The Sins of Lord Lockwood

by Meredith Duran

  Christ, he was a sap. But he couldn’t mind. He drank another mug of ale, and another. By the time the food was removed and a few of the islanders pulled out pipes to play, he was near to drunk, and full of dangerous ideas.

  As though she sensed it, the countess approached, sitting down beside him and then making him flinch with her sudden shout of approval for a couple taking the floor: “Aye, a reel! Stomp loud now, Moira! Spin her properly, Samuel! So,” she continued at a softer level as she turned to him. “Do we bore you terribly, Lord Lockwood, in comparison to Geneva and Paris and London?”

  He grinned. Impossible to take offense at the gentle mockery in her voice. He had certainly been bragging during their walk up Ben Nevis. Prating to her of the foreign wonders he’d seen, seeking to remind her of the superior adventures he might offer her.

  “Rawsey does not admit comparisons,” he said. “And if it’s bagpipes you want, the Continent will disappoint. But a week in Paris wouldn’t bore you, Lady Forth. Even you must admit that it might possibly be a small bit entertaining.”

  She laughed, an easy and husky sound, relaxed pleasure infused with ale. “Yes, I suppose, provided I had an expert guide such as you. Or Baedeker,” she added dryly after a beat. “A Baedeker guidebook would be cheaper by half.”

  “A great deal more than half. Let’s be clear: I make a very expensive companion.”

  She laughed again, and their eyes locked. “But an amusing guide,” she said softly. “I don’t doubt that in the least.”

  The freckles scattered across her face seemed to form a map, or a language that he would manage to decipher, if only given the opportunity and leisure to study them.

  He made himself look away, to prove that he could. But her freckles’ configuration, the clusters on the crests of her cheeks, and those two in particular on the border of her upper lip, remained before him, like lights burned into his vision, even as he watched the dancers’ numbers increase.

  On the floor below, a dark-haired beauty caught his eye and winked before she was spun back into the crowd.

  “Lady Moira has taken a fancy to you,” said his hostess. She sounded amused, which did not precisely please him.

  “She’s a lovely girl,” he said. “Your cousin, yes?”

  “That’s right.”

  “She told me her forebears were great cattle raiders, and no doubt owed me restitution.”

  “Oh, indeed. Moira is immensely propertied.”

  He glanced at her and caught the sardonic smile on her lips, which she bit back as she continued. “Very wealthy. A fine target for you, Lockwood.”

  “Target,” he repeated, amused now himself. “Lady Forth, I believe you misunderstand: in such matters, I do not need to aim.”

  “Oh?” She arched one russet brow. “Indeed, I suppose you are like catnip, and all the felines swarm you whenever you pause to catch your breath.”

  He bit the inside of his cheek to keep a straight face. “It would be ungentlemanly to confirm it, of course.”

  “No need, I have heard my fill about your popularity.” She looked rather cross now herself. “It was all I heard, in fact, for the entire week leading up to the Camerons’ ball. News of your attendance made any interesting conversation impossible. For a time, I wondered if you might not be torn limb from limb by the ravening crowd before you ever got the chance to set foot on the dance floor.”

  He laughed despite himself and heard the robustness of it, and made himself set aside his tankard. For Lady Forth, he would require his wits. “I see. And so we finally have the truth: it was self-preservation, rather than bibliophilism, that caused you to refuse my hand in a dance. You were afraid of falling casualty by proxy.”

  She met his eyes squarely. “You misremember, Lockwood: you never asked me to dance.”

  “By God.” The oversight amazed him in retrospect. “Well, let me remedy that.” He rose, holding out his hand. She looked from it to his face, a mischievous light entering her eyes.

  “It would be unwise to assent,” she said apologetically. “You see, four men already requested the honor of my first dance tonight. I said yes to all of them.”

  He laughed again. “You did not.”

  She shrugged. “I did not plan to dance. And now I cannot, lest I provoke a brawl.”

  “Four men?” He was torn between amusement and a creeping displeasure that felt, to his horror, like jealousy.

  “Hmm.” She tapped her lips in thought. “Perhaps five?”

  He seized her hand and tugged her to her feet. “Which men might these be? Let me know so I can keep a lookout for my enemies.”

  “Oh, they’re all your enemies, if you mean to dance with me. Or do anything else, for that matter.” Her hand turned in his, her fingers warm—did she mean to deliver that soft stroke down his palm? Ridiculous, laughable, that such a light touch could cause his groin to stir. But she was looking into his eyes, her smile sly and knowing, and he felt the sudden barbaric urge—blame this medieval atmosphere—to sweep her into his arms and bundle her away from all other men’s regard.

  “Be honest,” he said, his voice coming out fiercely. “Do you favor one of them? If so, tell me now.”

  She was a vixen whose smile widened as she studied him, and who then turned away toward the crowd, to give the men there a considering survey. “Angus Stewart offered for me at Michaelmas,” she said. “But I told him no, I thought his friendship too dear. In fact, what he requires is a hostess to advance his political career, and I cannot be bothered to wait hand and foot on a man, much less play hostess in Edinburgh. Now, Alex Carson”—her slender finger pointed out a muscular blond—“asked twice, the last time on Ash Wednesday, but he’s the sort to expect a wife to ask permission every time she goes to market. I told him, what a time to propose! Alex, I said, you must keep your mind on your Lenten vows. And Thomas Sutherland, there, has tried to screw up his courage several times now, but he clings so fiercely he would never let me come here alone—” She broke off to stare at Liam with wide eyes, then looked down to their joined hands. “Your grip will not change those facts,” she murmured, “though I am certainly impressed by the strength of it.”

  Startled and embarrassed, he loosed her hand. God save him, acting like a green-eyed boy.

  She laughed softly, enjoying his fluster. She was accustomed to the upper hand.

  But so was he. “Alas,” he said, taking her hand again and lifting it for a kiss that made her breath audibly catch. “I’ve not had any proposals, myself.” With his free hand, he took her waist, as though to turn her into the first step of a dance, and subtly urged her backward a pace. “I suppose that ladies, being trained in a subtler art, cast their lures more covertly.”

  “Oh yes,” she said. “We ladies are very devious, and could not speak plainly even if we had to spell every word.”

  He laughed. She was a fine champion for her sex. He nudged her another pace backward. “If you wish to call me an ass, Lady Forth, go ahead and say it. My vanity will survive—it’s quite robust, you see.”

  She nodded, aping concerned sympathy. “That is not uncommon among men.”

  “And among women such as yourself?” She did not seem to notice that their next step together moved them behind one of the broad wooden pillars that supported the ancient scaffolding of the roof. “Have you no flaws, no vanity born of your charms?”

  She opened her mouth, then at last took note of their position: tucked out of sight, sheltered from the rest of the crowd. For a moment, as her lashes fluttered rapidly, he prepared to make a graceful retreat, to let her escape—but she took a deep breath and leaned back against the pillar and smiled at him.

  He placed his hand over her head, leaning close. “Answer,” he murmured. “What is your flaw, Lady Forth?”

  “Pride,” she said softly. “I know exactly what I want, and I will not consent to anything less, or otherwise.”

  He studied those two freckles, nestled so perfectly against the crest of her mout
h. “That sounds very rigid,” he murmured. “What you want may surprise you.”

  He pressed his mouth to hers.

  The kiss on the mountain had been sweet but brief. Brief as a lightning flash: just long enough to illuminate what had been hidden, unseen, not guessed at.

  This kiss aimed for what the other had discovered, but not managed to explore.

  Her hands found his face, her fingers cool and soft. With a gentle nudge to her chin, he tilted her head back and sipped her. She tasted like ale and honey, and the inside of her mouth was warm and wet and her tongue was clumsy at first, but quickly cleverer.

  On the dance floor, a drum joined the pipes, and as he kissed her, it seemed to Liam that the drum was his heartbeat, quickening and quickening as her arms came around him, as his palm traveled the unexplored length of her spine, tracing the buttons and ridges and seams of this garb that separated them, though their bodies now crushed together, all at once. His hand, braced hard on the post, was the only thing that kept their balance as she wrapped around him like a vine. God, but she was hot, her mouth and her grasping hands and the sweet cinnamon scent of her enfolding him as he devoured her. This moment, the taste of her, the stomp of the dancers and the beat of the drum and the air heated by fire, lifted him outside himself as they kissed.

  When they broke apart, he felt heavy again, rooted, transformed. They stared at each other, her ragged breath as loud as his, and then she clapped her hand to her mouth and laughed.

  No more beautiful sound in the world. He would make her laugh like that forever, given the chance.

  He cleared his throat. Hunted for some clever line, when what he wanted to propose was an adjournment to a dark room—but no, Christ save him, ruining her was not his aim. He knew his aim now. It was clear.

  He caught her hand, kissed each knuckle as she stared at him, eyes shining. “Now,” he said hoarsely. “Will you dance?”

  “No,” she said. “In fact, I would like to rectify a failure of my sex. Lord Lockwood.” Her hand turned in his, taking control of the grip. “You are a man who wishes the freedom to travel, and requires money. I am a woman who requires a husband, and wishes the freedom to live as I like. Do you see a match here?”

  He blinked again. Surely she could not mean . . . “I beg your pardon?”

  She gave a wry tug of her mouth. “If this is how men react, I begin to understand why ladies cast lures instead. But listen carefully, if you please: do you agree that we are perfectly suited for each other’s purposes? Under no illusion of love, but with a great deal to gain from each other, and no aim to be a spouse who limits the other’s freedom and choice.”

  He was understanding her. “Are you proposing, Lady Forth?”

  Her eyes narrowed. “Do not expect me to go down on one knee,” she said. “I could have done it on the mountain, but not in these skirts.”

  He began to smile, but it turned into a laugh, which he smothered by pulling her to him and kissing her again.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  London, 1861

  Anna woke alone, well into the morning. Jeannie teased her for it as she helped Anna dress. “London ways, ma’am. You’re keeping the devil’s hours now, up all night and abed till noon!”

  It was, in fact, not yet ten o’clock. But in Scotland, Anna would have been up since dawn. “Perhaps Londoners know better than I do,” she told Jeannie. She felt wonderful for the rest, and the mirror reflected back an unusual radiance, and a readiness at the corners of her lips to twitch toward smiles.

  Very well, her husband was deviant. So, too, it seemed, was she—for she had enjoyed herself thoroughly by the end, and had gone to bed amazed and mildly indignant that once had been enough for him.

  She would not be shy about it. That pleasure she’d had was four years overdue. And it had a very worthy goal.

  As though to reward her, happy news came by post from her solicitor: while he had not yet located the chairman of the railway company, the lease of the beach might yet be revoked. The owners, the shiftless MacCauleys, were complaining that the company had not yet issued payment for its use of the land. If the company continues to delay payment, Sir Charles wrote, we may persuade the MacCauleys to sue for breach of contract. I have offered to serve as their agent at no fee to them, should they agree.

  As Anna made her way downstairs, she kicked her feet on the stairs and reached overhead to feel the pleasant burn of stretching muscles. The good news had put her in mind of Rawsey—what a fine morning it would be there, with her mare at hand for a gallop through the fields! She had not felt the wind in her hair for two weeks now.

  In the hall, she found Lockwood conferring in low tones with two unfamiliar men. Her appearance put an end to their conversation; they tipped their bowler hats to her as they passed, but did not meet her eyes. Something in their square, capable postures, and the economical briskness of their strides, made her pause and look after them.

  “Early business,” Lockwood said as he came toward her. He caught her hand and lifted it to his mouth, his grip warm and dry, and she was startled by her own impulse to flutter—such an old, forgotten reflex, which very few men but he had ever managed to trigger.

  They smiled at each other. “You look well,” he said.

  She felt daring. “Blindfolds suit me, it seems.”

  She heard him catch his breath. His grip tightened on hers briefly before he kissed her knuckles again and released them. “How fortunate for me.”

  Distracted by his husky tone, she realized only belatedly that he did not look as well rested as she. Shadows were smudged beneath his eyes, and his gaze briefly broke from hers to follow the path his visitors had taken. He was distracted by something. “I hope your morning’s business was not bad news?”

  “Oh no. Merely some trifle to do with Miss Ashdown.”

  His smile and tone were persuasive, but she was not sure she believed them. The look of those men had been better suited to guarding a bank than settling artistic disputes. “What ails her?”

  “A sensitivity to criticism,” he said with a wink. “Which puts me in mind of the rest of them, fretting and stewing at Lawdon. It’s been a fortnight since I visited—I should go settle their nerves.”

  Lawdon was his estate nearest to London; Anna had overseen its operations from Scotland, but since the harvest, she’d not had any correspondence from Mr. Pike, the steward there. “You’re housing artists there now?”

  “Yes, I’ve opened the house to a few of them. Perhaps you’d like to visit with me?”

  A quick pang rippled through her. They had planned to visit Lawdon after their honeymoon. Lockwood had been raised there. But she had never seen it.

  She had certainly paid for it, though. Alone of Lockwood’s estates, it had been in good repair, but half the fields had been devoted to potatoes, and therefore vulnerable to blight. She had conducted quite a fierce argument with Mr. Pike, via letters and cables for three months, before he had finally agreed to diversify the crops.

  Lockwood’s father had also left behind a very fine and expensive stable at Lawdon. She bit her tongue now against mention of how much those horses had cost her before she’d found a market for the stallions’ services—it would quite sour the mood.

  “I should love to come,” she said. She would have her satisfaction of that stable: country air and a ride through the fields were precisely what she craved.

  Lawdon’s bucolic location made it quicker to reach by road than by rail, and so Anna’s first glimpse of the property came three hours later, through the glass window of the coach, as they turned into a drive lined by oak and elm trees. Lockwood had kept her amused during the drive with tales of the artists in residence—among them a former butcher with a genius for capturing the everyday rhythms of the countryside and a Frenchman who only painted housemaids, much to the housemaids’ irritation. “He begs them to pose in the middle of dusting and sweeping, so nothing gets cleaned. I’ve had to double their pay to keep them satisfied,” Loc
kwood said with a laugh.

  These tales prepared Anna for some monument to bohemianism, but Lawdon Hall made no outward display of its mischief: the red-bricked manse was surprisingly modest, distinguished only by neat rows of tall, shining windows, and a scalloped trimming of gray stone.

  “Prepare for admiration,” Lockwood warned her as he helped her out of the carriage. “The profits from last year’s harvest have kept the staff in wax candles all winter. I expect every member of the household will tug a forelock for you.”

  She laughed. “It was a handsome profit here last year.”

  “It was a handsome profit on every one of the estates,” he said. “Four years running now, and all your doing.”

  She had wondered occasionally if he’d bothered to look to his business since returning. Now she had the answer. “I did promise to bring them into the black,” she said softly.

  “Yes. So you did.” He hesitated on some syllable, then shrugged and led her up the steps, where a slight chill seemed to envelop them—the ghosts of his own broken promises, perhaps.

  But she would not poke at those ghosts today. The sun was bright, the sky clear, the clean air scented by grass and fragrant pollen. She would enjoy herself. With an effort, she smiled as they stepped into the hall.

  Lawdon’s senior staff queued to introduce themselves. These were the thoroughly conventional counterpoints to the London household: a butler grayed and stooped with age, a housekeeper grown fat and jolly on the authority of her jingling key ring, and the steward, Mr. Pike, who clasped Anna’s hand like an old friend and expressed his earnest thanks on the double-furrow plough she’d sent.