Scandalous Lords and Courtship

by Mary Lancaster

  “What is it?” he murmured, frowning, as they led the way back up to Lochgarron House where the wedding breakfast awaited.

  “Nerves,” she said honestly. “I was fine until I said, I will. And then I realized all over again that I couldn’t bear it if I didn’t. If you didn’t.”

  His frown deepened. “Didn’t what?”

  “Love me,” she blurted.

  He stopped dead on the road, took her in his arms and kissed her before everyone. “I love you,” he whispered. “And I always will. It isn’t the vows, Henrietta. It’s the feeling. I’ll show you. Later. Just as soon as we’re alone.”

  Abruptly, her spirits soared, for his desire shone clearly in his eyes. Her worry stemmed, she suspected, from the fact that they hadn’t made love since the night of the “treasure.”

  By the time they arrived at the house, she’d relaxed enough to enjoy her wedding breakfast and the company. However, she was glad no one seemed inclined to linger. Except Mrs. Ross, who remained when the other guests had all gone.

  “Are you quite well, Mrs. Ross?” Rob said with a trace of impatience.

  “Of course,” she said at once. “Come with me. I’ve something to show you.”

  “Mrs. Ross—”

  “It’ll only take a minute and you won’t be disappointed.”

  Humoring her, they followed her out of the dining room and across the hall and downstairs, past the servants who were enjoying their own wedding breakfast now that the guests had gone, and into the empty main kitchen. Mrs. Ross closed the door behind them.

  “Really, Mrs. R.,” Rob said flippantly. “Can’t a new recipe wait for a better day?”

  Ignoring him, she marched past the kitchen table to the great fireplace at the far end. They followed, Etta with renewed curiosity.

  Mrs. Ross passed a towel to Rob and pointed to one of the large fireplace stones on the left-hand side, just above the hearth. “Ross has loosened it already. Take it out.”

  Frowning, Rob glanced from her to Etta, and then to the hammer which Ross had apparently left on the hearth. He crouched down, bending his head away from the heat, and with the towel protecting his hand from the hot stone, he grasped one side and pulled. It moved at once. He seized it in both hands and drew it out.

  Bending down, he peered inside. “What the…”

  He recovered his hand with the towel and reached into the gaping hole. A moment later, he clawed out a large pile of what looked like ash and rubble… and then a large bundle wrapped in dirt-streaked purple silk.

  “What is it?” Etta wondered. “Is this a bizarre wedding gift, Mrs. Ross?”

  “It’s whatever you want it to be,” she replied cryptically.

  Rob strode to the table with the bundle and unwrapped the silk. It fell open to reveal a tumbling mass of golden rings and cutlery and spectacular, glittering jewels—diamonds, rubies and sapphires set in gold, pearls, gem-encrusted gold boxes…

  “Prince Charlie’s gold,” Etta said in wonder. “But…but this is Lochgarron, not Ardbeag!”

  “It was never at Ardbeag. At least, not after the Battle of Culloden Moor. Both families set about the rumor that it was at Ardbeag, so that the government wouldn’t try so hard to find it at Lochgarron. My father told me where it was before he died.” She looked directly at Etta. “I was coming to fetch it, to give it to those men before they hurt you, only I ran into Ross and Rob and realized I didn’t need to.”

  Rob reached out, touching the treasure, running gold chains and strings of pearls through his fingers. “I never knew,” he said. “I had no idea. My father never told me any such thing.” He glanced at Mrs. Ross. “And neither did you!”

  “Well, young people today have forgotten the cause, the king across the water…”

  “There is no king across the water,” Rob said bluntly. “The Stuarts have died out.”

  “I know. But still, I felt I should keep the secret—and the gold. In case things changed. In case…”

  “In case some illegitimate claimant turns up to restart a pointless civil war?” Rob said. “It won’t happen. The cause is long lost. Even before the ’45, if the truth be known.”

  “What should we do with it?” Etta asked, touched that Mrs. Ross had been prepared to give up the secret for her.

  Mrs. Ross smiled and patted her hand. “You decide. It’s your wedding gift. I wish you long life and happiness together.”

  They watched as she turned and walked away.

  Hastily Rob rewrapped the treasure.

  Half an hour later, they regarded it again. Most of it lay spread across his bed with the curtains drawn, but he’d fastened heavy diamond and ruby earrings to Etta’s ears and was winding a matching necklace around her throat.

  “We can’t keep it,” she said regretfully. “It belongs to the government.”

  “Well, I don’t know. The government took enough from this part of Scotland. We could use it to do good works.”

  Etta sat up. “We could turn Ardbeag into a school, or an orphanage…or give it to the Rosses!”

  “We’ll mull it over,” he said, sweeping the treasure back into its silk wrapping and stuffing it in the bedside table drawer.

  She turned the back of her neck toward him. “Will you unfasten it for me?”

  His fingers brushed her nape and stilled. An instant later, his lips followed, and desire thrilled through her skin. “I don’t think I will,” he muttered. “Not yet. I want to make love to you wearing nothing but the jewels.”

  One tug pulled the dress and petticoat down to her waist and she leaned back against him.

  “Would you like that?” he whispered.

  “Why don’t you try and see?” she said huskily.

  ###

  Marrying the Belle of Edinburgh

  The Marriage Maker

  Book Eighteen

  The Marriage Maker and the Widows

  Lisa Boero

  Chapter One

  He had forgotten how the sight of Lady Helena Carlyle made the blood hum through his veins. She wore a pale blue gown with a fall of silver lace at her throat. The satin clung to the curve of her hips and emphasized her height. Her skin, perfectly smooth and porcelain white, created a striking contrast to her dark hair, now coiffed and decorated with a matron’s cap. Back in Edinburgh, when he was a frequent guest of her husband, Lord Carlyle, he remembered glimpses of her hair coming loose in long soft tendrils that framed her face. She had been so carefree in those days, so unconcerned with the rigid propriety of braided hair and lace caps.

  Widowhood seemed to have killed that carefree spirit. Now she stood like a statue, cold and hard and perfect. But her eyes remained unchanged and unmatched by any lady in London. They were a deep sapphire, fringed with long black lashes, and she had a habit of looking at a man in such a penetrating way that she seemed to lay his heart bare in an instant. They were the eyes of a queen. Like her namesake, Helen of Troy, armies would have rushed to their deaths for her.

  Instead, Lady Carlyle fanned herself slowly, the apple of discord apparent among the men who clustered about her. She nodded absently as Mr. Northcutt rattled on about something. William didn't know what Lord Carlyle saw in Northcutt, but they’d spent considerable time together since their days in Oxford. And now, Northcutt appeared to be in a mood to console Lady Carlyle. It was too much to bear. But William didn’t have a right to his anger. Lady Carlyle wasn't his concern.

  “The beauties this Season must be furious,” Sir Stirling James said, jolting William out of his reverie. “Lady Carlyle is sure to cast them all in the shade.”

  “I didn’t know she had returned to London,” Lord William Brandon replied, recovering a bit of his composure. If he had known, he would likely have returned to his estates in Scotland, the cold be damned.

  “The Belle of Edinburgh had need of a change, I was told. And my sources are usually reliable.”

  In truth, Stirling was probably the most well-informed man in the British Isles. This
explained his skill in the serious game of matrimony. Anyone who wanted a match approached him for an introduction.

  “Your sources are quite good,” William replied. He felt a sudden moment of panic. Why had he asked Stirling to find him the perfect wife? He should have found one himself. He had wealth enough to tempt the mamas of hopeful daughters. His estates in Scotland, after some considerable investment, produced good returns, and his shipping ventures with Stirling had paid off quite handsomely. He had a title, although who knew how much a title counted for these days. As a man, he supposed, he wasn’t terrible to look at. Not as handsome as his friend Carlyle, but tolerable enough. No, Stirling would find him a bride so perfect that Helena would become but a faded memory. If The Marriage Maker couldn’t find him such a woman in the marriage mart of Almack’s, then he was beyond hope.

  Stirling paused and then sighed. “It isn’t any good introducing you to the lady I had in mind. You have never had any guile about you, Brandon, and I suppose you never will. Any fool can tell that you only have eyes for Lady Carlyle.”

  “What? No, no, of course not. Carlyle was a dear friend, and I am just surprised that his widow has reentered the bosom of society so soon.”

  “It has been a year and a half, my good fellow. She is out of mourning now and free to marry again if she chooses. And what does she have to keep her in Scotland? The new Lord Carlyle has the estate and the house in Edinburgh,” Stirling said.

  “Is the new Lord Carlyle here tonight? I must say I can’t stand the fellow.”

  “Yes, he is, and in search of a wife, as well. I thank the heavens that he hasn't sought my help. I don’t know if I could help him in good conscience. There is something about the former Mr. Reginald Merton that sets my teeth on edge, and that reaction has not abated with his assumption of the title.”

  William nodded. “Carlyle told me some stories that make me fairly hate the man. As cousins, they saw much of each other. He was with us at Oxford too, but was sent down after two terms for some infraction. I never got the whole story.”

  In any case, William became suspicious of Reginald when he heard that Carlyle had been shot by highwaymen along the Great North Road. It seemed just the sort of dastardly thing Reginald would have got himself involved in somehow. But without evidence, William was left with conjecture.

  “Ah, look sharp my good man, it seems Lady Carlyle has a mind to speak to us,” Stirling said.

  Lord Brandon turned and watched Lady Carlyle approach. He took a deep breath and reminded himself that he was most definitely over her influence.

  She smiled, showing a row of perfectly formed teeth, and held out her hand. “Sir Stirling! How delightful to see you again. How is dear Lady Chastity? I promise I will come for a visit when I am next in Inverness. I had a letter from her last month, but it seems like ages since we were able to sit together for a nice long chat.”

  Stirling smiled. “Quite well. I will send her your regards. She would have attended tonight had I not persuaded her that my short London visit was purely business. I promise that she shall accompany me when I return.”

  Lady Carlyle clapped her hands in delight. “Wonderful. And I cannot let you go without thanking you for what you did for my dear friend, Lady Haverford. I have never seen her happier than with her Mr. Smith.”

  Stirling bowed slightly. “The pleasure was all mine, I assure you.”

  She turned her intense gaze on Lord Brandon and extended her hand. “Lord Brandon, you know how indebted I am to all of your attentions when Lord Carlyle passed. You were a true friend to my late husband. I am sorry that we have seen so little of each other since. I have decided to remain in London for the Season, so perhaps that oversight shall be rectified.”

  He breathed deeply and took her gloved fingers in his. “I must express my condolences once again, Lady Carlyle. Your husband’s death was a terrible tragedy.”

  She nodded and removed her hand from his. “I am delighted to have met you here, for I had thought to send word to your lodgings. I have some papers from my late husband that he would have wanted me to give you. Perhaps you would be so kind as to call upon us at your earliest convenience? I am staying with my aunt, Lady Wickersham.”

  William nodded. “Of course, Lady Carlyle. I shall wait upon you tomorrow, if that is convenient.”

  “Oh yes, we shall be in tomorrow.”

  Then, with an elegant nod, she passed on into the crowd. When she left, Stirling said, “That is an interesting turn of events.” He placed a hand on Lord Brandon’s shoulder. “You are now officially a lost man, my friend. And I am happy to leave you to your fate.”

  Chapter Two

  Helena sat, wrapped in a quilt, in a stiff chair beside the small fire that burned in her bedroom grate. She had spent many nights this way, at first numb with the shock of her husband’s death, and then, when the reality of his loss had penetrated her brain, with sobs of despair. Time had been her friend, however, and with time had come the comforts of contemplation and thought. When Reginald assumed her husband’s title, she had hoped that he wouldn’t soon cast her away from the homes that held the dear memories of her husband. Reginald assured her that she could live in the house in Edinburgh for as long as she desired. She didn’t know then, however, that the offer would come with tiresome attentions.

  Any hesitation Cousin Reginald might have felt about bothering a grieving widow with unwanted presents and flirtatious conversation seemed to disappear after the space of a month. Helena had been forced to speak to him in direct terms and to implore him to remember that she was still too burdened with grief for her beloved Charles. These measures worked for only a short time, and Helena reluctantly admitted that she would not find peace under the new Lord Carlyle’s roof.

  After that realization, she had done a tour of the country, so to speak, and stayed with her parents as long as she could stand their smothering solicitude, and then at this friend’s house and that schoolfellow’s estate, fending off the advances of any number of brothers, cousins and other relations until Aunt Wickersham had the happy thought to invite her to London for the Season. Even though Lady Wickersham was an eccentric older lady, more concerned with the welfare of her numerous pug dogs than the happiness of her niece, Helena jumped at the chance to free herself of unwanted male attention.

  Finally, it was time for her to review the stacks and stacks of her husband’s correspondence. Reginald told her to leave her husband’s estate matters in his hands, but an innate distrust of Reginald made that impossible. Instead, Helena had met with the solicitor herself. She had placed everything he gave her and everything she found in her husband’s study in a large, locked trunk. After some time in storage, the trunk now reposed at the end of her old-fashioned, curtained bed.

  She sighed. Perhaps it was wrong of her to thrust Lord Brandon into the middle of her problems, but he had been such a kind friend to Charles. She was sure there was not a steadier man in all of Britain. Lord Brandon had to be willing to help her now. He just had to.

  The next morning, Helena dressed in a new, green cambric gown. Her hair, more loosely arranged than the night before, filled her lace cap. She stared at her reflection in the mirror, noting the pallor of her skin and the faint purple circles under her eyes. A vain woman would have attempted to rectify these faults with a judicious use of powder, but for all Helena had heard of her beauty, she was not a vain woman. It puzzled her how anyone could praise her deathly aspect and black hair. In Helena’s mind, she was still the tall, gangly girl her cousins had teasingly called the spider.

  Her beauty had given her one gift, however—her dearest Charles. Lord Carlyle was freely acknowledged to be the recipient of multiple gifts from God. The chief of these, everyone said, was the most handsome face in the British Isles. His golden good looks had won Helena’s heart the moment she had set eyes upon him across the crowded floor of the ballroom at Almack’s. He had been the embodiment of all her girlhood dreams of romance. And now he was gone.

>   * * *

  Lady Wickersham’s house, located in a part of town that had once been the height of fashion, was now a neighborhood slightly gone to seed. The houses were large and imposing but lacked the Grecian adornments and open plazas of the truly fashionable neighborhoods. Lord Brandon took a deep breath as the hackney carriage pulled up in front of the Wickersham house. He had spent the last several hours downing numerous cups of strong coffee and preparing for the sight of Lady Carlyle in her drawing room.

  William had been so sure of his heart that it annoyed him to discover years of work destroyed by the mere sight of the woman. If he were smart, he would tell the hack to take him to Stirling’s rooms and make Stirling introduce him to the woman selected to be his bride. But no, William’s heart leaped at the thought of seeing her again. Besides, Lady Carlyle had a gift from beyond the grave, so he supposed that he owed it to his dead friend to receive it properly.

  The elderly servant who took his hat and coat wore an old-fashioned livery of brown and gold. He walked at a stately, almost glacial pace that made William want to shout with frustration. Likely, Lady Carlyle would be guarded by Lady Wickersham, and William would have to make idle conversation with the elderly woman for some time before Lady Carlyle was able to tell him about these mysterious papers. They said that Lady Wickersham raised pugs. William had a sudden image of being trapped in a chair, surrounded by smelly dogs and stuck in a mindless conversation with a matronly lady while the woman who tortured him silently watched. Even for a man known to all of London society as a thoughtful, considerate gentleman, the imagined scenario was too much.

  Lady Wickersham’s butler opened a door and William stepped forward into a faded drawing room at the back of the house. Lady Carlyle thrust aside a crumpled needlepoint and stood, her hand extended. “You must forgive the liberty,” she said. “Lady Wickersham would have been here to greet you, but she has the headache this morning. So, it is just you and I, with only Georgie”—she pointed at a pug dog stretched out on the rug—“to act the duenna. Come, sit by the fire. We have much to discuss.”