Table of Contents
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
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Epilogue
Chapter One
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Get Scandalous with these historical reads… Highland Conquest
The Sinful Scot
The Duke Meets His Match
The Earl’s New Bride
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
Copyright © 2019 by Callie Hutton. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce, distribute, or transmit in any form or by any means. For information regarding subsidiary rights, please contact the Publisher.
Preview of A Scot to Wed © 2020 by Callie Hutton
Entangled Publishing, LLC
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Scandalous is an imprint of Entangled Publishing, LLC.
Edited by Erin Molta
Cover design by Mayhem Cover Creations
Cover photography by Period Images
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ISBN 978-1-64063-782-5
Manufactured in the United States of America
First Edition July 2019
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To the Twinadoes, who cheer me up, wear me out, and make me say the strangest things.
Chapter One
Northern England, September, 1818
Donald, the Marquess of Campbell, known as Cam to family, friends, and lovers, climbed from the carriage he’d spent the last five days in, pressed his hands against his lower back, and stretched. Despite the annoyance at being summoned to his estate for a mysterious package, he could not help the smile that covered his face as he looked at Campbell Manor. For as much as he preferred to be in London for Parliament, he loved his home estate.
After greeting the staff as they lined up in front of the Manor to greet their Lord, he made it into the entrance hall and turned to his valet, Markham. “I would like a hot bath, clean clothes, and dinner. In that order.”
Markham nodded and followed Cam into the house, giving orders to the footmen for a hot bath to be brought to the master’s bedchamber directly.
Cam took the stairs to the first floor two at a time. This comfortable home was the place he had been raised with his younger sisters, Constance and Maryann.
Cam had been a mere twenty years when his father died ten years before, leaving Cam head of the family and guardian for the young girls, who were then twelve and fourteen. After sufficient grieving time, he’d enrolled them in a fashionable boarding school in London, which allowed him to see to his Parliamentary duties and stay close to them.
At the end of their first Seasons, thanks to his concerted efforts as their guardian, both girls had become betrothed to acceptable men whom they had foolishly fallen in love with and were now enjoying marital bliss, bringing children into the world at an alarming rate.
His bedchamber welcomed him, as though it had held its breath for his return. The chunky dark furniture had been his father’s, but the wall coverings, bedcovers, and draperies had been his own choosing. The deep brown and blue print coordinated well with the dark wainscoting and blue-striped paper on the walls.
He’d kept the furniture to preserve the memory of his father, the man who’d made Cam’s childhood one miserable event after another. Beatings, starvation, and other cruel means of discipline had comprised Cam’s daily life. He wanted this reminder so he would never have children of his own and end up like his father.
His only escape from the brutality had been when he was sent to school, where he’d met his friends, Hawk, Templeton, and Bedford. They had become his family.
Cutting into his musing, footmen appeared with a large tub and buckets of steaming water, a reminder of his plan to have a bathing room installed in the house. It had been on his list of improvements for at least two years. All his time spent in London had forced him to put those projects on hold.
After a bath, fresh clothes, and a quick brush of his hair, he descended the stairs, cheerful to be out of the coach and ready for one of his best brandies before a delectable dinner.
He opened the door to the library, walked about two steps, and then came to a complete stop. A young woman he’d never seen before stood in the center of the room, staring at the doorway. Her flashing crystal-blue eyes regarded him with a combination of fear and anger, and golden-red curls falling from her poorly constructed hairstyle landed on soft white shoulders.
The young lady’s face was perfection. High arched brows, creamy skin, a tiny nose, and full lips. Lips that looked ready for kissing. On second glance, the way they were pursed, maybe not kissing.
“Who are you?”
“I am your ward.” She tilted her chin up. “And not happy about it.”
…
Bridget stared at Lord Campbell as all the blood seemed to drain from his face. She wasn’t upset that she had shocked him. That was precisely how she’d felt when she’d learned her fate.
“My what?” The man struggled to get the words out. “Please don’t tell me you are the package I was sent to retrieve.” He glared at her. She returned his regard. Fine. If he was as unhappy about this arrangement as she was, then he would most likely be willing to find a solution. One that would give her leave to do as she wished.
She regarded him coolly. “I believe so. Your man told me you would most likely not come if you knew you had a ward waiting for you.”
“Smart man. And in a vast amount of trouble.” Lord Campbell strode to the sideboard and poured a brandy. “Would you care for a drink? Or perhaps send for tea?” At least he had manners.
“Tea is for invalids and old ladies. I would like a drink, but none of that sherry. Whisky. Scotch whisky.”
Although his eyebrows rose almost to his hairline, he poured the brown liquid from the bottle he held into a crystal tumbler. He recapped the bottle—French brandy, she noted—and picked up another bottle, then splashed two fingers’ worth into a second glass. He strolled across the room and handed one to her. Motioning to the settee in front of the fireplace, he said, “Sit.”
Her jaw dropped. “Is that an order, Lord Campbell?”
He sighed and dipped his head. No doubt he considered a minor nod a replacement for an apology. “Please have a seat.” He swept his hand i
n the direction of the settee.
Bridget settled herself and took a sip of the whisky. For all her bravado, she was shaking inside now that she finally faced her guardian.
Guardian!
She was ever so annoyed and angry at this turn of events. Her dear papa had died only two weeks before. At the reading of his will, she’d been astounded to find that he had left her care in the hands of the Marquess of Campbell. For three days she’d cried, railed, and, yes, cursed her beloved father.
The problem was, as his solicitor, Mr. Manning, had explained with a flushed face, Papa had not changed his will in years, and the Lord Campbell he’d meant to be her guardian was this Lord Campbell’s father. Papa had not identified her guardian in any other way, therefore, by law, this young, handsome, and—from what she understood—rakish man, was her guardian.
“I will begin by telling you I am more than happy to break this ridiculous arrangement and allow you to return to London and do whatever it is you do that makes the gossip columnists so very happy.” She took a deep breath, hoping he would agree with her.
He narrowed his eyes. “Perhaps, before you showed your poor manners by not introducing yourself properly, you might have explained exactly who you are and what this guardianship means.”
As his words rolled over her, her face heated with shame. She had been quite rude, and this man was as much a victim of her father’s will as she was. But if she were to gain some control, she had to stay strong. She took a deep breath and offered him a smile. “I apologize. I did not mean to be ill-mannered. I merely wanted to advise you that I do not want, nor do I need, a guardian. My name is Lady Bridget MacDuff, I am one and twenty, and I’m perfectly capable of taking care of myself.”
“Apparently, your father did not think so.” He took a sip of his drink, and she tried very hard not to notice how his lips covered the rim of the glass, making her wonder what they would feel like pressed up against her own lips. She mentally chastised herself at her foolishness. This was not the time to admire the man who was her enemy, and she best ignore any silly attraction she felt toward him.
Her so-called guardian was a tall man and quite broad-shouldered. His curly ginger hair skimmed the top of his cravat in the back. The locks also covered his forehead, right above the greenest eyes Bridget had ever seen, surrounded by shining bronze, gold–tipped eyelashes. She imagined the gossip columnists were correct, and he gave many a young lady heart palpitations and something to dream about at night.
Certainly not her, though. He was her worst nightmare. “My father was getting on in years and refused to acknowledge that I was quite grown up.”
“Nevertheless, he chose to name a guardian for you. I do not know you, nor your father, so perhaps you can enlighten me on how this all came about?”
Unable to sit for long periods of time, especially when she was unsettled, she placed the now empty whisky glass on the table in front of them and stood. Lord Campbell rose as well. Yes, very good manners. But then again, anyone who spent so much time seducing the ladies must possess the very best of polished manners. And charm.
“Papa and your father were schoolmates who apparently kept up a correspondence over the years. Although the former Lord Campbell visited our estate a few times, I don’t remember him, as I was quite young the last time he did.”
“But my father has been dead for ten years. Your father must have known that. Why was a new guardian not named?”
Bridget shrugged. “I asked Mr. Manning, Papa’s solicitor, the same question, and he told me he had urged Papa to change his will, but he always had an excuse.”
Lord Campbell wandered over to the heavy wooden desk in the center of the room and rested his hip against the edge, swinging his booted foot. She most certainly did not notice how his breeches tightened over his muscled thighs. “Where can I find this Mr. Manning?”
“He lives in the village near Papa’s estate.”
“Where is that?”
“Scotland. Right across the border in Dumfriesshire.”
“Scotland? I do not detect a Scottish accent.”
“I spent a few years in London, where I attended a boarding school that beat the accent out of me. Papa wanted me to enter into London Society to find a husband.”
“And did you attend a Season? I don’t remember you.”
She grinned. “No. I’ve been able to skip that torment for the past three years. I did not like London. ’Tis a dirty, smelly place, and I missed Scotland far too much.”
“What happened to your father’s estate?”
She raised her chin and scowled at the memory of the heir’s response to her summons. “A very rude second cousin from the Highlands inherited Papa’s lands. He didn’t even come for a visit, just sent word that he was much too busy and would attend to the estate in a few months.”
Lord Campbell studied his empty glass. “I will contact Mr. Manning, but I’d like you to tell me the terms of this guardianship. If you are already one and twenty, I don’t understand the need for it.”
Praise the saints! Maybe the man would be gracious enough to cancel the entire thing. She nodded furiously. “I agree. Papa’s will states that I am to have a guardian until I am three and twenty. At that time, if I have not married, I will inherit his fortune.” And she had plans for that money, plans that could not wait another eighteen months.
Lord Campbell’s eyes lit up. “Married?”
Her heart sank to her knees. Blast it. Was that joy she saw in his eyes? Surely, he would not attempt to marry her off? She sucked in a breath. Or, worse yet, force her to marry him? A rake? Someone after her inheritance, perhaps?
She blurted out, “I will not marry you.”
Once again, his brows rose. “I am happy to hear that, Lady Bridget, considering I have no intention of marrying you. Or anybody, for that matter.”
Chapter Two
Marry her! The chit had to be a featherbrain. On the other hand, if he married her off—to someone else—she would no longer be his unwanted and unexpected ward. He’d done a good job finding the men who had turned into husbands for his sisters.
“Are you saying you will not marry me—just to be sure, please know I am not asking—because there is another gentleman who has captured your heart?” He tried to keep the hopefulness out of his voice.
“No. Like you, I don’t wish to marry at all. Ever. No husband. I intend to be a very happy spinster.” She narrowed her eyes. “All I have to do is break the will or wait until I reach three and twenty years.”
“I thought all young ladies wanted a husband.”
Lady Bridget sniffed. “Spoken like a true rake who has probably been beating off would-be wives and their persistent mamas for years.”
“Why are you so angry?” Why he asked that, he had no idea, since he didn’t know the chit, didn’t want to know her, and in most cases, never wondered how or why a woman felt the way she did. His lovers and mistresses had been for one purpose only.
In one way, Lady Bridget was correct. For years, he’d been fending off the women—and their mamas—who had attempted to make it appear as if he’d compromised them. He shuddered at the memory of all the times he’d been in the direct line of their determined glares.
To his horror, Lady Bridget’s eyes filled with tears. She blinked several times to deny them, but one lone tear tracked down her cheek. “I’m not. Angry, that is.” She took a shuddering breath. “I am normally a happy, pleasant person. But when I learned what my father—whom I absolutely adored—had done to me with his will, I felt as though all the trust he’d placed in me over the years had been false.”
Thankfully, Croft, one of the footmen, entered the room at that precise moment to announce dinner. To her credit, Lady Bridget swiped at her cheek and offered a smile. “Thank you, Croft.”
“You know his name?” Cam extended his arm to her to head into
the dining room.
“Yes. I’ve been here for a week now.” She glanced at him, but this time without the scowl. “Awaiting your arrival.”
Another bit of information about his ward. She was not all angst and ill-humor. She had a soft side and was the sort of lady who learned the names of staff members. Not that he cared, of course. He planned to marry her off as quickly as possible, so he would not have the duty of guarding her from hordes of men when they arrived in London. Her auburn hair and crystal-blue eyes would stand out at any ton event. And after her fortune was known, every man in London with a bundle of vowels would line up.
He certainly understood her irritation at being treated like a child under her father’s will. But with her inheritance tied up until she turned three and twenty, and with her home already passed on to the heir, she was virtually homeless and possessed no money to call her own. The only solution was a husband.
“Did you travel with a maid, a companion?” He pulled out a chair for her and took the one at the head of the table, to her right.
“Yes. My lady’s maid, Fiona, and my companion, Mrs. Dressel, arrived with me.”
He nodded his approval as the footman poured wine into their glasses. At least he did not have to trouble himself with hiring women to travel with them. Her reputation would remain intact, and she should be able to attract a good match.
He would have to send a messenger to each of his sisters to see which one of them was willing to offer a spot to Lady Bridget, since she could not live with him. Maryann and Constance would also have a list of coming events suitable for Lady Bridget, since, like him, both their husbands were involved in Parliament and preferred to stay in London.
Although the Season was well over, there would still be the smaller Autumn Season with numerous affairs in Town and house parties in the country where Lady Bridget could mix with acceptable gentlemen. Although she was in mourning, smaller events would not be considered improper. He began to feel better about it all. A quick marriage for his ward, and then back to his unencumbered life. He took a sip of Cook’s renowned white soup.
His Rebellious Lass Page 1