by Platt, Meara
Still, taking to bed with a bottle and drinking himself into a stupor was probably a new low for him. He could blame it on his arm, a necessary liquid salve to numb the pain since it was sore from the stitches he’d received earlier. After bathing, he’d rubbed more unguent on the wound as Dr. Farthingale had instructed and then bandaged it again.
He was about to open the bottle when he heard footsteps on the stairs. Blessed Scottish saints. Who had Crawford let in now?
“Och, what are ye two lunkheads doing here?” he muttered as Joshua and Ronan marched in, dressed in their properly elegant evening wear instead of their usual uniforms. Joshua was a captain in the King’s First Dragoon Guards, and Ronan was a captain in the Royal Navy. They’d shed their usual regalia for formal black jackets and snow-white vests and ties. “Why are ye two here? What did ye do with yer wives?”
“Holly and Dahlia went on ahead with Lady Miranda,” Joshua said, referring to his and Ronan’s flame-haired mother. The woman had the heart of a warrior and could scare the wits out of an army of a thousand men.
“Why did ye no’ go with them?”
Ronan cast him an all too merry grin. “Because our wives told us to come here first and get you. So here we are. Don’t get too comfortable. You’re coming with us to Tilbury’s ball.”
“The hell I will.” He scowled at both of them. “Is this what ye’ve descended to? Lackeys for yer wives? Sniveling, groveling cowards afraid to contradict them? I am no’ going to that affair. Go back and tell them ye couldn’t find me. I was no’ at home.”
“No. Sorry, Robbie.” Joshua held out his hands in supplication. “First, they’d know we were lying. Don’t ask me how, they’d just pick up on it. You’d think lies carried a scent, and they could sniff them out like bloodhounds with their delicate noses.”
Robbie was not going to give in. “Are they looking to disrupt Heather’s betrothal? Because that is what will happen if I show up. Not for my part, but for Heather’s. She’s already twisted in knots over Tilbury. Why are Holly and Dahlia pushing her? Do they no’ realize they are only hurting their sister?”
“They are trying to save her,” Joshua said.
“From what? Marrying the man of her dreams?”
“But we all know he isn’t,” Ronan said. “Don’t you think it is odd that none of us have noticed even a glimmer of passion between them? I’m not saying Tilbury should be trying to seduce her, but he isn’t even tempted to steal a kiss. This is what worries our wives.”
Robbie arched an eyebrow. “He’s a marquess. He knows how to be discreet about such things.”
“My arse,” Joshua said. “There’s discretion, and then there’s just…I don’t even know what it is those two are doing. I understand Heather’s reasons. As you said, she’s been dreaming of marrying a marquess ever since she was a little girl. But Tilbury? What does he want with her? Have you ever considered that? We’ve all been putting our attention on Heather and never once bothered to question Tilbury’s motives.”
“It isn’t a question of sexual persuasion,” Ronan added. “We know he likes women, but this troubles Holly and Dahlia all the more. Why hasn’t he touched Heather? I think it’s time we dug into his motives. Don’t you?”
Robbie’s gut churned.
They were right, damn it.
He hadn’t thought about Tilbury, just assumed the man was as enchanted by Heather as he was. But to not even kiss her? What was going on in Tilbury’s head? If there were no business reasons to form a marriage alliance, and he wasn’t in love with the lass, then why marry her? “Ye need say no more. I’ll come with ye.”
He set aside the bottle and hurriedly dressed, his friends serving as valets to help him along.
Within the hour, he, Joshua, and Ronan strode into Tilbury’s ballroom. They had arrived late, and the dancing had already started. In truth, Robbie was relieved. His heart could not have withstood watching Heather open the dance with her marquess. He could not bear the thought of another man holding her in his arms. “Och, I see them. There’s Tilbury. He’s standing with the Duke of Stoke, Dahlia, and Heather.”
Joshua peeled away from them. “I see Holly talking to her cousins, Rose and Daisy. I’ll see you gentlemen later. Don’t be an arse, Robbie. Mind your manners.”
He’d been dealing with politicians for the past year. He knew how to be tactful…when he wanted to be. But as he and Ronan approached their party, Robbie realized the other young lady with Dahlia was not Heather, but Stoke’s daughter, Lady Melinda.
Gad, from the back, she and Heather looked so much alike.
To Robbie’s surprise, Stoke greeted him as though they were long-lost friends. “MacLauren, I hear you’re back in your old position. Thank the Graces! It’s good to have you back, son. I’ve never met a bigger bag of hot air than your replacement. He singlehandedly did more for Scottish secession than all the clan leaders put together. The man was so odious, we were willing to do anything to be rid of him.”
Tilbury laughed good-naturedly. “It’s nice to see you back, MacLauren. I second Stoke’s opinion.”
Robbie politely greeted the ladies and tried not to be obvious in searching for Heather. He eased when he noticed her dancing with her uncle, Rupert Farthingale. He remained with his host and their small group since Rupert would return Heather here once the dance had ended. He tried not to yawn as he listened to Dahlia and Lady Melinda describe the remodeling work underway in Stoke’s residence.
Ronan and Tilbury appeared fascinated, so he let them comment while he stayed silent and merely nodded on occasion to let them believe he had not fallen asleep on his feet from sheer boredom.
“Dahlia has been assisting my daughter in redoing our entire house,” Stoke told him, suddenly becoming Robbie’s best friend. “It started as one small project in my study. But we were all so pleased with the results, we decided to expand the project to the music room and guest parlor.”
Lady Melinda was smiling and nodding vigorously. “We’ve been having so much fun. We are now redoing our entire home. Captain Brayden,” she said, addressing Ronan, “your wife is a gem. We adore her.”
Ronan grinned at Dahlia. “I’m rather fond of her, too.”
Lady Melinda laughed. “It is quite obvious to all of us and quite understandable. She has a lovely way of dealing with me and my father, somehow quietly winning out—and correctly so—even when we stubbornly disagree with her.”
Stoke emitted a bark of laughter. “I’m sure she leads you around by the nose, Brayden, and you don’t even know it.”
“Oh, I know it. I simply don’t mind,” Ronan admitted with a chuckle, casting Dahlia another doting glance.
The dance was ending, and Robbie suddenly realized Heather did not know he’d be attending. She had been overset earlier today, with good reason. He should never have kissed her and certainly should not have put his heart into the kiss. How would she respond upon seeing him now?
He turned to the ladies. “Would you care for some champagne?”
They both accepted his offer with a nod of gratitude.
He left before Heather spied him.
In any event, he preferred to watch her and Tilbury from a distance to catch them in unguarded moments. Botheration, he liked Tilbury. His instincts were usually excellent, and nothing alarmed him about the man.
Perhaps there was nothing at all sinister in his motives. Farthingales married for love, but who was to say Tilbury wanted the upheaval that love often brought? Was it possible he preferred a pleasant companion and not an ardent bed partner? But did this mean he’d take his passion elsewhere? It would destroy Heather to learn her husband had taken on a mistress.
He shook his head.
Tilbury was not known for this sort of behavior. He wasn’t one to take on mistresses.
“Damn it.” He needed to figure out the man before Heather married him. He grabbed three glasses of champagne now that Heather had returned to their small group. She would likely be thirsty a
fter that last dance.
He hoped Ronan had the sense to drop a hint he was here, prepare Heather for the surprise of seeing him again. The lass had an expressive face. He was already concerned about the kiss they should not have shared. Stoke and Tilbury were not fools. One wrong look on her part, and they would realize what had happened between them.
He purposely approached from an angle where he could put his body between Heather and everyone else, hoping she would only need a few seconds to adjust to the unexpected sight of him.
“Miss Farthingale, I thought ye might be thirsty after the dance and brought ye a glass of champagne. Forgive my presumption, but I had offered the other ladies and did not wish to leave ye out. Or would ye prefer a different libation?”
She was staring at him, those big eyes of hers a window into her heart. She was showing every blessed feeling now coursing through her. Surprise, hurt, confusion, and a host of more dangerous expressions. Joy, relief, desire…love.
Blessed saints.
His heart was now in palpitations, and his expression probably revealed too much. He couldn’t help it; she was so beautiful. He supposed it was a good thing he had his back to the others. Heather wasn’t the only one unable to hide thoughts.
“Thank you, Captain MacLauren,” she said in a tremulous whisper. “I am thirsty. Most kind of you to think of me.”
She grabbed the glass from his hand and guzzled its contents down like a sailor on his first shore leave.
There was little he could do about it, not while holding the other two champagne glasses. He now turned to Dahlia and Lady Melinda to hand them their drinks, cringing at the thought of what Heather might do next. When he turned back to her, he saw that her cheeks were bright pink, and she looked overheated. He hoped the others would mistake her heightened color as heat exhaustion from her last dance and not what it truly was, the flush of desire.
He often received such looks, women desiring him for his body. He was never particularly affected one way or the other. If he were in the mood, he would subtly signal back, and they’d go off and do the deed. But Heather was nothing like these other women. She wasn’t asking for his body. Nor was she offering hers.
She was offering him her heart.
Not that she understood what she was doing…or knew what she was feeling.
He wanted to wrap her in his arms.
Tilbury was now staring at her. “My dear, are you unwell?”
She returned her betrothed’s stare with mounting panic. “What?”
“Ye look as though ye might need a bit of air, Miss Farthingale,” Robbie interjected. “It is obvious the dancing tired ye out, and the champagne did not sit well with ye.”
She nodded. “I drank it too fast.”
The music struck up again. Tilbury regarded her in dismay. “I’ve promised this waltz to Lady Melinda. But we can…”
“No, you must dance. Please do. I’ll be fine in a moment. My sister and Captain Brayden can escort me outdoors. I do need a little air.”
Tilbury and Lady Melinda appeared reluctant but finally agreed at Heather’s insistence. That left only Stoke with them.
To Robbie’s irritation, Stoke offered Heather his arm. “Come, my dear. We shall all take a turn on the veranda. Are you joining us, MacLauren?”
The man seemed to want him there. The question wasn’t meant as a dismissal. Why was he suddenly the duke’s best friend? “In a moment, Your Grace. I could do with a drink myself. May I bring you one?”
“A brandy for me.”
Robbie needed something strong, something to numb his feelings for Heather. But he settled for a glass of champagne. He needed to keep his wits about him, especially now that Stoke was suddenly so chummy with him and his friends. Of course, the man had developed a friendly rapport with Dahlia, which would explain why he was making himself so agreeable to all of them.
But it didn’t feel quite right.
Stoke probably sensed something was going on, but he hadn’t figured out what it was yet. Or perhaps he had and was working on his own agenda.
Robbie would put his mind to figuring out what Stoke wanted.
After claiming the drinks, he strode onto the veranda in search of his party. Heather was seated on the stone bench beside the balustrade, and the others were standing beside her. “Are ye feeling any better, lass?”
Heather looked up at him, seeming ready to crumble. “Yes, thank you. Much.”
No one believed her.
Robbie didn’t want Stoke looking at her, so he stepped between them and engaged the duke in conversation. “Did ye know Liverpool was going to call me back?” he asked, not caring for the answer, only that he was distracting the man from looking too closely at Heather.
Och, his pixie.
Her dream was falling apart, and she was trying to hold it together by frayed threads.
Robbie placed the blame squarely on himself. He should have stepped forward and made his feelings known to her from the first. But they’d both tried to take the easy way out instead of fighting for what their hearts wanted…what their hearts needed, and that was each other.
And yet, even acknowledging these feelings, how could their love ever survive? There were problems to be worked out, sacrifices one would have to make for the other. Were they insurmountable? What if they were? He could not bear the thought of leaving Heather brokenhearted.
“I was the one who put your name forward to replace MacDonald. I’m sorry, lad. I know you wanted to return home, but England needs you to restore calm. He would have destroyed the Scots Greys, you know. There isn’t a lord willing to approve the Scottish military budget if MacDonald is behind it. I know the vote won’t be until next December, but he is best removed now to give you time to repair the damage he’s done.”
Robbie nodded. “I’ll do what I can.”
The wily old man knew his soft spot—the Scots Greys. He’d do anything to protect them. He’d also do anything to protect Heather.
So why had he been such a fool and tried to run from her?
It hadn’t been to protect her, but to give them both an easy way of avoiding their feelings for each other.
Stoke patted him on the back. “Good to have you back, MacLauren. Excuse me, but I see Lord Bramble has been trying to catch my eye.”
The duke walked off, leaving him with Heather, Dahlia, and Ronan. “Pixie,” he said gently.
“No! You ambushed me! Why are you here?” She wasn’t frowning at him so much as looking desperately heartbroken.
Now Dahlia was getting overset. “It isn’t Robbie’s fault. Holly and I made our husbands bring him.”
“Why? To purposely destroy my chance at happiness?” She gave none of them time to respond before she rose and darted down the steps into the garden.
“I’ll go after her,” Robbie said, knowing he was probably the worst person to be seen with her, but he no longer cared. He blamed himself for this mess. After all, he’d read The Book of Love and understood the wisdom in the words.
Still, he’d chosen to ignore all its teachings and had purposely put on blinders. Convinced himself to take the easy way out. Lied to himself and Heather. Lied to everyone. Ignored his heart. “Pixie, where are ye?”
He followed the path illuminated by torches to a row of lilac trees now blooming and giving off a fragrant scent that carried on the lightest breeze. There was a stone bench just beyond the lilacs, and he saw her lithe body softly outlined in the amber glow of torchlight.
He made his presence known, not wishing to alarm her, and then sank onto the bench beside her. “Lass, it’s time we stopped pretending.”
She was in tears.
He could hear her soft sniffles.
His little pixie was miserable and frightened of her feelings. Now that they’d shared a kiss, she could not stop her barricades from tumbling down.
“Robbie, how could you do this to me?” she whispered as he took her in his arms. “Why are you trying to shatter my dreams?”
He was lost to love and could never let her go, but this was not what she wanted to hear. She was trying to continue the pretense, ignore the fact that her girlhood dream was falling apart because she did not love her marquess.
He caressed her cheek, the very one bearing the cut she’d received earlier this morning when the pouch had hit her in the face. That book. That damn book. It was going to bedevil them until they faced the truth. “Och, lass. It is no’ me doing this to ye.”
“Then, who? Just tell me straight out. Who is out to destroy my happiness?”
Chapter Seven
Heather never felt more miserable in her life.
Even as she tossed the question accusingly at Robbie, she knew the answer. Who was out to destroy her happiness? The blame fell squarely on her. To be precise, she blamed her heart. It wasn’t merely leading her to Robbie but tugging at her fiercely. Shoving her at him. Screaming his name. “This cannot be.”
It took everything she had in her to resist, and still, it was hopeless. She’d known it the moment she set eyes on his magnificent form in Tilbury’s ballroom. He always looked handsome as sin when in his military garb.
She usually saw him in that, for he rarely dressed in civilian clothes. It was so easy to pretend the uniform was what made the butterflies in her stomach come alive.
Yet, here he stood before her, dressed in formal attire and looking resplendent. His black jacket stretched across his broad shoulders and outlined his muscled form. He was hard and lean, big across his chest and shoulders, and trim at his waist. His legs were long and powerfully muscled.
The black of his jacket also accentuated the gold of his hair and the glorious green of his eyes. He looked dashing and elegant, and yet there was a rugged edge to him that stirred her butterflies into a frenzy.
He stood before her like a warrior, exuding power. Strength. Golden magnificence.