by Lecia Cornwall, Sabrina York, Anna Harrington, May McGoldrick
And punched him in the jaw.
By the time he’d recovered from the shock of what he could only interpret as her refusal of his suit, she’d whirled away and flounced off to her chambers—God only knew where—in the upper reaches of the enormous mansion.
But this was only the first salvo in his campaign to win her.
And win her, he would.
Chapter Three
Needless to say, Catherine did not sleep well that night.
The worst part of it all—aside from Duncan’s reemergence in her life—was the loss of The Wilds. She’d loved everything about it—the beautiful manor, the loch . . . the stables. It had always been her dream to go back one day. To live there, perhaps. Somehow, though all her trials, the thought of that magical place and the fact that it was hers, had sustained her.
And now it was gone.
Gone.
After tossing and turning and fretting into the wee hours, she finally drifted off amid horrible dreams, a sour stomach and damp cheeks.
When Deidre came to part her bed curtains—far too early, as it happened—she groaned. “Let me sleep,” she said on a whimper.
“I beg your pardon, miss,” Deidre said. “But you have callers.”
Catherine forced open a lid and winced.
Had the sun always been so bright?
“Miss?”
“Um. Who is calling?” she asked. Not that she cared. She should tell them all to go away. After last night, she needed time to recuperate, to rebalance herself, to deal with the outrageous suggestion Duncan MacKay had made that she—egads—marry him.
Marry him! Marry him!
And then he had kissed her. On. The. Mouth.
She couldn’t even bear to think on it. She couldn’t.
“Miss Elizabeth St. Claire and the Lady Esmeralda.”
“Oh. Liz.” What a relief. Catherine had expected it would be Tiverton and Preeble, which she really could not bear. At least she could talk to Elizabeth about the horror her life had become since last night. Surely the two of them could come up with some plot to set things right. Elizabeth was a dab hand at coming up with plots to set things right.
So she threw back her covers and brought her legs round and allowed Deidre to sheathe her in a morning dress. It was bright and cheerful and matched her mood . . . not in the least.
With a heavy sigh she stared at herself in the glass as Deidre finished perfecting her curls. Who was she anymore? Not that pretty, privileged girl she’d been as a child.
Oh, she was still pretty, but her looks had become her detriment. She was now nothing more than a pawn on a chessboard. A horse with excellent teeth, dressed in silk and lace, for men to bid upon.
Had she really once dreamed of being in love? Of a handsome man coming to sweep her off her feet? Had she really ever thought she had choices?
She did not.
And it had never been clearer to her than now.
Peter had robbed her of all that.
Her own brother.
She tipped up her chin and attempted a smile, but it was thin. She would have to do better than that or Elizabeth would know at once that something was wrong. And Catherine did not want to ruin her day with this disaster. At least, not right at first.
She heard Elizabeth’s laugh as she came down the stairs to the sitting room, and it made her smile. That was one thing she loved about her friend—the ability to light up a room with her laugh.
And then she heard something she heartily disliked.
Preeble’s snort.
She nearly turned about and headed back to bed, but apparently Lady Esmeralda had been on the lookout for her. She warbled, “Oh there you are, gel!” at the top of her lungs and with no small hint of panic. With a wince, Catherine lifted her skirts and stepped into the room.
She was nearly leveled by the overwhelming scent of roses.
She’d never much cared for the odor, but could tolerate it in a garden. In a small room, like this, with hundreds of blooms, pollinating all over the place, it was positively obnoxious.
“Good morning, darling!” Elizabeth chirped like that bouncy blue bird who loves the fact that morning has come because the world is a beautiful place.
Catherine fought back the urge to grimace. “Good morning.” Her response was a tad more restrained, uttered through clenched teeth as she and her friend pressed cheeks. “Lady Esmeralda.” She nodded to the maven, seated as she was in the wingchair, brandishing her cane like the royal scepter. “Lord Preeble. So nice of you to come.”
Preeble primped and then laughed self-consciously, which distinguished itself with only a tiny snort. “My true pleasure, Lady Catherine,” he said with a bow. “Although I must apologize.” He gestured to the flowers, perched in vases on nearly every surface. “I neglected to bring you your due.”
“Oh, no worries, Lord Preeble,” she tried to say without sneezing. She failed. Thankfully she had a handkerchief handy. “I am sure I need no more flowers.” She made her way to the window and opened it, greedily breathing in the fresh breeze.
“These all appear to be from Tiverton,” Elizabeth said with a waggle of her brows. “He seems quite smitten.”
Ooh! Elizabeth was an evil wench.
“I am quite smitten as well,” Preeble complained, making a mash of his felt hat.
“I’m sure you are, good sir. And I assure you, roses are not my favorite.”
“Well. That is good to know.” A dreaded voice wafted toward her from the hall and Catherine whirled around to glower at Duncan. And then froze.
Her jaw dropped and she stared in utter shock and perhaps a hint of outrage.
Surely it was outrage.
For there he stood, in the doorway of her perfectly respectable sitting room . . . half naked! Well, almost so. He wore a proper shirt and vest, but below he wore only a kilt. Other than socks and boots, his legs were completely bare.
If she were the swooning sort, she would have.
Thankfully, she was the glowering sort.
“You should return to your chambers and finish dressing,” she hissed, to which he laughed.
“This is perfectly acceptable attire in all the best receiving rooms in Scotland, I assure you.”
“Yes. But you are not in Scotland, are you?”
His gaze fell on Elizabeth and his lips lifted into a slow salacious smile. “Nae. I am no’,” and he passed Catherine without so much as a How do you do and cozied up to her friend.
Elizabeth, for her part, shot to her feet and, eyes full of stars, gawped up at Duncan as though she were a landed cod. “Ohh!” She cooed. “Are you really a Scotsman?”
Blast and double blast.
Elizabeth had always had a passion for Scotsmen. How irritating was it to watch them stare at each other like that?
Catherine elbowed her way between them and, with a palm to his chest, pushed him back.
He frowned at her, but it was one of those vexing, playful frowns. “Aren’t you going to introduce us?” he asked.
“No,” she snapped.
“I’m Elizabeth St. Claire,” Elizabeth said, reaching ’round Catherine to offer Duncan her hand. He took it, of course, the beast, and bent to kiss it, which was awkward because his head brushed Catherine’s breast in the process.
She suspected he’d meant it to, so she glowered at him more.
He ignored her, focusing every ort of his attention on Elizabeth, as though she were the only woman on the planet and a rich one to boot. “Duncan Mackay,” he said in a purr.
Elizabeth’s mouth formed an O. She shot a look at Catherine. “The Duncan Mackay? From the loch?”
Blast!
“The very one.” He smirked at Catherine again. “I see my reputation precedes me.”
Elizabeth batted her lashes in a frenzy that made Catherine wonder if she had something in her eye.
“I say. Do tell,” Preeble said in a blatant attempt to insert himself in the conversation.
“It’
s quite thrilling,” Elizabeth gushed. “Catherine had drowned in a Scottish loch and Mackay saved her.”
“It was all very long ago,” she grumbled. “It hardly signifies.”
“But he saved you!”
Oh, lord love a duck, her friend was beginning to grate on Catherine’s last nerve. But Elizabeth was nothing to Duncan—who turned to her and said, “I do believe you would be quite dead if it were not for me.”
“I believe I thanked you!” she snapped.
“Did you?” He tapped his lip. “I don’t recall. You were something of a termagant back then.”
A red tide rose on her cheeks. Yes. That was it. That teasing, beastly tone he used to use on her and make her furious. She wanted to smack him so hard! If only they weren’t in company. She would show him then. She would.
“Oh do sit,” Lady Esmeralda barked. “You’re both giving me a crick.”
“Of course ma’am,” Duncan said and he took a seat on the divan, nearest the older woman, which was irritation because Catherine had to sit beside him, as Preeble had perched himself next to Elizabeth. Short of wedging herself between them, this was her only choice.
Even though they didn’t touch, his warmth engulfed her.
“So.” Esmeralda pinned Duncan with a gimlet gaze. “I notice the butler did not announce you.”
Catherine’s blood went cold. She picked up a napkin and proceeded to twist it in a knot. When she realized what she was doing, she smoothed it out on her lap and took a cake from the platter.
“Nae. I’m . . . staying at Ross House.”
As Catherine expected, eyebrows rose around the room.
This was scandalous enough on its own. If he mentioned Peter’s debt, all would be lost. Her entire future—along with her reputation—would be in tatters.
“I take it you are Peter’s friend?”
“Aye. A longtime friend of . . . the family.” Duncan waggled his brows and practically leered at her.
A wave of outrage descended upon her. How dare he intrude on this elegant setting in his filthy kilt and mud spattered boots? How dare he assume his presence was welcome here? How dare he smile at Elizabeth that way?
Her fingers closed into fists of rage and her cake crumbled to bits. It was quite a mess, what with the frosting and all, and she cleaned it hastily. No one else noticed because they were all staring at him, transfixed perhaps by the sight of his knobby knees.
And how aggravating was it that they weren’t really knobby in the least? They were perfectly formed, just like the rest of him, and speckled with a fascinating pelt of manly leg hair.
Catherine gulped and forced her gaze away as she realized she too had been gawking at his nakedness—and maybe drooling a little. It was unfortunate that her gaze snapped up . . . to his.
He was watching her with that irksome, crooked smile.
And then, to her horror, he winked.
A scratch at the door was a welcome reprieve. She leaped to her feet as Winston stepped in and intoned, “Lords Tiverton and Nordhoff.”
Oh, blast.
This was only getting worse.
“My lords,” she trilled as they stepped up to her and dutifully kissed her hand. It was an effort to maintain her smile, but at that moment, she decided if she did nothing else this morning, it would be to prove to Duncan Mackay that she had suitors. All of whom wanted to marry her.
It would be to show him she did have choices.
By God, she did.
After allowing them an adequate time to fuss over her, she took their arms and led them into the room, and introduced them around. They were both obsequious to Lady Esmeralda, gracious to Elizabeth and hostile to Preeble—who had beaten them to the punch—but when their gazes landed on Duncan, they froze. They gaped at him as though someone had brought an ape into a drawing room.
Catherine tried to be amused at their contempt, but just couldn’t pull it off. It annoyed her that the lords of London thought they were better than the Scottish lairds. Even though Duncan was neither, he was a fine man—perhaps a better man than they or their friends could ever hope to be.
Regardless, it wasn’t her place to have an opinion on the matter. After that one moment of shock and dismay, they both managed to grasp the reins of propriety and settle into a morning call.
They did, however, completely ignore Duncan. As though he were not there.
As the conversation progressed, covering the most banal subjects one could imagine, this rudeness became more and more blatant to the point that Catherine wanted to stand up and scream.
Ironically, Duncan remained calm, relaxed and, it seemed, slightly amused.
But then, Tiverton and Nordhoff did not know what Catherine knew.
Duncan Mackay was not sitting in Catherine’s sitting room.
She was sitting in his.
He had every right to toss these popinjays out on their thoroughly starched behinds. But he did not.
“So,” Tiverton said after a too-long discussion about his mill in Berkshire. “What do you think of the flowers?” He raised his arm to embrace the bloomy room.
“Oh,” Catherine said. “They are lovely. Just lovely.”
“Really?” Duncan said. He was still sitting next to her so she had to look up to meet his gaze.
“They are lovely.”
“But you dislike roses.”
Her heart lurched. Oh dear. What a beast. She frowned. “I do not dislike them.”
“You did say they are not your favorite.” Duncan turned to Preeble. “Didn’t she say they were not her favorite? I was certain that was what I heard.”
“She did, indeed.”
“Well, I say,” Tiverton sputtered. “I do apologize.”
Oh, blast! “There is no need to apologize, Lord Tiverton, I assure you the roses are exquisite—”
“But they do make you sneeze.”
Was it rude to kick someone at a morning call?
Although, given her breeding and the meticulous nature of her training, it was far more likely that her foot just slipped.
Regardless, Duncan was not cowed. In fact, he might have laughed.
“I remember when you were a girl, you preferred heather to fancy blooms.”
“Heather?” Preeble reared back. “Such a vulgar plant.”
Vulgar? Catherine shot to her feet. “It’s a lovely flower. Beautiful and fragrant. Why, it grows wild over the hills of the highlands, masses and masses of purples and greens and yellows—”
She trailed off because they were all staring at her, all her suitors, as though she’d gone quite mad.
Nordhoff turned to Tiverton and grunted. “I suppose you were right about her,” he said. “She is a bit uncultivated.”
Tiverton sniffed. “She did spend her, ahem, formative years amongst savages.”
Catherine shot a glance at Elizabeth, who’d said nearly the same thing yesterday, but in a much nicer way. Her friend did what she usually did and fluttered her lashes.
“Yes. I had thought her salvageable.” Nordhoff looked her up and down in a presumptive manner that made Catherine want to show him her teeth, like the horse he thought her, but she managed to maintain her aplomb while a cold, hard realization formed in her belly. And with it, an irrevocable resolve.
She cupped her hands in a docile configuration and smiled at both men, and then included Preeble in the salute.
“Thank you all for visiting,” she said in an icy but gracious tone. Her expression, however, was fierce. “I do hope you can visit again soon.”
“Humpf,” Nordhoff said at the less than subtle hint that this audience had ended. He made his way toward the door, his stays screeching like an abused accordion. Tiverton and Preeble followed close behind. They, all three, gave her a preemptory nod and scuttled from the room.
She followed them into the foyer, but only because she wanted to witness the door closing on their pompous asses.
Catherine hadn’t expected Elizabeth to follow her, but sh
e was glad her friend was there when she realized what she’d done.
She’d just dismissed her most viable suitors.
Her only viable suitors.
She couldn’t explain it, other than her soul had rebelled at the thought of living with any of them, tolerating their witless conversations, suffering their bilious advances. She’d rather beg on the street than live like that.
And she felt that way even knowing it could likely be the case.
“Oh my dear,” Elizabeth said, wrapping Catherine into her arms in a congratulatory embrace. “You were magnificent.”
“Was I?” She didn’t feel magnificent. She felt drained. And hopeless. And beaten.
Elizabeth tucked her arm in Catherine’s. “You wouldn’t have been happy with any of them anyway.”
“Wouldn’t I?” she asked. But at that moment her gaze fell on Duncan Mackay and her heart lurched.
She wouldn’t be happy with him either, that beast of a man who had tormented her so as a girl. She had no idea why he wanted to marry her, and she had been so overset at the suggestion—and the ensuing kiss—that she hadn’t thought to ask.
Not that it mattered. Not really.
At this point she had no other choice.
Her fate had been set out for her. Carved in stone, as it were.
If she wanted to keep her brother out of prison, and herself off the streets, she would marry Duncan Mackay.
God help her.
Chapter Four
Duncan hadn’t completely understood the nuances of the interaction between Catherine and her suitors—in some ways, it had seemed as though they were all speaking in an arcane and foreign language made up of nose twitches and pursed lips—but he did understand, and appreciate, the result. They were gone. All of them.
He reached to the plate and helped himself to a cake. It was an odd habit, cake for breakfast, but he was certain he could come to like it. Though he really would have preferred a rasher of bacon. He’d have to talk to Winston about his preferences.
“Hungry?” A warble to his right captured his attention and he turned to Lady Esmeralda who was peering at him down her nose. Which was a feat, because she was rather small for one so fierce. She actually had to tip her head back quite far to affect the result of superiority.