by Liz Carlyle
Quin was to be married. Oh, he’d known that was inevitable. But surely she had not…? No, not so soon. Not this fast. Not before he’d had time to so much as think…
But Quin, it seemed, had not been busy thinking. He had been acting. Alasdair went up the short flight of steps and was met by a porter, who threw open the door. “Good morning, sir,” said the servant as he took his hat. “An eventful day, is it not?”
“So I keep hearing,” said Alasdair, setting off in the direction of the coffee room. It was blessedly empty again. He took a table, and waved off the servant who approached. The lad—Frampton or Hampton or some damned thing—had disappeared. Alasdair spread open the paper, no longer interesting in Wellington’s fate, but in something altogether different. He thumbed quickly to the page where such acts of folly generally appeared. And there it was. In black and white, quite literally.
He blinked his eyes, and tried to focus. But the words danced about in bits and pieces. The honor of announcing…wedding in the spring…daughter of the late Countess of Achanalt…
He tried to make sense of it, but it was as if he were surfacing from a nightmare, caught in that netherworld between sleep and wakefulness; a world which one struggled to escape because nothing made sense. Just then, someone cleared his throat sharply. Alasdair looked up to see Quin bracketed in the doorway, his chin down, his gaze faintly rueful.
“Frampton said he’d followed you in,” he remarked. “Am I to have your congratulations, old chap?”
For two heartbeats, Alasdair couldn’t find his tongue. “I am not perfectly certain, Quin,” he answered stiffly. “Why the devil am I reading about this in the paper? Do I not deserve the courtesy of a private word?”
“Mother couldn’t hold her horses,” Quin answered, propping one shoulder casually against the doorframe. “Seems the fire frightened her out of her wits, and she decided she’d much rather be a dowager countess than a dead one, with Cousin Enoch inheriting all. She took a liking to Miss Hamilton and seized upon the notion. And, I must confess, I am not displeased.”
“Oh, well, jolly good then!” said Alasdair mordantly. “I’m glad your mother is happy in her choice. But did it ever occur to you, Quin, to discuss it with me first?”
“Why should I?” he asked frankly. “Esmée is nothing to you. Is she? I mean, I thought you wished to be rid of her.”
“Good God, she is Sorcha’s sister!” Alasdair said in a low undertone. “And she is my…she is someone for whom I feel at least partly responsible. Yes, of course she is something to me.”
Quin approached the table. “She is damned lucky her reputation wasn’t ruined by you,” he said, his voice quiet but unmistakably reproachful. “Honestly, Alasdair, what the deuce do you care? You wanted her wed and out of your hair. Soon she’ll be both.”
Alasdair had left his seat and begun to roam restlessly through the room. “Why, Quin?” he rasped. “Of all the marriageable women in London, why Esmée? Can you tell me that? Can you?”
Quin seemed taken aback. “Well, I—I like her, Alasdair,” he answered. “She’s sensible.”
“Sensible?” echoed Alasdair incredulously. “If by that you mean she’ll turn the other way when it comes to your whoring, Quin, you may be in for a rude awakening. Scots are not known for their forgiving nature.”
Quin set a heavy hand on Alasdair’s shoulder. “Careful, old chap,” he growled. “The state of my marriage, and what does or does not occur within it, is not your concern. I shall give her children, fine homes, and a title. Trust me, she shall have no cause for complaint.”
Alasdair was quiet for a moment. “And what of love, Quin?”
“Yes, what of it?” Quin sneered. “I just said I mean to get children on the girl, for God’s sake. That will suffice. No, I don’t love her, and she doesn’t love me. Neither circumstance is apt to change.”
“Has she told you that?”
Quin colored faintly. “It’s none of your damned business, but yes. She has.”
Alasdair swallowed hard. Tried to think. He felt as if he were drowning. “Are you sure, Quin?” he choked. “Are you sure this is what she wants? Her…her aunt did not coerce her?”
“Her aunt knew nothing of it until the matter was settled,” his friend returned. “Lady Tatton was thrilled, of course. No, Esmée was not coerced. My God, Alasdair! What is your problem? Are you playing dog in the manger here? If you wanted her, damn it, you had every opportunity.”
“I am her sister’s father, Quin,” he gritted. “Not to mention almost a decade and a half older than she. What I did or didn’t want is a moot point.”
“Yes, you’re bloody well right it is,” Quin agreed. “Because she has accepted me.” He threw himself into the chair in which Alasdair had been sitting and watched his friend pace for a moment. “Damn it, I thought you would be pleased. I thought this would be good for Sorcha. For all of us, really.”
Alasdair paced the floor, back and forth between the windows, but Quin said no more. “You do not deserve her, Quin,” Alasdair finally said. “You know you do not. You cannot go to her with a whole heart and love her as she ought to be loved.”
“Because of Viviana, you mean?” The sneer was back, tenfold now.
“Because of her, and because of all the women after her,” said Alasdair. “Good God, you could pave a road to hell, Quin, with the women you’ve kept and the whores you’ve had. Esmée is an innocent, for pity’s sake! Think what you are doing!”
But Quin was giving him a suspicious sidelong look now. “She tells me she is not all that innocent,” he said in a remarkably quiet voice. “Is there something, Alasdair, which you ought to be telling me?”
Alasdair held his gaze for an eternity. “Be good to her,” he finally gritted. “That is what I am telling you. Be good to her, Quin, or I swear to God, I won’t even trouble myself to call you out. I’ll just put a knife between your goddamned ribs.”
Quin clamped his hands on his chair arms, as if restraining himself from violence. Alasdair wished he would not. He wished Quin would just come at him with his fist flying, so he would have some semblance of an excuse for beating the very devil out of him.
But he was not to be that lucky. Instead, Quin rose and bowed. “Mamma is giving a dinner at Arlington soon,” he said in a voice of calm reserve. “It is for close friends and family only, to celebrate the betrothal. I wish you and Merrick to attend.”
“I should rather not,” he answered. “I cannot speak for my brother.”
“I’ll see to Merrick,” said Quin smoothly. “But it will look very odd if you are not there. You are one of my dearest friends, Alasdair. Besides, Mamma has come by some story that you are Esmée’s distant relation.”
“More of Lady Tatton’s mischief, I collect,” said Alasdair tightly.
“It is just as well,” said Quin. “Now, for the sake of our long friendship, Alasdair, will you come?”
Alasdair lifted one shoulder. “I shall think on it,” he said.
Esmée spent the days which followed hobbling about on Lord Wynwood’s arm. They drove in the park, visited the zoo, dined with friends, and attended a new exhibit at the British Museum. Despite the sadness which hung over her, Esmée found it easy to be content in his company.
Wynwood was kind and friendly, and he did not seem to require very much of her. Indeed, she liked him so well, she was beginning to feel the slightest stirring of guilt. Surely, somewhere, there was the perfect woman for Wynwood? Someone who could give him the love and devotion which he deserved?
Their betrothal had taken society by surprise. There had been some standing wagers, she belatedly learned, in the betting book at White’s which heavily favored the possibility that he would never wed at all. Her aunt had not been wrong, it seemed, about his reputation as an unrepentant womanizer. But when Esmée teased him about it, Lord Wynwood’s eyes crinkled merrily, and he just laughed.
Most of Esmée’s mornings were devoted to Sorcha, but she did not see
Alasdair at all. She wondered what he thought of her betrothal. A childish little part of her hoped it stung him just a bit. But perhaps he was unaware of the announcement? More likely, his thoughts were simply elsewhere—with Mrs. Crosby, perhaps, where they certainly should be. Then there were his two blond actresses.
In the cold light of day, she tried to think of it all with dispassion. She tried to block out all memory of her first bittersweet weeks in London, when just passing him on the stairs could make her temper flare and her heart flutter, all at the same time.
Now, however, when Alasdair’s name was mentioned in her presence, she schooled herself to react with polite indifference. She managed it quite convincingly. But at night, her strategies were not so successful. At night, she thought of his forbidden kisses and fervent embraces. She thought of the way his hands had trembled the first time he touched her. His had been the touch of a practiced libertine, yes. But there had been awe and delight in it, too.
From the very first, her womanly instinct had told her that Alasdair was not indifferent to her. She wondered what that meant and why he would not talk with her about it. For all her twenty-two years, she felt almost as green as Alasdair accused her of being. But in truth, what was there to talk about? He was “not the marrying kind.” And she—well, she was just a gudgeon. She had done such a foolish, foolish thing in falling in love with him.
The second week of her betrothal took a slightly different turn. She saw a little less of Lord Wynwood, and when she did see him, he seemed oddly distant. The change was so marked, she wondered if he had somehow sensed her obsession with Alasdair. But when she expressed concern that perhaps they had moved too quickly, Lord Wynwood merely laughed, and gave her a silly, smacking kiss on the cheek.
It was wholly out of character with the discontent she saw in his eyes. Worse, it was a dreadful letdown after Alasdair’s tempestuous embraces. And slowly, it began to dawn on her that this was the man with whom she would soon share a bed. She was not at all sure she could.
Once, Esmée started to talk to Aunt Rowena, but the words simply would not come. She thought, too, of calling on Mrs. Crosby, but that seemed a rather desperate, childish thing to do. What could she learn from the poor woman? The truth? That might be worse than confusion. And Mrs. Crosby had her own problems so far as Esmée could see.
Thwarted, Esmée began to write Alasdair letters informing him of her betrothal; the first stiff and formal, the second almost companionable, and the third feverish and pleading. She was ashamed of each, and tore them up in turn. There was no point. He did not want her, and she had no business with him. And so Esmée did nothing but trot about town with her hand on Lord Wynwood’s arm, whilst her wrenched knee healed, and the trip to Buckinghamshire edged nearer with every passing day.
“Oh, I say!” exclaimed Lady Tatton, her head half-out the carriage window. “Arlington Park is a splendid estate!”
From her side of the carriage, Esmée could see nothing but acres and acres of finely landscaped parkland, which was dotted with herds of deer, glistening little lakes, and the occasional picturesque folly. The rambling little village of Arlington Green had vanished near the gateposts a quarter mile earlier. Esmée’s aunt, however, apparently had a stellar view as they approached the main house, for she was describing it now in every detail.
“Oh, it is Palladian, Esmée!” she pronounced. “Three—no, four—stories tall if one counts the dormers! Heavens, they must have twenty bedchambers. And the brickwork! Oh, that exquisite shade of warm, deep red. There is a double staircase from the entryway. And a huge fountain in the center of the carriage drive. Oh, my dear, do look!”
Esmée would have looked, had her aunt’s befeathered hat not been blocking her view. Still, she could bestir little enthusiasm for the grandeur of Arlington Park. Indeed, this entire affair seemed somehow surreal to her. She felt as if she were living someone else’s life—wearing their elegant clothes and mingling with their fashionable friends, whilst she was still just Esmée, the girl who had landed, angry and frightened, on Sir Alasdair MacLachlan’s doorstep almost a lifetime ago.
Within a few minutes, however, her new life returned to the forefront, and the grandeur of Arlington was rising up before her. Lady Wynwood was coming down the wide, curving steps with her arms thrown wide. In a flurry of activity, cheeks were kissed and luggage unstrapped. Servants in fine livery were everywhere.
Inside, it was worse. Some of Wynwood’s relations had arrived before them, and were impatient to meet the fiancée they’d never thought to see. So Esmée was soon being led round on his arm, being introduced to what appeared to be an army of aunts and cousins.
“You must be tired from your journey, my dear,” said Wynwood, staving off an especially persistent aunt who wished to show her the gardens. “Forgive my enthusiasm. Mamma is scowling at me. Doubtless she wishes to show you and Lady Tatton to your rooms now.”
Esmée’s “rooms” consisted of a bedchamber, a dressing room, and a small sitting room. Her aunt had the connecting suite. In the center of Esmée’s bedchamber sat an elegant canopied bed hung with silks in gold and ivory. Adjacent was a massive marble fireplace in which a fire already crackled, warding off the country chill. Dinner was to be served at six.
Only a few members of the immediate family had arrived today, she had been informed. Wynwood’s uncle had been back in England but a few days and was resting at his nearby estate. The remainder of the guests would arrive the following day for the more formal dinner to come.
If the crowd in the drawing room constituted “a few” of the family, Esmée wondered what a full house would look like. Lord Wynwood was but one of two children. Esmée had somehow concluded that his family was small. It was not.
In fact, Lady Wynwood bragged, she also had six sisters, two aunts, and an uncle, all of whom had families. Wynwood’s great-aunt, Lady Charlotte Hewitt, lived in the gatehouse. And Wynwood’s sister, Lady Alice, had three children of her own. Moreover, Lady Wynwood’s unwed brother, Lord Chesley, also had a houseful of guests at his estate. It was more—much more—than Esmée had bargained for, but she vowed to see it through.
After bathing off the day’s grime and combing out her hair, she drifted to the window. For a time, she simply stood there, just looking out across the formal English gardens and wishing she was back in Scotland with her mother. A lifetime ago, Esmée had yearned to come to London to meet people and, eventually, to find a husband. But now that she’d accomplished both, it brought her no satisfaction. She had not counted on falling in love with a scoundrel—a scoundrel who did not, it seemed, love her back.
It was cold by the window, and Esmée still wore her shift. Absently, she reached for the shawl she’d worn on the drive and tossed it haphazardly over her shoulders. Just then, she heard a sound, and glanced over her shoulder to see her aunt coming briskly into the room through the connecting door.
“I’ve asked Pickens to press your dark blue,” she began. “Will that do, do you think?”
Esmée turned from the window. “Aye, nicely. Thank you, Aunt Rowena.”
Finally, her aunt looked—really looked—at her. At once, her face fell. “Oh, my dear child!” she said, hastening across the room. “Where are your stockings? In that shift and shawl, with your hair down, you put me in mind of an orphan.”
Esmée managed a weak smile. “I am an orphan, Aunt.”
Lady Tatton was already bustling her away from the window. “Not that sort of an orphan,” she declared. “Now put on your wrapper and sit down here by the dressing table, my dear. I shall comb out your hair whilst Pickens finishes the ironing.”
Obediently, Esmée sat. Lady Tatton picked up the brush and set to work. “Now you must tell me, Esmée, just what is on your mind,” she began. “You look perfectly wretched. Are you having second thoughts? It is quite natural to do so.”
“It isn’t second thoughts, exactly,” Esmée explained. “’Tis just that there seem to be a great many people here and
such a fuss being made over this betrothal. And this house. It seems so large.”
“But your stepfather’s house was large.” Her aunt kept drawing the brush rhythmically through her long hair. “Most Scottish estates are quite comparable, are they not? For example, I understand that Castle Kerr is one of the finest homes north of York.”
“Castle Kerr?” said Esmée. “I never heard of it.”
In the mirror, she saw her aunt watching her assessingly. “It is the seat of the MacLachlans of Argyllshire,” she answered. “It is Sir Alasdair’s home. Did you not know?”
Esmée watched a faint blush creep up her cheeks. “He never spoke of it,” she responded. “But Scottish estates are not so formal, are they? Indeed, they do not seem so to me. But this house demands formality. I feel…I feel no warmth in it.”
Her aunt drew the brush through Esmée’s hair in a long, soothing stroke. “Esmée,” she finally said, her voice very quiet, “why did you accept Lord Wynwood’s proposal?”
Esmée jerked her head up and held her aunt’s gaze in the mirror. “I—I thought it was best,” she said. “I like him, and ’tis quite a good match. You said so yourself. And it will make things so much better for Sorcha.”
“For Sorcha?” Lady Tatton’s voice was arch. “What on earth has Sorcha to do with this?”
Esmée explained Wynwood’s argument. “Even you must admit, Aunt Rowena, that if we go on as we are, someone is bound to wonder who she is,” Esmée concluded. “At present, she visits infrequently, and most of the houses in Grosvenor Square stand empty. But in a few months, town will be abuzz, will it not?”
“Yes,” Lady Tatton reluctantly admitted. “I fear I cannot fault Wynwood’s logic.”
Esmée held her aunt’s eyes in the mirror. “But…?” she asked leadingly.
Lady Tatton laid the brush down with a loud clatter. “My dear child,” she began, “you simply cannot live your life for Sorcha. You have devoted entirely too much of yourself to the needs and whims of others. Rosamund kept you too long in the Highlands, holding you captive to her hysterics and fancies.”