by Platt, Meara
“Yes, I’d love your company then.”
“I think I hear the servants stirring downstairs. I ought to let them know what is happening.”
Violet kept hold of her hand. “No, Heather. Stay with me until Aunt Sophie arrives.”
“Of course.” She stifled her tears, realizing that despite Violet’s excitement, she was scared. No wonder she was overset that Romulus was not with her. Even though he would not be permitted in their bedchamber, just knowing he was close by would have heartened her.
Violet gasped as another contraction overwhelmed her. “Finish telling me what is going on between you and Robbie.”
“Nothing is going on. I’m going to marry Tilbury. But Robbie and I must read that book together. My sisters made us promise. He doesn’t want to. Not that I blame him. I was the one who refused at first.”
“So, he took the book and went away.”
Heather nodded. “Now he’s back.”
“For a significant reason, Heather. What does your heart tell you to do?”
She squeezed her cousin’s hand. “My life is here. My heart’s desire has always been to marry a marquess. Besides, you know Robbie’s reputation with the ladies. How can I ever trust him to be faithful?”
The notion appeared to surprise Violet. “Oh, Heather. You are so wrong about him. That big Scot will honor and love you until the day he dies.”
“How can you say that?” She shook her head. “He came over the wall drunk and reeking of stale perfume. But let’s not speak of him now. I hear more voices in the hall. Aunt Sophie’s on her way up.”
“Then I had better say this quickly. Romulus and I read the book together. It showed us how to open our hearts and see the truth. Don’t fight it, Heather. Let it guide you to your true happiness. If your life is meant to be with Tilbury, then you will know it without a doubt.”
“And if it isn’t?”
“Are you worried it will lead you to Robbie?” Violet arched an eyebrow. “He’s worried about it as well.”
“He doesn’t want to attend Tilbury’s ball.”
Violet nodded. “Can you blame him? His heart must be breaking.”
“Oh, I doubt it. Then why doesn’t he say something to me? Why run away? Violet, you are deeply in love with your husband, so you think all men must be as honorable and wonderful as him. I’m not saying Robbie is a bad person. He isn’t at all. But he has a roving eye. We all know it. He may intend to reform, but for how long? Women are constantly making advances to him. Beautiful, elegant ladies, too. I’ve seen it myself.”
They said no more as Aunt Sophie arrived and sat on the other side of the bed to get a closer look at Violet. “How long between contractions, my dear?”
She and Violet stared at each other. They had been so busy chatting, neither of them had thought to time her pains. Heather did not realize it was something they ought to have been doing.
Sophie shook her head and laughed softly. “It doesn’t matter. We’ll start as of now.”
“What should I do, Aunt Sophie?” Heather rose, wanting to be helpful but having no idea how to go about it.
“Let the staff know what is going on. Have Violet’s cook prepare light refreshments since we’ll have people stopping in throughout the day. You’ll have to serve as hostess. Well, sort of as liaison between the family and us as they gather downstairs. Can you do this, Heather?”
“Of course.”
“Well, I know you can. But what I meant is, Tilbury’s ball is this evening. You ought to be well rested and looking beautiful for it.” She shook her head and sighed. “We’ll have to hide that little cut to your cheek. Captain MacLauren mentioned it when he spoke to me and John.”
Heather’s hand went to her cheek.
She’d forgotten about it in all the excitement.
Sophie was now staring at her.
Heather groaned. “Violet will tell you why he was here. And injured. And why my belt is on his arm. It really is quite innocent.”
She rolled her eyes. “I’ve been through it with my daughters. Yes, these explanations always are.”
Heather gave her aunt a kiss on the cheek and her cousin a light kiss on the forehead before running downstairs to the kitchen to inform the staff of what was happening. The housekeeper happened to be the niece of Aunt Sophie’s long-time cook. “Miss Mayhew, we’ll need to prepare for company throughout the day.”
The young woman smiled. “I used to be in service at your aunt and uncle’s house next door. This will be simple.”
Heather laughed. “Then I know you’ll have it all well in hand. Thank you.” She saw the book Robbie had come here to return to her sitting on the table. She picked it up and glanced around for his pouch and jacket. There was no sign of them.
Her heart gave a little tug.
“Miss Heather,” the housekeeper said quietly. “I think he’s still in the study with your Uncle John.”
She blushed. “Thank you, Miss Mayhew.”
She hurried to the study with the book in hand, taking care to keep her robe closed because her uncle was probably apoplectic already. He had to be wondering what Robbie was doing here at this early hour.
The study door was shut, so she knocked lightly and then barged in without awaiting permission to enter. Robbie was casually leaning against the desk, his arms crossed over his massive chest, while her uncle was seated in one of the comfortable chairs beside it. To her relief, they appeared quite calm.
She gave her robe another tuck to hold it securely closed—a gesture noticed by Robbie, for he arched an eyebrow and tossed her a tender smile.
The loveliness of his smile sent her reeling.
The events of the morning suddenly crashed down on her like a giant wave. In the next moment, she was crying like a ninny. More giant waves of feeling crashed down on her, and she did not know how to hold them back.
Suddenly, Robbie wasn’t smiling any more. “Heather, all is well. Why are ye crying, lass?”
It was the worst question he could have asked because at this moment, she knew the reason why. Yes, she was overset because she had a cut to her cheek. Yes, she was worried about Violet giving birth. But the reason she was crying…dear heaven. She thought Robbie had gone away, and she was never going to see him again.
She must have spoken the words aloud because her Uncle John was staring up at the ceiling and muttering “Why, Lord?” and Robbie was looking at her as though he’d just been fatally shot.
Perhaps walking in here had not been a good idea.
Robbie took the book out of her hands and set it aside. “Sit down, Heather.” He tried to guide her to the chair beside her uncle. At first, she resisted, but then she sank down in it and buried her face in her hands.
No one spoke for the longest time.
Robbie was kneeling beside her and stroking her hair. Finally, he groaned. “I’ll come by tomorrow. We’re going to read that book together as we promised yer sisters. Then ye will understand what true love is all about and marry yer marquess.”
She looked up at him through a cloud of tears. “Will you come to the ball tonight?”
“Oh, for pity’s sake,” her uncle muttered. “I’ll not have a fight break out over you at Tilbury’s ball.”
Robbie immediately spoke up. “There’ll be no fight, Mr. Farthingale. For my part, I’ll not throw a fist at Tilbury.” He turned back to Heather. “No, I will not be there. It is safest for ye if I stay away. It isn’t me I’m worried about doing something foolish. It’s you, lass.”
“What do you think I’ll do?”
He gave her cheek a light caress. “I have no idea. That’s what scares me most.”
Her uncle cleared his throat. “Here’s what you are both going to do this very morning. Go your separate ways and get properly washed and dressed. Captain MacLauren, you are going to return here immediately after making yourself presentable. I don’t care if you have scheduled an audience with the king. Reschedule it. You are to present yourself
here.”
Heather stared at him, confused. “Why, Uncle John?”
He glared at the book. “I don’t know what nonsense that book contains. Perhaps it isn’t nonsense since six of my nieces have managed to make love matches after toting it around. So, you are going to do the same, Heather. Not with Tilbury, since you haven’t once brought up his name amid your flurry of tears. You are going to read it with Captain MacLauren. This morning. This afternoon. However long it takes you to get through it before the ball. You will not put this off until tomorrow.”
Robbie ran his hand roughly through his hair. “Bollocks.”
“You will sit outside in plain sight of us all and—”
“We can’t sit. Robbie broke the bench when he fell over the wall.”
Her uncle showed no expression as he said, “Of course, he did. Why am I not surprised? Take a blanket and sit under a shade tree. Stand on your head if you prefer. Just read that book together. Heather, if you can still marry Tilbury after this, then I’m going to need the stiffest drink I’ve ever had in my life.”
Robbie looked as though he wanted to smash every object in the study. “I’ll return in an hour.” He grabbed his pouch and stalked out without so much as a nod in her direction.
“Uncle John, I think this is a terrible idea. He’s so angry.”
“I don’t care. What are you two playing at?”
Heather swallowed hard. “What do you mean?”
“I’ve never seen two people more afraid of reading that book.”
“I’m the one who’s afraid. Robbie’s read it, probably several times over by now.”
“So that’s why he wanted to wait until tomorrow to read it with you. He thinks your standing beside the marquess, acting as his hostess at the ball, will somehow remove all possibility of your canceling the wedding? You’ll be a marchioness as you’ve always wanted to be. By delaying until tomorrow, he thinks he’s ensuring the outcome. Hah! He’s deluding himself if he thinks the delay will work. But I have one question for you.”
She nodded. “What is it, Uncle John?”
“Have you ever once considered Tilbury’s feelings in all this?”
Chapter Four
Robbie’s granduncle, the Earl of Caithness, possessed a modest townhouse on the outskirts of Mayfair, maintained by a butler and housekeeper who were an elderly married couple in service to the earl since Robbie was an infant. He was residing there for now since the barracks housing the Scots Greys was closed while the regiment was up in Scotland.
“Good morning, Crawford,” he said, striding in when the butler opened the door to him. “Kindly ask Mrs. Crawford to set out some bandages for me.”
The man’s eyes widened in alarm. “Are ye injured, Captain MacLauren?”
“A little cut. Nothing serious. And I need to bathe.” He took the stairs two at a time up the staircase and marched down the hall to his bedchamber. He tossed off his ruined jacket and shirt, only then realizing he still had Heather’s belt strapped to his arm. Some of the blood from his gash had seeped through and stained it.
He sighed, knowing he could not return it to Heather in this condition. He’d ask Mrs. Crawford to wash it. Perhaps she could boil the stain out. Otherwise, he’d purchase a new robe for the pixie.
He pulled off his boots, grabbed a fresh pair of trousers, and returned downstairs to help Crawford fill up the tub. The weather was warm enough that he did not need to put Mrs. Crawford to the trouble of heating water for his bath. He would clean up just as well in the cold as in hot. The loch waters in Caithness were almost frigid, and he and his brother often bathed in them until the first snow fell.
Once in the kitchen, he removed the belt and bloodied cloth to inspect the gash. Bollocks. It was worse than he’d thought. He would need stitches and a more thorough cleansing of the wound to keep his blood from getting infected. “Crawford, fetch me the bootleg whisky.”
“At once, Captain MacLauren.”
Mrs. Crawford eyed him sternly. “A lady’s belt?”
“It isn’t what you think. I was not undressing her.” He poured a pail of water into the tub that was set out beside the hearth. A fire was lit for cooking but not needed for warmth. Still, he had been out all night, and his body was feeling sore, especially from that drunken dive he’d taken.
The heat from the fire would do him good.
“Then what were ye doing to the lass? Or were ye just watching her as she undressed?” She shook her head in disapproval. “Ye need to reform yer wicked ways, laddie. Ye need to find yerself a genteel lass and make a proper home for yerself.”
He supposed the odor of cheap perfume on his jacket would lead anyone to the wrong conclusion. Aye, he had been in one of those gaming hells where more than mere gaming went on. Aye, he had been approached by more than one female…and rubbed up against more than once. But he had declined their invitations as he had all women since meeting Heather.
Which left him bloody, blazing frustrated for the obvious reasons, but especially because no one believed he had reformed or ever could reform.
Of course, he wasn’t helping himself by frequenting these ill-reputed establishments, even if it was only to engage in a game of cards or share a drink with his companions. Obviously, he needed to cultivate a better class of companions.
The problem was, his two best friends, Joshua Brayden and his brother, Ronan, were now married to Heather’s sisters and happily settled. These Brayden men returned home every evening to their loving wives.
He returned home to nothing.
He did not even have a home to call his own, returning every night either to the barracks when his regiment was in town or his granduncle’s residence whenever they were not.
He shook out of the thought and finished pouring water into the tub. He set up the screen to provide himself a little privacy and then washed his hair and body. Once done, he wrapped the drying cloth around himself and opened the bottle of whisky. The fumes alone were enough to choke a horse.
The brandy he’d applied earlier to his arm packed a sting.
This home-brewed whisky was going to light a fire up his arse.
He doused a washing cloth with it and then slapped the wet cloth to his arm. His eyes turned watery as the burn shot up his arm and blazed through his body. He held it in place for several minutes, then had Mrs. Crawford bind the wound as best as she could. He knew George Farthingale would be at Violet’s home by the time he returned there. He would ask the good doctor to put a few stitches in then.
He shaved, donned a clean uniform, and set off for Chipping Way once again.
By this time, the day had turned beautiful. The sun was shining, and a light breeze carried the scent of spring blooms. His horse needed a bit of exercise, so he saddled Gallant, one of the finest cavalry horses ever bred, and took him for a quick trot through the park before riding over to Violet’s house.
The valiant steed had seen him through the Napoleonic Wars. His regiment had mostly served as back up forces for the main English army. But they had taken the lead in the Battle of Waterloo, and he owed his life to Gallant. They had worked as one during the course of battle, Gallant responding to his every subtle movement. A tap with his right knee. A tap with his left. An easing or tightening on his reins.
For every man in his cavalry regiment, their horse was more precious than gold. For many, their horse was more precious than a wife. “Gallant, are ye prepared to meet Heather? Ye’ll have to tell me what ye think of her.”
The beast snorted in response.
“But dinna make the mistake of falling in love with her. She isn’t ours to keep.”
He turned onto Chipping Way and rode up to the front gate. He was not surprised when Heather came running out of the house to greet him before he’d managed to dismount. Her hair was done up in a casual twist, taking on an extraordinarily beautiful, golden brown tone as the sun shone down upon those silken curls.
Her morning gown was the same azure color of her ey
es. It was a modest affair and looked quite lovely on her. “Ye look pretty, lass.”
She blushed but seemed quite pleased by the compliment. “Dahlia helped me choose the color. She has an eye for such things, doesn’t she?”
“Indeed.” He tried to contain his smile, but it was a hopeless endeavor. The lass was magic to his heart, and he could not hold back the upward twitch of his lips as he dismounted. “Are ye ready to do some reading, lass?”
She nodded, her eyes sparkling as she cast him a pixie smile. “Is this your gray?”
“Aye, he’s mine.”
She stroked the stallion’s nose. “He’s a beauty, Robbie. What’s his name?”
“Gallant. I raised him from a foal.” Why had he told her that? Why would she care? “Shall we get on with it?”
She arched an impudent eyebrow. “The dreaded reading?”
He hadn’t been keen on discussing the book with her today. At this point, not ever. She’d be married to Tilbury by next week. He knew this was an act of cowardice on his part, but he didn’t care. They were both afraid of what would be revealed to them.
Heather had her dream to marry a marquess. He had no dreams, only the stark reality of what he could offer her as a husband, which was embarrassingly little.
Simpler to leave things as they were.
She with her marquess.
He…with whatever his life would bring.
His feelings would have been different if Heather had come from a poor family with no connections to speak of. But she came from a large, loving family. She was connected to some of the finest noble houses in England through advantageous marriages among the Farthingales, and now she was about to be the next debutante in the family to marry into one of those noble houses.
She would spend her days entertaining in a fashionable home and living a prestigious life in London. All she had to do was exchange vows with Tilbury, and then all her dreams would come true.
“My cousin, Laurel, is one of the finest horse breeders in England,” Heather said, breaking into his thoughts. “She is John and Sophie’s daughter and married to Lady Dayne’s grandson, Graelem.”