invitation, as she wasn’t much of a one for parties, but Ella had insisted they go together.

  Her mother’s lips thinned. Liane knew she would much rather Ella didn’t attend what was billed to be the event of the season—a ball hosted by the notoriously reclusive hotel magnate Alessandro Rossi, to celebrate a hundred years of his family’s luxury hotels, for the crème de la crème of New York society. Not that they could actually count themselves one of that number, but Liane’s father, Michel Blanchard, had been a minor diplomat and a casual acquaintance of Alessandro Rossi’s father, Leonardo, a long time ago. Liane had been as shocked as anyone when the invitation on thick, creamy card had been slotted through their letter box, although her mother had been smugly exultant.

  ‘Of course we’d be invited,’ she’d scoffed, preening. ‘Your father was a dear friend of Leonardo Rossi’s. You know how he lent him money when he needed it.’

  A hundred francs at a casino, thirty years ago, hardly the lofty business deal her mother made it seem. Of course Liane did not say any of this. She had long ago learned to hold her tongue around her mother; it made everything easier for everyone if she placated rather than poured oil onto the flames of her mother’s ire.

  In any case, she was looking forward to going to the ball, admittedly with some apprehension; as a French teacher working at a girls’ school on the Upper East Side, she’d chosen to live a quiet life with her mother and sisters, rather than step into the spotlight that Ella launched herself into, again and again, in pursuit of fame and fortune. Liane had no interest
in either; the losses she’d experienced in life had taught her to be cautious, to stick to the shadows. When you didn’t, you got hurt. She’d seen it with her father, she felt it with her mother. Putting yourself out there could hurt, and Liane had decided long ago that she’d rather not even try.

  But, she thought as Ella put the shoe box away, attending a ball would certainly be a nice change, even if she knew she would stay on the sidelines as she always did.

  ‘I doubt you have anything appropriate to wear,’ Amelie remarked with another sniff as her stepdaughter came back into the living room. Ella might own the house they all lived in, given to her by her father with the proviso that her stepmother and sisters could live in it for all their lives, but otherwise she did not have a penny to her name and was dependent on her stepmother’s grudging generosity.

  ‘Oh, but I do,’ Ella replied sweetly. ‘A fashion designer friend of mine has made the most glorious gown—don’t worry, Belle-Mère, I promise I won’t embarrass you by wearing rags.’

  Which was hardly her mother’s concern, Liane knew. No, her mother’s concern was quite the opposite—that gorgeous, laughing Ella would show her and her sister Manon up, which she undoubtedly would, without even trying. Liane was used to it, Manon didn’t really care, and her mother became coldly, quietly infuriated. She had aspirations of her daughters marrying wealthy, well-connected men, the kind of men who would be guests at the Rossi Ball. Liane couldn’t see it happening herself. She’d be afraid to say boo to a man like that, if truth were told, while Ella could turn flirting into a competitive sport.

  ‘How fortunate for you,’ Amelie stated coldly. ‘Liane? Has your dress come back from the seamstress?’

  ‘Yes, I picked it up this morning.’ Liane forced a smile even though she partly dreaded wearing that old blue bag of a dress—a castoff of her mother’s, hardly flattering, yet all they could afford.

  ‘And just in time too, considering the ball is tomorrow night,’ her mother replied, and, with another narrowed look of dislike for her stepdaughter, Amelie stalked out of the room. Liane gave her sister a sympathetic look.

  ‘Don’t mind her.’

  ‘I never do,’ Ella assured her sunnily. ‘But you haven’t shown me your dress. Let’s see it.’

  ‘It’s nothing much—’ Liane said hurriedly, knowing what an awful understatement her words were.

  ‘Oh, come on, Liane! I bet you’ll look amazing in it. Show me?’

  ‘Very well.’ She never could resist her sister’s puppy dog eyes. ‘But it really isn’t much at all.’ With a sigh she headed upstairs, Ella following her to her bedroom on the first floor, its long sash windows facing the house’s narrow back garden, Central Park visible in the distance. Ella had the small room at the top of the house by her stepmother’s decree, but she had always insisted she didn’t mind.

  ‘More privacy,’ she’d assured Liane when she’d offered to switch. ‘And you know what a night owl I am. I’d hate to disturb everyone with my noise.’ Liane still felt guilty. Ella had been short-changed in so many ways since her father’s death three years ago, but she never put up a fuss, no matter how her stepmother tried to limit her life.

  ‘Now show me this dress,’ Ella commanded as Liane reached for the plastic-swathed gown hanging from her wardrobe door. ‘I hope it’s sensational.’

  ‘Nothing like yours, I’m sure.’ Liane eased the plastic off the gown. Her mother might have pretensions of her and Manon catching the attention of an eligible man like Alessandro Rossi, but their limited budget did not stretch to ball gowns that would serve such a purpose.

  The powder-blue dress had been her mother’s and a local seamstress had updated its debatably classic look. Amelie had insisted it was still in style, but Liane had her doubts. So did Ella.

  ‘Thank goodness you got rid of the ruffles,’ she said as she eyed it critically. ‘Otherwise it would have been pure nineteen-eighties, and not in a good way, unfortunately.’

  ‘I know.’ Liane suppressed a sigh. She was used to looking like a wallflower, with her pale, washed-out looks—or so her mother said—but wearing a forty-year-old dress took even that to its limits. ‘I don’t really mind. I’m not one for parties anyway, Ella, you know that. And no one will be looking at me anyway, I’m quite sure.’

  ‘Still, this is the party of the year,’ Ella protested. Liane couldn’t help but notice she didn’t even argue her second point. ‘You can’t wear something you could find in a thrift shop.’

  ‘Ouch.’ Liane pretended to wince. There was too much truth in her sister’s words. Even with the seamstress’s help the dress looked far too dated and worn, bagging about her bosom and hips, the material possessing the unlovely sheen of cheap satin. But what did it really matter? As she’d said and Ella had silently agreed, no one would be looking at her. They’d all be looking at Ella, and she was glad of it.

  ‘Look, you can’t wear this,’ Ella declared as she slid her phone out of her pocket. ‘Not to this party. It might be fine for Manon—she really doesn’t care about dresses—’

  ‘She’s wearing black, as she always does.’ Manon loved her work as an administrative assistant in a law office and couldn’t care less about fashion or finding a husband. She was only going because their mother had absolutely insisted and, as they both knew when it came to their mother’s machinations, it was easier to go along than to resist. Easier to stay silent than protest against her constant barrage of criticism, because her daughters disappointed her as much as her husbands had.

  ‘Of course she is. Let me text my designer friend. I think she was working on another gown, and it would be perfect for you. Violet to match your eyes.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know,’ Liane protested, not wanting Ella to go to such trouble.

  ‘I’m telling you it would be perfect—’

  ‘I’m not wearing something transparent,’ Liane warned her.

  ‘Of course not,’ Ella answered with a laugh as her fingers flew over her phone. ‘That one’s for me. Trust me, Liane, it really will be perfect. You’ll be the belle of the ball!’

  ‘Hardly,’ Liane returned. ‘That’s a position reserved for you.’ Ella took to the spotlight naturally, and always had, much to Amelie Ash’s ire. Liane knew their mother had always wanted her and Manon to be more like Ella, sparkling and sociable and charismatic, even as she’d disdained and even despised her stepdaughter for being exactly how she was. As for herself? She’d be happy enough to stand unnoticed on the sidelines as she watched Ella take the world by storm. Still, she decided with a smile, she was feminine enough to feel it would be nice to wear a pretty dress while she was doing it.

  * * *

  The party was in full swing as Alessandro Rossi stepped out of the elevator onto the penthouse floor of Hotel Rossi, his family empire’s flagship hotel in the centre of Manhattan. From the open doors of the ballroom he heard the tinkle of laughter and crystal, the strains of the seventeen-piece orchestra. All around him the city stretched out, a carpet of darkness lit by the golden blur of streetlights, matched by the glitter and sparkle of crystal chandeliers and champagne flutes, not to mention the hundreds of thousands of dollars’ worth of jewels dripping off most of the women in the room. The Rossi Ball, the first of its kind, had been hyped to be the event of the year in the city, as it had to be. The publicity was the only reason he was having this tedious affair in the first place.

  Straightening his black tie, his eyes narrowing as his hooded grey gaze swept the crowded room, Alessandro stepped into the ballroom—and then froze when he heard a tiny strangled yelp. What the...?

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ a woman said. Her voice was soft, with a gentle trace of a French accent. ‘I didn’t mean to get in your way. I do apologise.’

  Considering he’d stepped on her foot, he had a feeling he was the one who’d got in the way. He hadn’t even seen her. Alessandro’s eyes narrowed as he g
lanced down at the woman in question—barely coming to his shoulder, with white-blonde hair piled on top of her head and a small, slender figure encased in swathes of gauzy violet. She was standing behind a potted palm by the door, which was why he hadn’t seen her. That, and because she was also rather petite. She tilted her head back to gaze up at him with eyes the same colour as her dress as she tried not to wince. She was, he realised, hopping on one foot.

  ‘I apologise. I hope I didn’t break your toes?’ He’d meant to sound charmingly wry, but the woman gave him a level look.

  ‘Only my pinkie toe, which I can live without, although I might walk with a limp from now on. Don’t you need pinkie toes for balance?’ She spoke so sombrely that for a horrified split second he thought she was serious—and then her smile emerged, reminding Alessandro bizarrely of a cuckoo clock—it popped out and then it was gone, and it left him smiling in return, strangely lightened.

  ‘I thought you were serious,’ he told her.

  ‘I think I am.’ Again with the glimpse of a smile, so fleeting and precious, making something long dead flicker inside him, come to life. ‘But don’t worry, I’ll live. Clearly this is a punishment for my pride. I shouldn’t have let my sister convince me to wear these ridiculous shoes.’

  Alessandro’s mouth quirked. ‘It’s been my experience that most women wear ridiculous shoes.’

  ‘What an insulting generalisation.’ She wasn’t laughing but it felt like she was, and it made him want to laugh as well. Strange. He generally wasn’t one for levity. ‘I assure you I am the proud owner of several pairs of sensible shoes, and not one even slightly ridiculous pair.’

  He nodded towards her feet. ‘Excluding these.’

  ‘These belong to my sister.’ She reached down to lift the hem of her gown to show him the shoes in question, along with a pair of slim ankles. The shoes were stiletto-heeled and dyed violet to match the dress. ‘Truly ridiculous,’ she proclaimed with another smile, this one reaching her eyes.