The Highland Earl

by Amy Jarecki

  John stretched. Nay, ’twas not a decision to be made in haste. Yet, on the other hand, his creditors would see things differently. What was the purpose of waiting? To continue to draw out his misery? Hell, his misery would linger forever no matter the decisions he made.

  Nonetheless, to be shed of Da’s debts would bring a peace of mind John had never known. I cannot and will not leave such a burden to my sons.

  John’s father had died at the age of eight and thirty. And one year from now, John would be the same age. It was nigh time to ensure his estate was set to rights and be rid of the debt that had plagued him for so many years.

  With his thought, the door burst open. Squealing with laughter, Thomas, aged nine, shoved past his younger brother, dashed into the chamber, and took a flying leap onto the mattress.

  “Da! Why are you still abed?”

  John wrapped his arm around the lad’s shoulders and scrubbed his knuckles into his mop of unruly blond locks—the same color Margaret’s had been. “Because I like to sleep, ye wee whelp.”

  Squealing with glee, Thomas scrambled aside while John hefted Oliver onto the bed. At the age of five, the youngest was a tad undersized but otherwise healthy and as sharp as the blade on John’s dirk. “And how are you, son?”

  The splay of freckles on Oliver’s nose stretched with the lad’s grin—not as wide as it once was before the death of his mother, but the boys were proving more resilient every day. “Ready to sail boats in Hyde Park.”

  “Och aye?” John looked between the two, both staring at him with hopeful faces bearing painful resemblance to their mother. “You’ve broken your fast? You’ve washed? You’ve completed your lessons?”

  Thomas sat upright and batted a pillow. “’Tis Saturday, Da.”

  “Och, there’s no better time to review what you learned during the week than Saturday morn before an outing.” John pulled himself up and leaned against the headboard. “First I’ve an errand to run. That will give you plenty of time to eat, wash your faces, and review your lessons. We’ll take luncheon here and then spend the entire afternoon with our wee boats.”

  Oliver’s bottom lip jutted out. “But Da, I want to go now.”

  “Work before play. You’d best learn such discipline directly, else you’ll not succeed when you grow older.”

  “Forgive me, m’lord.” MacVie, the valet, cleared his throat from the servants’ entrance. “Mrs. Kerr said the lads got away afore she woke.”

  John wrapped an arm around each of his boys’ shoulders. “Not to worry. There’s no better way to greet the morn than with the laughter of my sons.” He gave them a squeeze. “Now off with you. I’ll return by the noon hour.”

  Chapter Two

  Frances waltzed across the floor while Evelyn watched her sister from the reflection in the looking glass. “I’m fifteen. Papa should have let me attend the ball. It just isn’t fair for you to have all the fun.”

  “You think you are excluded from everything?” Phoebe complained from her position lying on her side across the bed. “Try being the youngest. I’m never invited to do anything.”

  “Mind you, royal balls are full of pompous old men who are only in attendance to impress the queen.” Evelyn cringed as her lady’s maid dragged a comb through the tangle remaining from last night’s coiffure. “Ow.”

  Lucinda withdrew the comb and began at the ends. “Forgive me, my lady. But you should have let me brush this out last eve.”

  Frances twirled up to the toilette, shoving her face in the mirror and twisting her brown locks atop her head. “I think I’d look divine with a pile of curls entwined with yellow ribbon.”

  “I think you’d look ridiculous,” said Phoebe.

  Evelyn glanced over her shoulder at her youngest sister, who had recently enjoyed her twelfth birthday. “Oh, really? You should have told me I looked ridiculous before I left for the ball and was presented to the queen.”

  Phoebe pushed up on her elbow. “I didn’t say you looked ridiculous, but Frances has a thinner face and—”

  “Beg your pardon, my lady,” a footman’s voice rumbled through the timbers. “You have a caller.”

  Brutus, the old Corgi, didn’t quite raise his head from the mat in front of the hearth, but he managed an unconvincing growl.

  “A caller?” Frances dashed across the floor and opened the door wide, regardless that Evelyn was still wearing her robe. “Is it a lady caller or a gentleman caller?”

  The footman cleared his throat. “His Grace requests Lady Evelyn’s presence in the parlor straightaway.”

  “But who is here?” asked Phoebe and Frances in tandem.

  “’Tis the Earl of Mar.”

  Thank heavens her sisters’ eyes were turned toward the messenger, because Evelyn nearly fell off her stool.

  As the footman turned away, Frances shut the door, whipped around, and gave an accusing snort. “You said the ball was dull and pallid.”

  Quickly averting her gaze to the mirror, Evelyn casually pulled the stopper from a bottle of perfume and sniffed. “And I still say so.”

  “Then why is an earl calling, and at this hour?” asked Frances.

  “I have absolutely no idea.” Evelyn hastily dabbed the fragrance on her neck. “I need a moment to breathe before I face the likes of Mar. Both of you, go busy yourselves elsewhere.”

  Phoebe slid off the bed. “But—”

  The bottle nearly tipped over as she replaced the stopper. “Go, I said. With the pair of you twittering like finches, I can scarcely think.”

  Lucinda stepped back, brandishing her comb. “What would you have me do with your hair, my lady?”

  “Twist it into a chignon and put a few pins in it. I am by no means worried about impressing the man.”

  “No?” asked the lady’s maid, setting to work. “Is the earl old and crusty?”

  If Mar were old and crusty, Evelyn’s stomach wouldn’t be entertaining a dozen leaping lords. “He’s a widower,” she replied, as if that explained everything.

  “Well, I’ll have you set to rights in no time, not to worry, and the blue day dress ought to suit.”

  Usually Lucinda’s efficiency was a boon, but today her deft fingers were maddening. If only the maid would have dropped the hairpins or broken the laces on Evelyn’s stays or ripped a hole in her skirts or spilled the ewer of water down the front of her gown, she might have an excuse to send her apologies to the earl.

  But in no time, she was presentable and walking out her chamber door.

  Whyever was the earl here? There were all manner of lovely and marriageable gentlewomen at the ball, why in heaven’s name had Mar come to see her? Surely he didn’t have a mind to court her. They were utterly, unquestionably, unimaginably incompatible.

  While she proceeded to the parlor, Evelyn considered his every plausible excuse. Had he seen her speaking with Mr. Dubois? Was he suspicious of her ties with the Jacobites—had she been too bold mentioning the dog rose? Did he know that a fortnight past she had informed the French emissary to the exiled Stuart prince about her father’s shipments from the Orient—cargo which in turn would lower the prices of British goods, thus putting in jeopardy the incomes of local laborers?

  How could he? Even though he is the Secretary of State for Scotland, Mar has only recently returned to London.

  Perhaps he had come to see Father, and the duke had contrived some silly reason to send for her. Moreover, by the time she reached the bottom of the stairs, she was convinced Mar wasn’t as tall as she had remembered or as handsome or as well mannered.

  Remember his politics.

  “Ah, here she is, my lovely eldest,” said Papa, opening his arms and smiling as brightly as he had done last night. “Do you remember His Lordship, my dear?”

  How could she forget? Mar not only had danced with her once, he’d persuaded her to the floor five times. Unheard of! And every time they’d danced he asked so many questions, Evelyn hadn’t managed to inquire about a single of his interests.
Not that she cared a fig about whatever amused him.

  Every bit as tall and far handsomer than he’d been last eve, Mar stepped from behind a chair and bowed. “’Tis delightful to see you again, m’lady.” Adding to his allure, the Highlander wore a kilt and had clubbed his hair back rather than wear a periwig. Bare knees with scarlet garters held his stockings in place. How on earth was she to resist such masculinity when he donned red-and-black plaid?

  Before Evelyn managed to look away, His Lordship produced a bouquet of white roses from behind his back. “Regrettably, no street vendor in London was selling dog roses. I hope these blooms will suffice until I can procure your favorite. They tell me these are called Great Maiden’s Blush, which I find quite uncharacteristic since they’re white without a single trace of pink.”

  Oh dear, what was the swaying feeling in the pit of her stomach? A dozen beautiful, heavenly blooms presented by a man with the deepest brogue she’d ever heard. “This variety comes in white and pink.” In truth, Evelyn far preferred these full blossoms to plain, five-petaled dog roses. But she couldn’t admit to it now. “These are magnificent,” she said, her voice full of sincerity as she accepted the gift and breathed in their rich fragrance.

  “I say, dear, do you not grow these very blooms in Thoresby Hall’s gardens?” asked Papa.

  “I do.” Deciding it best to concede on one point, she added, “Truly, I enjoy roses of all sorts.”

  “That’s right, Mar,” said the duke, “and you should see the wisteria trellises Lady Evelyn has nurtured. My master gardener has had quite an invested student over the years.”

  At the mention of the former gardener at Thoresby Hall, Evelyn’s pulse pounded at her temples. Throughout his life, Mr. Wilson had been a faithful servant to the Pierreponts. Under the tenure of three dukes, he’d lovingly cared for the expansive gardens at Thoresby Hall. He’d taken Evelyn under his wing and taught her everything from soil to flowers to herbs and pruning. But when he’d fallen ill and a few weeds had sprouted in the flower beds, her father had dismissed him without a pension and no way to support himself.

  The earl slid his foot forward and bowed again, distracting Evelyn from her thoughts and drawing notice to the sgian dubh peeking above his garter. “I’m glad not to disappoint.”

  “I’ve ordered tea and cakes. Please, sit and enjoy each other’s company.” Papa gestured to the settee. “Regrettably, I have some urgent correspondence I must attend.”

  Drawing her hand to her chest, Evelyn took a step back. “But—”

  “Perhaps one cup of tea.” Mar gave the duke a nod, then faced her with a smile warm enough to melt butter in a snowstorm. “I’m afraid I cannot stay long.”

  Feeling cornered, she had no choice but to sit on the blasted couch, from where she always poured the tea. And there was no opportunity to shift the table over to the chair because the housemaid promptly walked into the parlor carrying the tea service. What was Evelyn’s father thinking, leaving her alone in the parlor with a man? Mar might be a trusted friend, but heaven forbid someone outside the house learn of this little chat.

  She gave the maid the flowers before she took her seat. “Would you please replace the lilies on the mantel with these lovely roses?”

  “Straightaway, my lady.”

  Mar slid onto the settee beside her. “I hope I’m not intruding. I meant to leave the roses with my card and a note, but your father invited me in.”

  “Not at all.” What else could she say? Yes, your presence in my house is awkward and disconcerting and I want you to leave. Now, please! She picked up the teapot with such vigor, a bit of liquid spilled from the spout.

  The earl seemed not to notice as he sat very erect, his feet firmly planted on the floor. Out of the corner of her eye, it was impossible for Evelyn to keep from staring at the way his kilt hiked up his leg—a very muscular thigh, strewn with tawny hair that looked softer than silk.

  “Did you enjoy the ball last eve?” he asked.

  With a jolt, her gaze snapped to the task at hand while the teacup clanked in the saucer. “It was quite a stately affair.”

  “Aye.” He leaned nearer, his blue eyes focusing on her face as if she were the most diverting person in London. “Stately it was, but that’s not what I asked.”

  How did a man manage to smell like sea breeze? It simply wasn’t natural. Evelyn poured the second cup, managing not to spill or clank anything. For the love of Moses, she’d been pouring tea for years without a single slip. The Earl of Mar had no business making her so self-aware. She vowed to stop her silly nervousness this instant.

  Clearing her throat, Evelyn set the teapot down with perfect control. “It was my first royal ball. I have nothing with which to compare.” She picked up the sugar bowl. “A spoon to sweeten your palate?”

  “Please.” He tapped his foot, making the muscle on his thigh flex. “Is it safe to assume you prefer not to attend balls?”

  Pretending to contemplate his question, she stared at his disconcerting bare knee. If only she could touch his skin to see if it was as hard as it looked. “I-I’d say yes. I am particularly disinterested in attending balls that cater only to the nobility.” After preparing the earl’s tea, she handed him the cup and saucer, their fingers brushing slightly.

  Mar took in a sharp breath—or had it been her own inhalation? Evelyn shifted her gaze to his eyes—they grew darker.

  “Ah, yes.” He sipped and set the cup on the table. “You prefer a pastoral life—flowers, and, shall we say, country dances?”

  “If you’d like.”

  “Well, then I’d reckon you’d be quite comfortable at a Highland ceilidh.”

  “A kay-lee?” she asked, phonetically pronouncing the Gaelic word.

  “’Tis the Scottish equivalent of a country dance, except it is with clan and kin, and outdoors, weather permitting.” He brushed a hand down his kilt.

  Her gaze slipped to those garters, Scottish daggers tucked in each, but far more distracting were his bare knees. Scandalous. “Does the weather ever cooperate in Scotland?” she asked.

  “On occasion, but never when it is important.”

  Drawing her fingers to her mouth, Evelyn covered a sudden urge to laugh. In no way should she encourage him. She inclined her head to the windows, through which beamed rays of sunlight. “’Tis a shame you’re not in Scotland, my lord. Today appears to be ideal for a Highland gathering.”

  “It is a fine day. And London is abloom with flowers at the moment.”

  “It certainly is. Hyde Park is awash in a carpet of bluebells and enormous plots of daffodils.”

  “Hyde Park?” He reached for a tiny cake and popped it into his mouth. “Why, I’m sailing boats with my lads there this very afternoon. You ought to come along and enjoy the flowers.”

  “Oh, I couldn’t.”

  “Why not?” Phoebe’s rather loud voice came from the corridor.

  Ready to melt into a puddle of mortification, Evelyn met the earl’s amused gaze. “I must apologize for my sister.” She stood, marched across the floor, and flung open the door. “Lady Phoebe, it is very impolite to eavesdrop!”

  “But Frances told me to—”

  Evelyn threw up her hands. “You’ve never done anything your sister has asked you to do before. Why start now?”

  “I-I…” Phoebe shot a panicked glance to the earl. “But going to the park today and sailing boats would be fantastically diverting.”

  “That settles it.” Mar stood and met them at the door. “My sons and I will bring the carriage around for both of you bonny lassies at half past one.” He bowed to Evelyn’s sister. “Lady Phoebe, it is lovely to make your acquaintance.”

  The vixen curtsied and blushed scarlet. “Thank you, my lord.”

  “I truly am sorry for my sister’s impolite behavior, Your Lordship.” Evelyn shot the holy terror a heated glare. “By no means should you feel obligated to escort us to the park today or any day, for that matter.”

  “Och, the
lads will welcome the company.” He gave a hasty bow. “And I will look forward to it as well.”

  Evelyn curtsied and watched the Earl of Mar take his leave. Her day had just gone from bad to worse. She focused her ire on Phoebe. “Exactly what were you thinking, first listening in and, secondly, blurting out ‘why not’ loud enough to wake the dead? If you’re going to eavesdrop, you must be able to exercise a modicum of control over your person.”

  The shrew toyed with the bauble hanging from her necklace. “I’m sorry.”

  “Sorry? You sound as sincere as a traveling peddler. Now we have to go to the park and sail toy boats with a pair of juvenile lads whom we’ve never met.”

  “But we’ve played with our cousins at Thoresby Hall. They’re boys.”

  Evelyn paced. She’d wanted to discourage the earl and have him leave posthaste. “It’s not Mar’s children I’m worried about.”

  “Oh…you do not think the earl wants to marry you, does he?”

  “Most certainly not.” The vase of Great Maiden’s Blush roses on the mantel caught her eye. “You cornered him into extending an invitation this afternoon. Otherwise, I’m certain he would have finished his tea and that would have been the last we’d see of him.”

  “But it’s not.”

  “No.”

  “And the outing will be fun.”

  “Perhaps for you. And I do not want to ever hear you complain about not being invited along again.”

  Phoebe danced over to the vase and made a show of sniffing the roses—all dozen of them. “There are flowers at the park, aaaaand…”

  Evelyn dropped onto the settee and looked to the ceiling. “And what?”

  “Weeeeell…did you see him?”

  “Of course I saw His Lordship. He was the only other person in the parlor.”

  Phoebe fluttered her eyelashes, the tart. “Yes, well, he is rather pleasant to look upon, is he not?”