The Earl of Benton_Wicked Regency Romance

by Madeline Martin

  “Emma,” Alistair said gently.

  She forced her eyes open and found him staring down at her with open empathy. He didn’t have to say more. She knew he understood the agony of being different.

  “I may be English, it’s true,” she said, “But I comprehend the brutality of the ton.”

  “Ye called off the wedding,” he surmised.

  “Yes. And told my father I would never attend another Season again, nor would I wed. I have remained in the country since and do not bother to invite guests. My father never pressured me, but when he died…” Her voice wavered and a fresh, hot threat of impending tears prickled in her eyes.

  She swallowed. “My uncle continued to press me to marry my cousin, a man who holds little interest outside of gambling and…and pursuing pleasures of the flesh. So you see why I do not intend to wed. And why I do not relish being told I am beautiful.” She dropped her gaze to her hands, ones that were far larger and less dainty than those of Lady Calista. “I am very much aware of the deficiencies in my appearance.”

  Alistair knelt down in front of her, his handsome face mere inches beyond her hands. “There’s one thing ye’re no’ taking into consideration.” He folded his fingers over hers and met her eyes. “No’ everyone has the same reference of beauty. I dinna prefer ladies like Lady Calista. They’re fragile and they’re empty, incapable of intelligent conversation and liable to be carried off by the first stiff wind. Ye are different, aye, in the ways I adore best. A mouth I canna stop thinking of kissing, eyes I could lose myself in, a stubbornness only a Scot can appreciate, and the kind of curves I could spend a lifetime running my hands over.”

  The knot in Emma’s throat loosened and the heat of her emotions pulsed into one of burgeoning desire. “Make me feel lovely, Alistair,” she whispered.

  He rose with a hungry growl. “With pleasure, my Emma. With great pleasure.”

  Chapter 13

  The whisky had been secured in the hidden compartments. The false bottom trunks, the hollowed-out cart, even the false bottom and seats of the carriage were laden with liquor. It would be passably good so long as no overly thorough inspection was done.

  In truth, Alistair had not used the clothing he planned to pack in the trunks, but brought them to ensure they were sufficiently full and not elicit suspicion. Not from whatever constable they may encounter, and not from Emma.

  “Ye did well, lad,” Alistair said to Hamish and gave him a ruffle on the head. Beast bounded ahead of them on their way to the castle, his tongue lolling out of his grinning mouth. The glutton had to be constantly shooed away from the whisky as it was being relocated into the hiding places. Alistair’s Scottish grandda had always said of Munro whisky that one would be pulled back to its lure if they drank only one drop. Apparently this had proved true of Beast.

  Hamish adjusted his crooked tam into place and gave a sheepish grin. “It was good of ye to let me assume the business.”

  Alistair scoffed. “It’s necessary to keep Madge from running herself into an early grave with her business sense, aye?”

  Hamish laughed at that and followed Alistair into the castle. After a day’s work, they were desperate for a good amount of hot food. Soon, Alistair would be relegated to the dainty fare of English nobility, and his hearty Scottish meals would again be a thing of memories and wanting. No doubt Beast would enjoy a heaping plate himself.

  “I wouldna recommend doing more runs to England.” Alistair spoke in a lower tone to ensure they were not overheard. “Stick with Scotland. It will reduce the risk of being caught.”

  Hamish nodded, his expression earnest, the same as it’d been through every lesson Alistair offered the lad. This was exactly why Alistair had asked his cousin to meet him over the Scottish border where he lived. He was the perfect choice to aid Madge with the whisky smuggling.

  Alistair hoped Hamish would heed the advice to stay out of England. As it was, Alistair was nervous about the impending run to London. Not only for the sheer size of it, for twenty barrels was a much larger amount than he’d ever smuggled before himself, but also for the danger involved. If they were caught, it would be more than Alistair who would suffer the consequences of the treasonous act. It would be MacKenzie, and Hamish. And Emma.

  Alistair’s heart dropped merely at the thought of harm befalling her. Especially after what she’d endured at the cruel hands of the exact class of people who had caused Alistair so many years of hurt. He hoped he never met Lady Calista or the Viscount Sage, for their sakes.

  A soft laugh came from the great hall before Alistair and Hamish walked in. Emma’s laugh. As much as she had consumed the night before, he had expected her to have a devil of a headache. But then, Munro whisky was quality and was as good to a man when he drank it as it was to him the next morning. Apparently that applied to women too.

  He wandered into the great hall with Hamish. Emma sat at the table beside Madge with Beast at their feet.

  Emma glanced up at him and smiled. Her hands were, of course, busily stroking over the dog’s glossy head. She wore a plaid bodice and skirt one of the maids had fashioned for her. The style notched in at the waist and came lower than the prim necklines of her older gowns, far more becoming to her luscious figure.

  “Look at ye grin at yer wife.” Hamish sank an elbow into Alistair’s ribs. “It’s good to see a man happy with his choice of bride.”

  The words chilled Alistair’s blood. He opened his mouth to protest, to insist they go outside immediately, to tell Hamish to keep quiet on the marriage. But it was too late. The affable young man doffed his bonnet respectfully and gave a respectful bow. “Madge. Lady Benton. I trust ye’re well this afternoon.”

  Madge’s eyebrow lifted. “Lady…Benton?” She tilted her head as if she might not have heard correctly.

  Alistair’s heart fell a few ribs lower. Emma’s eyes went wide.

  Hamish twisted his tam, surveying the room and three other people. “Aye,” he said slowly. “They said they were married when I met them…”

  Beast scratched at his chin and his growling groan filled the thick silence.

  “Well, we aren’t really, you see.” Emma gave a nervous laugh. Beast lowered his leg and stared up at her. “My uncle is after my inheritance and has gone to great lengths to get it. Alistair was helping me, and we didn’t have a good reason to be traveling without a chaperone and it was a simple excuse. But that is what it is.” She beamed brightly. “A misunderstanding.”

  Madge narrowed her sharp eyes. “Ye said ye were his wife?”

  Emma blushed. “Yes, it was a foolish lie.”

  Madge lifted her brows at Alistair. “And ye said ye were her husband.”

  Alistair moved his weight from one foot to the other. He knew where she was going with her direct questioning. “Aye.”

  “Then ye’re wed,” Madge declared.

  “I beg your pardon?” Emma gasped. She regarded Alistair, her expression pleading. Dear God, he could only imagine what she was thinking.

  “In Scotland, when ye declare yerself wed, as husband and wife, ye are.” Madge shrugged. “It’s common knowledge here, lass.”

  Emma’s face went white. “I beg your pardon,” she repeated weakly.

  Madge nodded with a level of self-importance. “Ye’re wed as sure as if ye’d gone to some gilded chapel in London.”

  Hamish tossed Alistair an apologetic grimace.

  “Can it…is it possible for it to be annulled?” Emma asked, panic rising in her tone.

  Madge squinted her right eye in thought. “If ye havena consummated the union, it might be done.”

  Emma gave a soft, choked cry and Madge grinned at her. “Ach, he’s a handsome lad. I canna blame ye there. But he’s yer husband now.”

  Emma focused blankly at the floor, her shoulders sagging with defeat. Beast issued forth a high-pitched whine and settled his great head on her knee. She did not lift her hand to pet him.

  “It’s good to welcome ye to the family, las
s.” Madge hugged Emma, oblivious to her complete and utter devastation. “I dinna believe I’d want another English man or woman to grace these halls, but I like ye.” She released Emma and pushed up to her feet. “Ye did fine, lad. Verra fine.”

  Judging from Emma’s stricken face, he had not done fine. He’d done very, very wrong. It absolutely could not get worse.

  Or at least so he thought, until Madge peered at Emma. “What’s that ye say about a fortune?”

  And Emma, who had maintained her composure through the escape from her uncle and who had even fought with tenacity to curb her tears the night before as she told him the story of her ultimate humiliation, lowered her face into her hands and cried.

  ***

  To say Emma’s world had crashed at her feet was feasibly the greatest understatement of the century. Everything she’d fought so hard for, everything she’d wanted so badly was gone.

  It didn’t matter if she was only days off from being five-and-twenty. A husband would assume her inheritance no matter her age.

  And Alistair had done exactly that. She had lain awake, memorizing the wooden beams crossing over her bed while her brain whirled and whirled and whirled, spiraling through the events that had ensued until night faded to dawn.

  Alistair had tried to come to her the night before, but she refused to allow him in. She refused even to reply to his plea to her, his profuse apologies offered through the thick layer of ancient wood. But he had said they were leaving today. That was the one good thing she had to anticipate. At least she would be home soon.

  But it was not her home any longer. It was Alistair’s home. With Alistair’s furnishings. To ask permission to spend Alistair’s great fortune should it exceed the meager allowance Alistair allowed her to have.

  He’d said only the night before that no man would want another woman when he had Emma. Certainly his declaration would be put to the test with enough funds to see several mistresses properly housed within the best locations in London.

  Anger knotted in her stomach, clenched all the tighter by the depth of his perfidy. She wanted to scream and cry and pound her fists to the wall until her voice gave out. Anything to make the fire of betrayal burning within her dull.

  Emma dragged herself from the bed and allowed the shy maid to aid her into one of her English gowns. Neither spoke, which suited Emma fine. A solid knock came after the maid had left, and Emma tensed.

  “I know ye’re in there, lass.” Madge’s voice came through muffled from the other side. “I wanted to speak to ye before ye leave.”

  Emma crossed the room and tentatively let Madge in.

  Madge entered and kicked the door closed. “Lawd, Emma. Ye look like hell.”

  Emma smirked. “I feel like hell.”

  “Aye, well.” Madge secured the red tartan shawl more tightly about her shoulders. “I wanted ye to know ye’re always welcome here. That is to say, I’d enjoy having ye back here, at Lochslin Castle. Along with Alistair.”

  The older woman crossed her thin arms, then uncrossed them and let them hang awkwardly a moment before she crossed them again. It was obvious this was not an easy conversation. Earlier Emma might have tried to offer gentle notions of understanding or sympathy. But she was too empty inside to give even a modicum of response.

  If Madge noticed, she didn’t seem to care, and continued on. “I like ye. I’ve enjoyed ye being here. And obviously I enjoy having my Alistair home. It’s been hard having him so verra far away.” Her mouth twisted in thought. “I know ye dinna want this marriage, but ye two are well matched. There’s a possibly of great happiness between ye.”

  Emma choked out a mirthless bark of laughter. “What could possibly make you say such a thing?” Good heavens, Emma was being rude, but while part of her acknowledged it, a greater, empty part of her did not give a fine fig.

  Madge’s face softened. The wrinkles along her eyes drooped slightly and the brilliance of her blue gaze shone brighter. “Because of how he looks at ye.”

  Beyond Emma’s hurt and the hours she’d lost to drowning in a sea of her own sorrow, her heart flickered to life. “I beg your pardon?”

  “I’ve no’ ever seen Alistair look at a woman the way he looks at ye.” Madge put a cool, withered hand on Emma’s forearm. “Ye make my son happy, Emma. And ye make him realize maybe he was wrong to hate the English so much.” She dropped her hand and her face hardened to its typical stoic visage once more. “Hell, maybe ye make me no’ hate the English as much either. Ye’re a good lass and I hope that son of mine treats ye well, or I’ll offer him a sound beating.”

  The idea of Madge pummeling her bony fists on Alistair’s massive frame was too preposterous to not draw at least a chuckle.

  “There ye are, lass. Ye’re so bonny when ye smile.” Madge drew her in for a hug. The older woman’s body was frail and brittle against Emma’s arms despite the ferocity of the hug. “Have a safe trip home. And please remember what I said about returning to Lochslin, aye?”

  Emma released Madge. “Thank you.”

  The older woman tilted her head, as if the gesture were of little consequence. And though Emma had only been acquainted with Alistair’s mother for a few days, she knew in fact it was of great consequence.

  No one interrupted Emma while she packed her belongings into the single bag and made her way down the stairs. Her footsteps clicked on the stone floors and echoed around her, yet her heart pounded so loudly in her chest, she almost did not hear them. She would see Alistair soon. Her husband.

  The thought rose up like bile in her throat.

  MacKenzie met her at the entryway of the castle and bowed. “My lady.” He took her bag from her and paused to offer her a sincere look. “If there is anything I might do, ye will let me know, aye?”

  She nodded, unable to speak for fear doing so might loose the flood of tears once more.

  MacKenzie gave a pleasant expression of understanding and moved aside to allow her to pass. The sky was clear and bright and the sun dazzling as it shone on the waiting carriage, now drawn by six great horses rather than four. Quite an expense easily covered when one encountered a great fortune, no doubt.

  But it was more than the six horses. There was an additional covered cart as well. Curious, Emma peered around the heavy flap of canvas to discover many well-made trunks inside. Her heart squeezed. “What is this, MacKenzie?”

  His mouth drew in a tight line in a clear indication he did not wish to answer. Which meant it was exactly what it appeared to be.

  “These are Alistair’s effects, are they not?” she queried. “The entirety of his wardrobe being brought from Scotland to London.”

  “Aye, my lady,” MacKenzie answered slowly.

  “How quickly you were able to ready so many garments,” she said bitterly.

  She yanked open the door before he could rush forward to offer his assistance and trod upon the dainty step to haul herself inside. To face her husband.

  Chapter 14

  There were many things Emma had planned to say when she saw Alistair. She had wanted to rail at him for his lies, for his betrayal. For the things he’d said and hadn’t said. Yet when she finally caught sight of his large frame and strong, handsome face, every single word was smothered beneath the blanket of incredible heartache.

  Her chest had an empty, searing hole in it, and even the effort to breathe became tremendous. She covered her mother’s bracelet with her palm and rubbed the cool metal over her wrist.

  He observed her with a cautiousness in his deep blue eyes. Shadows showed on his face, indicating his sleep had been as lacking as her own. He settled a hand over hers, stopping her from twisting her bracelet.

  “Emma.” His voice was ragged.

  Beast’s tail thumped nervously on the ground and he began to whine.

  “Sit, please.” He released her and indicated the bench opposite him.

  Emma sat and immediately reached for Beast while Alistair closed the door behind her. The dog’s wet nose fou
nd her palm and he immediately nudged her hand upward to the top of his head. No doubt he could sense the tension between them and shared Emma’s poignant desperation for comfort. She reached for him and scratched the soft, warm fur at his ears in the place he preferred. He sagged against her legs, placated.

  If only she were so easily soothed. Given the heaviness in her very soul, she could not see herself consoled with expediency.

  Alistair had settled himself once more across from her. He cleared his throat, but she spoke before he had the opportunity to do so. “I see your trunks had already been prepared.” She lifted her brow in mockery of how he often did to her. “How convenient to have them ready so expediently.”

  The carriage lurched forward and Emma braced her legs hard against the bench in front of her to keep from being pitched toward Alistair. She did not wish him to steady her. In fact, she could live the rest of her life without ever having his touch again and be perfectly content.

  “I had prepared to bring those items before our marriage was announced,” he answered calmly.

  Heat spread over her cheeks. His explanation was perfectly reasonable. She felt even more the fool for her accusation.

  “Why didn’t you tell me?” There was a whimper to her voice she did not care for.

  His brow furrowed and his face reflected sheer exhaustion. “I dinna intend to hold ye to the marriage. I dinna anticipate this. I thought we could both go about our separate ways and it would never be of any real concern.”

  “Never be of any real concern?” she gaped. “And what if when you wed?”

  She ground her teeth together, hating how the very mention of him marrying another plucked a new chord of hurt within her.

  “I dinna plan to wed either.” He frowned. “I know ye dinna want this. Madge’s knowledge of this is a small matter. We dinna have to be married. We can decide ourselves not to hold true to those vows.”