Julia London - [Scandalous 02]

by Highland Scandal

  “Marble?” Charlotte repeated, her eyes growing wide.

  “Indeed,” Jack said, as Newton quietly crossed to the window and returned with a chair. “There is a dual staircase that curves upward,” he said, sketching it with his hands, “and sculptures made in the style of the Greeks line the octagon.” Without missing a word, Jack moved forward. He continued to describe the opulence of Carlton House as he flipped the tails of his coat and took a seat close to Charlotte.

  Whether she noted it or not was hard to say—her pale blue eyes were riveted on him, and her eagerness to hear what he was saying was obvious. She hung on every word, and at one point her eyes seemed to fog, as if she were seeing Carlton House, perhaps even walking through it as he described it.

  Suddenly Jack wanted to give her every single detail, to let her truly see it through his eyes. He described the private apartments of the Prince of Wales, of the Crimson and Satin drawing rooms. He described the Throne Room, the Blue Velvet Room, the music room that opened onto a lush garden, and the massive dining room. When he’d exhausted his description of the house itself, he began to describe life within Carlton House, and the beau monde. He promised to give her a book he’d carried with him. It was Cecilia, by his acquaintance Frances Burney—a fictionalized account of the world of privilege.

  Somewhere in the course of it, he felt Charlotte begin to thaw.

  The discovery that Dougal had been left to grind the thistle needed for the animal’s fodder caused an uproar with Mrs. Kincade. It seemed he’d made quite a mess of things, and Mr. Kincade had fetched his wife to help. “Miss Lizzie will be undoing for a week what he’s done,” Mrs. Kincade said bitterly.

  Lizzie doubted it would take that long, but she offered to prepare Charlotte’s tea while Mrs. Kincade swept up the mess. She sent Dougal to find his captive.

  Lizzie was carrying the tea down the corridor when she heard voices coming from the drawing room. Accustomed to silence in the afternoon while Charlotte sat and brooded, Lizzie drew up, listening.

  That was Jack’s voice. Charlotte must be beside herself, Lizzie thought, and hastened her step.

  She crossed the threshold of the drawing room and stopped mid-stride. The three of them—Newton, Jack, and Charlotte—looked at her expectantly, as if she’d interrupted them.

  Then Charlotte suddenly smiled. “Lizzie! Come, come! I knew you’d be along. You will no’ believe what his lordship has been relating!”

  His lordship? Smelling a scoundrel, Lizzie marched across the room and deposited the tea service on the table.

  “He’s been to Carlton House,” Charlotte continued far too eagerly. “Where the Prince of Wales resides! And he’s given me a book. It is about the haut ton. Do you know what that is? It is London’s highest society. Come and sit, Lizzie—you should hear what he tells!”

  Oh aye, if only there was ever a moment in her day to come and sit. “No. Thank you,” she said, her gaze going to Jack. “There is too much work to be done.”

  One corner of Jack’s mouth tipped up ever so slightly. “I could wait until Miss Lizzie is available,” he said. “Perhaps over supper tomorrow, aye?”

  “Oh yes! That would be exciting!” Charlotte said.

  Shocked, Lizzie looked at her sister, noting that Newton smiled kindly at Charlotte—smiled—as if to encourage her!

  Something disastrous had happened at Thorntree in the last several days. Lizzie’s world, as she knew it, had turned completely upside down and was skipping off toward the sun, destined for a grand collision.

  “Lizzie, Mr. Kincade tells me there is a bit of Papa’s wine in the cellar,” Charlotte suggested. “What do you think?”

  This couldn’t be happening. This man would not sit at her table, smiling at her in that way he had of making her feel weak, regaling them all, ingratiating his way into their lives, only to escape at first opportunity and leave her to relive the small moments when her flesh had heated, her heart had pounded, her palms had dampened. Those moments in which she’d felt absolutely alive, could believe herself alluring, could believe in excitement again.

  “Lizzie?” Charlotte said uncertainly.

  “Splendid!” she blurted with false cheer. “We shall make a soirée of it, shall we, Charlotte?”

  Jack looked entirely too pleased with himself.

  It was more than she could bear, and Lizzie strode from the room. When would Mr. Gordon come? When would he come and save her from this madness?

  Chapter Twenty

  When one cannot possibly win, one must concede, and Lizzie conceded. Charlotte looked horrified when she appeared in her room before supper the following evening, dressed in the teal blue silk that had hung in her wardrobe for so long.

  “Lizzie…you look beautiful,” Charlotte said.

  Lizzie blushed self-consciously. “You think so because I’ve worn only common mourning clothes these long months.” She walked to Charlotte’s wardrobe, throwing it open.

  “What are you about?” Charlotte asked. “I’ll no’ throw off the mourning before decorum and propriety allow, merely because Carson decrees it.”

  “Decorum and propriety finished mourning Papa two months ago,” Lizzie said irreverently, ignoring Charlotte’s gasp. “If you want to be angry, be angry that Carson has forced this interminable supper on us, as if we are a pair of debutantes! We’ve no’ had anyone to dine at Thorntree in over a year!”

  “It canna be avoided, Lizzie,” Charlotte said morosely.

  “Apparently, it can no’,” Lizzie agreed, and withdrew a gold brocade gown from the wardrobe. Charlotte had worn it the night of the MacBriar party celebrating fifty years of connubial bliss. She’d adored this gown and had twirled round and round before the looking glass, admiring herself in it.

  Not a fortnight later, she’d been thrown from the horse and broken her back.

  When Lizzie turned around and held it up, Charlotte blanched. “You’re being cruel. No, I donna intend to end my mourning.”

  Lizzie tossed the gown onto the bed. “You’ve worn black or gray for more than a year now. It is time that life carried on, Charlotte. You will wear it tonight and preside over a supper party as a good hostess ought.”

  Charlotte refused to look at it. “It’s too fine to be sat upon in a chair. You should wear it.”

  “I happen to fancy my gown!” Lizzie cried. “And this gown,” she said, indicating the gold, “is fine whether one is sitting or standing or climbing a tree.”

  “Lizzie, please! It’s humiliating!” Charlotte protested as Lizzie turned her chair around to the vanity Papa had put up on legs so that Charlotte’s chair could roll up to it. “I’ll look a fool in such a lovely gown.”

  “Why? Because you canna’ stand?”

  Charlotte’s face melted into anger, and then suddenly into despair. “Because I am hardly a woman at all.”

  “Charlotte! That’s absurd!” Lizzie exclaimed.

  “Absurd? I am a burden to everyone! I canna take care of myself, I can no’ even preside over a dining table. Newton says that I am unkind, but he scarcely understands me at all.”

  “He’s free with his opinions, is he no’?” Lizzie asked angrily.

  “Quite. He told me I should smile, that I have a lovely smile, but when I said there is precious little over which to smile, he said, ‘you’re alive, are you no’, lass?’” she said, mimicking his gruff voice. “Aye, Lizzie, I am alive, but I am bound to a chair, and Newton said that I’m bound to it because I want to be bound to it, that I feel safer in this chair, and were I only to ask for help, the world would open to me,” she said tearfully.

  Shocked, Lizzie blinked. “That man said all that?”

  “Oh aye, he talks and talks and talks,” Charlotte said and, covering her face in her hands, began to cry.

  “Charlotte, darling! What’s wrong?” Lizzie asked, sinking down next to her.

  “It’s him, Lizzie!” she said tearfully. “He’s so stubborn and unyielding, but somehow, he makes me
less angry. Can you imagine it? I am always so angry,” she said, balling one fist, “but when I am with him, I donna feel the anger. I feel as if there truly is a world out there that could open for me.”

  “But Charlotte! That’s wonderful!” Lizzie said, taking her hand and forcing her to uncurl her fingers. “Why should that make you so unhappy?”

  “No, no, Lizzie, it’s awful. He’s a crofter, aye? He lives in a cottage south of Castle Beal and he has a bit of land he farms and a few cattle. He could no’ be less compatible with me! And even if we were completely suited, how could he possibly bear this?” she asked, gesturing to her legs.

  “That’s ridiculous! A man once told me that love comes from the most unexpected places.”

  “Diah, Lizzie!” Charlotte said, wiping the tears from beneath her eyes. “I donna love him. Come, come, we are expected in the drawing room,” she said, and began to fidget with the jewelry in a velvet box on her vanity.

  Lizzie stood up. “Aye. But I think you should wear the gold,” she said, watching her sister in the mirror.

  Charlotte did not object, but continued to fidget with the things in her jewelry box. “What will we feed our guests?” she asked, slyly changing the subject.

  “Carson sent round some venison,” Lizzie said, and told her all that she and the Kincades had done to prepare for the evening as she helped Charlotte into the gold gown. The gown transformed Charlotte. She was beautiful. “Look at us,” Lizzie said as she began to dress Charlotte’s hair. “On my word, the earl has succeeded in turning our house topsy-turvy, has he no’? Were it no’ for his arrival in Glenalmond, we’d no’ be forced to endure this evening.” She rolled her eyes.

  “Oh dear,” Charlotte said, watching Lizzie’s reflection in the mirror. “There you are speaking to me of love, and all the while, you’ve come to esteem him, Liz.”

  “Donna be ridiculous,” Lizzie said. “I donna esteem him. It was no’ my invitation that put him at our table, was it?”

  “Look at you, you’re as angry as a bee. And I’ve no’ seen you look so lovely as this in an age! Little wonder you were so eager to throw off your mourning clothes, aye?”

  “I dressed as I should for supper guests,” Lizzie said briskly.

  “Mmm…of course you did,” Charlotte said, her eyes narrowing on her sister. “Yet you must admit he’s rather interesting,” she prodded.

  “Aye, rogues are always captivating in their own way.”

  Charlotte giggled.

  “Laugh if you will, but he is a rogue and more,” Lizzie said sternly. “He has a bottomless well of fantastic stories that he uses to gain favor wherever he might need it. He is charming to the point of melting the boots off the women he meets—including you, Charlotte. Oh, and he is wanted for treason. Fancy that! Wanted for treason! He is a rogue, Charlotte, a rogue with criminal leanings.”

  Charlotte laughed outright. “Very well, he is a rogue! But he is a handsome rogue—ouch!” she cried, putting a hand to her hair where Lizzie pulled too tightly. “There, you see? You do esteem him!”

  “The only gentleman I esteem is Mr. Gordon, and the sooner he arrives at Thorntree the better it shall be for all of us!” Lizzie insisted as she threaded a ribbon through Charlotte’s thick blond tresses.

  But Charlotte continued to watch Lizzie closely, her expression dubious. “Admit it, Lizzie. There is something about him that is rather appealing. He is quite handsome, and the most charming man to have ever been in Glenalmond. And he is rich.”

  “Really, Charlotte, Mr. Gordon is all of those things. He’s no’ rich, I’ll grant you, but he will be.”

  “Has Lambourne touched you?”

  “Charlotte!” Lizzie cried.

  “Honestly, how can one spend as much time in your suite of rooms alone with that man and no’ have a wee bit of passion, then?”

  “You are incorrigible! I’ll have you know that our paths rarely cross, and really, you must stop saying such things, Charlotte! Mr. Gordon must believe that nothing has gone on between us.”

  Charlotte snorted. “Then you’d best hope he comes as soon as possible.”

  Lizzie ignored her and focused on the task at hand. She didn’t really care to be examined by her sister….

  All right, perhaps she did esteem Jack in some small way. Charlotte was right, he was interesting. Frankly, he was the most interesting thing to have happened at Thorntree in years. But what in blazes did it matter? He’d be gone just as soon as he was able, and even if he had told her the truth about his feelings, she would never be anything more than a dalliance to him. It wasn’t as if he was going to sweep her and Charlotte from Thorntree to live in London or Lambourne Castle. And to think of him at Thorntree was laughable.

  Whether or not she esteemed him at all seemed beside any rational point. Best put out of her head. Best ignored. And when Lizzie paused to review her appearance and tucked a curl behind her ear that had fallen from the pearls she’d wrapped through her hair, she reminded herself she’d donned her favorite gown only because she wanted to be a presentable hostess.

  Nothing more.

  Newton poured Jack a tot of whisky as if he were lord of the manor. “Uisge-beatha,” Newton said proudly, reciting the Gaelic word for whisky. “I distilled it.” He clinked his glass against Jack’s.

  Jack tossed it back, managed to keep from choking at the bitter burn of it, and smiled through a watery-eyed gaze at Newton. “There you are, a very fine whisky,” he lied.

  Newton beamed with pleasure and lifted the flask, offering it to Jack.

  Jack quickly threw up a hand. “Ah, no, but thank you kindly,” he said, and gingerly put the tot down. He’d already donned the kilt Newton had told him he must wear. The whisky was a wee bit more than he wanted from the man.

  Newton shrugged, poured himself another tot of the liquid fire.

  “Well, then, Newton,” Jack said. “You’re still here, are you? I would think Carson would be satisfied that the damage is done, and would allow you to return to your flock. You do have a flock, aye?” Jack asked. “Lots of sheep on a craggy hill somewhere? Perhaps a dog to keep you company on long winter nights?”

  “Ye know very well I canna leave Thorntree. Who would keep ye, then?”

  “Very noble of you,” Jack said. “Yet surely if this is a true handfasting as your laird would have us all believe, then why should I need anyone to tend me at all? What am I keeping you from?”

  Newton’s gaze flicked over him. “I have a small croft,” he said, a bit hesitantly. “My flock, as ye call it, is well cared for in my absence by my cousin.”

  “Have you a wife?” Jack pressed.

  “Widowed,” Newton said, refusing to offer more.

  “Then do you live all alone, Mr. Newton?”

  He shrugged. “My cousin’s land abuts mine. My sister comes round on Sundays.”

  He seemed quite at ease with that life. Frankly, he looked like a man who lived alone, Jack thought.

  He wondered idly if he himself looked like a man who lived alone.

  The thought bothered him, however, and he looked away from Newton and strolled to the hearth. “Were I in your shoes, I would no’ abandon my livelihood to serve a dubious master.”

  Newton gave him a rare and wry smile. “But ye’d abandon it for London, aye?”

  “If I had the freedom, I’d be in London now,” Jack said.

  “Ye might be in London in a fortnight, if the prince’s men find ye, aye?”

  Touché. “Tell me,” Jack said, “what is to keep anyone—supper guests and all—from pointing a finger in my direction? Does Beal honestly command such fealty?”

  “Among the clan, aye. We’d no’ hand one of our own over to anyone, much less the English. And if one was tempted by the bounty, the laird would match it.”

  “That seems rather extreme, does it no’?” Jack said.

  “He has his reasons.”

  Jack wanted to ask what those reasons were, but his thoughts were inte
rrupted by the arrival of Lizzie and Charlotte.

  Jack—and Newton, as well, for that matter—was not the least prepared for their appearance. Jack had grown accustomed to Lizzie’s drab gray gowns and the miles of wool she wore. The gown she wore this evening was the farthest thing from drab or gray. It was the color of a Scottish sky in summer, the underskirt the ruby shade of dusk. The fit of the gown was so remarkable that Jack had to force himself to look away lest he be accused of ogling.

  Yet that was precisely what he was doing, and he could scarcely keep from it. She moved like a cloud in that gown, gliding into the room even when pushing Charlotte in her chair. She wore the annular brooch—a wreath of thistles—and her auburn curls had been corralled prettily by a string of pearls.

  Jack had seen some beauties in his time, women dressed in rich fabrics and dazzling jewels who moved gracefully, spoke eloquently, and made love elegantly. Lizzie made them all look common to him now. There was something about her that struck at the very core of him. She was a Scottish princess, a woman who exuded health as well as beauty, who had a sparkle in her eye that reflected a lust for life. Jack was utterly enchanted. So enchanted that Lizzie had to say once more, “Good evening.”

  “I beg your pardon,” he said, instantly extending his hand to hers, “I was so taken I quite forgot myself.”

  “Save your flattery, milord; I am immune,” she said playfully, and delicately put her hand in his palm, allowing him to lift it up to his mouth. He watched her as he kissed her knuckles; she smiled a little, but her eyes were full of challenge.

  “Miss Charlotte, how lovely you are this evening,” Newton rumbled from somewhere nearby.

  “Hmm…thank you, Mr. Newton,” Charlotte said coolly, looking at him and Jack. “The gentlemen are looking rather regal, are they no’, Lizzie? Lambourne, I am surprised to see you in a kilt.”