Scandalous Lords and Courtship

by Mary Lancaster

  She had just finished a dance with a rather charming if impudent gentleman in a fawn mask when a liveried footman presented her with a glass of champagne and a folded note. He looked quite disapproving—which was a fault in a footman—but she took the glass and the note with a careless word of thanks. Immediately, she retreated to a quieter corner, well away from Mrs. Ross, who seemed now to be watching the ballroom door.

  Setting her glass on a window sill, she turned her back to the company as though admiring the view of the gardens and the hills beyond—which, in fact, she did while casually unfurling her note. This was what she had always found to be the fun part of clandestine liaisons…

  Except the note struck her like a bucket of cold water in the face.

  Come to the summer house at the end of the terrace path at a quarter to midnight. Yours always, George B.

  She crumpled the paper. Damn him… Although she positively itched to slap him—or even better, give him the verbal thrashing of his life—she couldn’t possibly commit the indiscretion of going. His poor wife was here and Etta would give the gossips nothing more to beat her with.

  A quick glance over her shoulder at the ornate clock on the ballroom wall showed her that it was already half past eleven. The supper dance, the last before the unmasking, was about to begin and several men were closing in on her. None of them wore a red domino and black mask. Which hardly mattered.

  Hastily, she stepped into a throng of very young girls who seemed to know each other well, and with a murmured apology, walked through them to the matrons beyond and from there, slipped through the terrace door into the blessed cool of the evening.

  Fanning herself, she hid from casual glances behind a pillar, and leaned against the balustrade that enclosed the terrace. Thus, she turned her back on the formal gardens—and the path that led to the summer house—and instead admired the view of untamed forest and hills silhouetted against the clear sky. It was undoubtedly beautiful here. She was almost sorry not to have a reason to return.

  Slowly, she tore George Beddow’s note into smaller and smaller pieces until they were like crumbs which she let blow away in the breeze.

  “Do you think to cast me away so easily?” a male voice whispered behind her.

  She stiffened, for it could only be George. He must have followed closely enough to see that she hadn’t gone to the summer house.

  “Go back inside,” she said without turning.

  “Or what?”

  “Or I will.” She turned to face him. As expected, she faced a tall man in a black mask with a black domino billowing slightly in the wind. The mixture of moonlight and the candlelight spilling through the ballroom windows cast a strange glow, making him somehow unfamiliar.

  “Are you afraid of my wife?” he mocked.

  “No, but I think you are, since you’re whispering. Don’t make such a cake of yourself, George. Go away.”

  “You’re angry with me.” Even whispering, he sounded surprised.

  “Merely irritated,” she snapped. “You’re beginning to spoil my evening.”

  “Then let me make it better.” He took a step closer. “Come with me. Let me…indulge you.”

  Etta laughed.

  His mask shifted slightly, as though his eyebrows shot up in surprise. “You don’t care to be indulged, to be lost in pleasure?”

  In spite of herself, his low, seductive voice touched a chord deep within her and she shivered. As if he sensed weakness, he took another step. “Let me give you that. I’ll make you scream with joy.”

  Etta had heard enough. Shaken, she hurried forward, intending to swerve around him, as angry with herself as with him.

  But damn the bounder, he was still talking in that deep, seductive whisper. “One more night of love. I’ll make it beautiful.”

  She halted. Having drawn level with him, she turned her head slowly, staring at the masked face. “What did you say?”

  He was taller, bigger than she remembered. The light from the terrace lamps flickered across his lips. They quirked, curving into a smile. “I offered you a night of love.”

  “No, you offered me one more night of love.”

  He stood very still, watching her from eyes that were surely much darker than George’s. His hair was longer, too, strands of it lifting in the night breeze.

  Fresh anger propelled her closer. “Who are you?” she demanded. “Who do you imagine I am?” For she recognized he’d been trying to deceive her, deliberately disguising his voice in the damned, seductive whisper to make her believe he was George. Only, he’d made a mistake with one more night of love. There had never been a first.

  George had never written that note. Someone had set a trap for her, to disgrace her, which was almost as despicable as the adultery he clearly believed of her.

  Worse, there was something familiar in this man’s stillness, in the dark eyes that met hers, unflinching. She didn’t want to think it was him, to discover it was him. She jerked away, toward the ballroom, but he seized her naked forearm.

  “I imagine,” he said, low, “that you’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.”

  “What?” She paused in the act of trying to pull free, her arm frozen at a peculiar angle as she stared up at him, baffled. His head lowered.

  She had time to avoid the kiss. Her very real anger demanded that she do so. And yet, she stood rooted to the spot as his mouth closed on hers.

  He released her arm, but only to cup her masked face as he kissed her. His lips, warm and sure, moved on hers, caressing, coaxing. A host of butterflies seemed to take flight within her stomach. She’d almost been in this position before, when she’d waltzed with him. Her body recognized his before her mind accepted the hurtful truth that it was he who’d tried to deceive her, for what ends, she couldn’t imagine. She wanted to hit him, to walk away with her head held high. And yet she melted to the touch of his body, his mouth, like a young girl receiving her first kiss.

  He raised his head, his gaze flowing slowly from her lips to her eyes. “I made a mistake and I’m sorry.” His hand fell away. “I wish you were mine.”

  He turned and walked away, not into the ballroom, or even up the path to the summer house, but around the outside of the house until he vanished into darkness.

  Chapter Three

  The following afternoon, upon returning to Ardbeag House, Etta walked through the open front door, Mrs. Ross close behind, and found a stranger hammering nails into the entrance hall floorboards. Through the doorway of the front parlor, she saw Mr. Ross, the estate manager, rehanging the picture above the fireplace, while Archie, the stable lad, seemed to be repairing a table leg.

  Etta paused, frowning. “What on earth…?”

  Mr. Ross hastened into the hall. The stranger stopped hammering and retreated toward the kitchen.

  “Sorry, ma’am. Meant to have this done before you came home. We had a wee bit of trouble last night, but I think we’ve fixed—”

  “What sort of trouble?” Etta interrupted.

  Mr. Ross spread his hands, glancing from Etta to his wife and back. “I’m afraid someone broke in, caused a bit of damage before the racket woke me up.” Mr. and Mrs. Ross had their own rooms at the back of the house, an arrangement Etta had had no desire to change. She was very glad now. “Archie and I scared them off.”

  “Thank you.” Etta walked into the parlor, looking about her. The room looked more or less as she’d left it. “But this is most unusual around here, is it not? Did you recognize this man? Men?”

  “Can’t say I did,” Mr. Ross replied, following her. “There were three of them, not local men so far as I could see, though, of course, it was dark and they blew their light out as soon as they saw us. Honestly, I’d be surprised if they were from these parts.”

  “So would I,” Etta agreed. The ordinary people were hardly well off, for the most part, but they all seemed honest and proud. “Only…why would strangers come here to rob this house?”

  “Must have hea
rd that you’d be away at the Roxburgh ball. Everyone knows there are no servants sleep here. Or were none.” He coughed. “Apart from my wife and me.”

  “What did they steal?” Etta demanded, hurrying from the parlor across the hall to the library where she’d placed the majority of the money she’d brought with her, and where she’d discovered several valuable books.

  “As far as I can tell,” Mr. Ross said, following at her heels, “they took nothing. We must have chased them off in time.”

  The pile of books on the desk had tumbled over onto her accounts and papers, and she saw at once that books had been pulled off shelves and put back in the wrong order. “Did you tidy up in here?” Etta asked Mr. Ross.

  “Yes, they’d pulled out a lot of the books. This is where we found them. They ran off through the window, which they must have unlocked in advance.”

  Etta frowned. “But this makes no sense. They had time to tear up floorboards, uncover bookshelves and break things, but not to pick up any number of trinkets scattered in these rooms and the hallway? They didn’t even break into my desk,” she added, checking the drawer, “where there is a considerable amount of money.” She shut it again with a snap and locked it.

  “They were looking for Prince Charlie’s gold,” Mrs. Ross said in despair.

  Etta sat behind the desk and regarded her doubtfully.

  “You don’t know that,” Mr. Ross soothed.

  “What else could they have been doing?” Mrs. Ross demanded. “Did they break into Lochgarron House, too?”

  “No,” her husband admitted. “For I sent Archie over to check.”

  “Well, Rob Ogilvy was at the ball, along with us. Surely if some opportunist burglars had arrived in the area they would have tried his house, too? But no one ever accused him of hiding Jacobite gold!”

  Etta blinked. “Actually, no one’s ever accused me of such a thing, either.”

  “It’s an old legend, ma’am,” Mr. Ross explained apologetically. “That after the Jacobite rising in 1745, lots of the gold and monies collected for the cause were hidden in this house. Ardbeag belonged to a Jacobite before the Derwents bought it. But the story is, the soldiers never found the treasure, and they were only the first people to tear the house apart looking.”

  Thoughtfully, Etta untied her bonnet and dropped it on top of the books on her desk. “And you really think our villains were looking for this gold? Why now, when the house is finally in use? Why not last week, before I arrived? Or any of the last decades when the house stood empty? Save for yourselves, of course.”

  Mr. Ross shrugged. “I suppose the story was discounted and forgotten. I wouldn’t be surprised if it wasn’t revived in some Inverness tavern when the gossip reached them of your arrival at Ardbeag. Or your desire to sell the place. Something like that could have inspired them, I suppose. But we can only guess.”

  He scratched his head. “Anyway, now that you’re back, I’ll have a quick ride around and make sure no strangers are skulking in the neighborhood. And I’ll drop in at Lochgarron and have a word with Himself.”

  “Himself?” Etta repeated with a flicker of amusement.

  “Local habit,” Mr. Ross said apologetically. “Hereabouts, the Ogilvys of Lochgarron used to be more important than the Roxburghs. They lost most of their lands in the Rebellion, too, though by some loophole they managed to hang onto a corner of Lochgarron.”

  Etta gave a half-smile. “Perhaps they stole our gold,” she said flippantly, “and that’s why no one ever finds it here.”

  ***

  The following morning, Mrs. Ross burst into the library, where Etta was poring over books and lists. “Lochgarron is here!”

  Etta glanced up, blinking. “I beg your pardon?”

  “Rob Ogilvy of Lochgarron has just ridden up the drive.”

  “Himself?” Etta said with a hint of sardonic humor. “Excellent.”

  “What do you mean, excellent? What is he doing here?”

  Etta was not used to being spoken to in such a manner by anyone, let alone by a dependent, whatever privileged position she appeared to occupy in the neighborhood. But the sharp set-down died on her lips, for it came to her that Mrs. Ross was genuinely upset by Mr. Ogilvy’s arrival.

  “I invited him,” Etta said mildly. “Pray, what is there to excite you in that?”

  “Nothing, of course,” Mrs. Ross muttered, dropping her gaze and smoothing her apron with unnecessary violence.

  Etta regarded her curiously. “I’ve heard nothing bad about the man. Except his ancestor’s Jacobite tendencies. Do you know differently?”

  “Of course not. He works hard at Lochgarron—with his own hands, too—and all his people are better off for it. A bit too fond of the lassies, perhaps, but that’s men for you.”

  “Indeed, it is,” Etta said politely. “Then you’re not afraid of him?”

  Mrs. Ross glowered. “Afraid of Rob Ogilvy? I should think not!”

  Relieved, Etta smiled. “No, I should think it’s the other way around.”

  A maid stuck her head around the library door. “Mr. Ogilvy of Lochgarron is here, m’lady. He says you’re expecting him.”

  “Show him in, Morag, and bring tea, if you please.”

  Before she’d finished speaking, a man strode past Morag and into the room. He was tall and very dark, younger than she expected, his too-long black hair blown by his ride into a fetching tangle. He wore a black coat and buff breeches, both too loosely fitting to be fashionable, and a very plainly tied neckcloth. In all, he was quite the wrong shape and coloring to be the man Mrs. Ross had pointed out to her at the ball as Ogilvy of Lochgarron.

  “Mr. Ogilvy,” Etta said, rising and advancing upon him with outstretched hand. “Thank you for coming. I’m Henrietta Derwent.”

  “How do you do?”

  There seemed to be something about Scottish voices that affected her. Or perhaps it was the fact that he turned out to be quite devastatingly handsome. His fingers felt rough as they grasped hers and he bowed politely over her hand before immediately releasing it.

  “Please, sit,” Etta invited, peculiarly flustered. “That will be all, Mrs. Ross.”

  “Aye, but I think I’ll just sit over here to observe the proprieties,” Mrs. Ross said.

  Etta turned and looked directly at her. She’d never commanded Mrs. Ross before, at least not against the woman’s own inclinations, and she was far from sure it could be done. Indeed, the outcome seemed to hang in the balance for a moment before the housekeeper’s eyes fell and she walked in silence from the room.

  From the worn sofa, Mr. Ogilvy watched her go with something approaching admiration. “Good Lord. What spell have you cast over Mrs. Ross?”

  “I’m sure it’s only temporary,” Etta said ruefully. “She is very…decisive for a housekeeper.”

  “For anyone. She keeps us all in order around here.”

  “Why?” Etta wondered.

  Mr. Ogilvy shrugged. “History, I suppose. We all allow her the place her family once held. So far as we may.”

  “And what place was that?”

  “Her family used to hold Ardbeag—before the ’45. They lost everything in the Rebellion.”

  Etta’s eyes widened. “This, Ardbeag, was her family’s home?” she said in wonder.

  He nodded.

  “That’s why she’s been trying to prevent us meeting.”

  “Now you’ve lost me.”

  Etta sank onto the other side of the sofa. “She knows I’ve come here to sell the place and that I mean to offer it first to you.”

  He blinked. “You do?” For some reason, his eyes danced with mirth. His breath hissed out in silent laughter. “That is your proposition?”

  She frowned, uncomprehending, although something in his words caught at her memory.

  “Well, yes. I’ve come north specifically to sell Ardbeag. His Grace the Duke of Roxburgh suggested I speak first to you. He seemed to imagine you would be interested in buying, since the land m
arches with yours. Would you?”

  He looked at her in silence for a moment, the dying smile lingering on his lips. “You are very direct.”

  “I’ve never seen the point in being anything else. If we can agree a price, I think I must also stipulate that you keep Mrs. Ross as housekeeper.”

  “Must you?” he said without emphasis.

  “And Mr. Ross as the estate manager,” she added apologetically.

  “I manage my own estates.” He turned up his calloused palms on his lap. “In fact, as you can see, I work them, too.”

  “Yes, but if you expand into Ardbeag it will surely be too much for one man. Even you.”

  His lips twitched. “Even me? Are you mocking me, Lady Derwent?”

  “I wouldn’t dream of mocking Himself. Have we met before, Mr. Ogilvy? At the Duchess’s ball, perhaps?”

  “I don’t go to balls.”

  “Well, you’re certainly not the man Mrs. Ross pointed out as Mr. Robert Ogilvy.”

  “Is that bad?”

  “Not now that I understand why she did it. So, what do you think, sir? Obviously, I don’t expect an answer today, but will you consider buying?”

  He leaned back, thoughtfully, his gaze still on her face. He had very dark, rather beautiful eyes for a man, with thick, black lashes.

  Morag came in after the briefest of knocks, bearing a tea tray. In silence, very conscious of his steady regard, Etta poured the tea. “Sugar and cream?” she asked.

  “No. Thank you.” Straightening, he took the saucer from her. “Do you know what they call the Duke of Roxburgh these days?”

  “Your Grace?” she hazarded.

  His lips quirked in acknowledgement. “Yes. They also call him The Marriage Maker.”

  “Why?” she asked in surprise.

  “It’s something he has the knack for. Apparently, it was he and not the old Duke, or even Chastity, who found husbands for his sisters-in-law. And others.”