Scandalous Lords and Courtship

by Mary Lancaster

  Stirling’s brows rose. “If you think that his actions were borne out of a temper, then you sorely underestimate him, my lady.”

  She gave her head an impatient shake. “Yes, yes, you know what I mean.”

  “Aye, I do. But you must understand Evan is,” he paused, “well, he is very old fashioned.”

  She narrowed her eyes. “If you think that I will be swayed by the ridiculous notion that a man must protect a woman’s honor by risking his life, I will say that you are as foolish as he is.”

  “I understand the impulse,” he replied.

  “The impulse?” she blurted. Her eyes burned with the need to cry. “I thought you had better sense. I simply cannot believe that Mr. Drucker’s aim was better than Evan’s.”

  “That surprised me, as well.”

  The steel in his voice gave her pause.

  His gaze shifted past her and she looked over her shoulder. The footman who had driven the cart stopped, his gaze on Stirling. Leslie returned her attention to Stirling.

  He smiled gently, but she noted the gleam in his eyes when he said, “If you will excuse me.” He brushed past her and when he caught up with the footman, they continued away.

  Leslie lifted her skirts and started after them at a slow pace. When they turned down the stairs up ahead, she hurried forward and slipped down the darkened stairs.

  “…did you find?” Sir Stirling’s voice drifted up to her.

  “Nothing,” the footman’s baritone voice was easily audible.

  “You…on…his lordship?”

  “Sound asleep,” the footman replied.

  “It had to be him.” Stirling’s voice was louder.

  Leslie’s heart pounded. It had to be him? His lordship? Barnton? Something more than just a duel had taken place.

  “You are sure you saw…” the remainder of Stirling’s words were unintelligible.

  “Aye, my lord. Positive.”

  They reached the next floor. Leslie hurried down the remaining stairs and broke out into a well-lit hallway. The two men were twenty paces ahead. They stopped and turned. Sir Stirling frowned as Leslie hurried toward them.

  She reached them, and he said, “Is something wrong, my lady?”

  “What is wrong is that you are not telling me what really happened.”

  His frown deepened. “I beg your pardon?”

  “I overheard you in the stairs.”

  His gaze bore into her. “Just what did you hear?”

  “That you checked on Lord Barnton and found him sleeping and that it had to be him. Also, that you were looking for something. What exactly were you looking for, Sir. Stirling?”

  He didn’t answer for a beat, then said, “The man who shot Mr. MacLaren.”

  Chapter Ten

  “I must admit, I wouldn’t have taken you for the sort to cheat,” Leslie told Sir Stirling ten minutes later.

  “It isn’t cheating, exactly,” he said. “Henry and I”–he nodded toward the footman who stood to his right—”simply made sure neither of them could shoot the other, even accidentally, and honor was satisfied.”

  Honor.

  She willed back the tears that hovered too close to the surface, and said, “I think Mr. MacLaren would be angry if he knew you tampered with the pistols.”

  “I imagine not,” he replied.

  Leslie regarded him. “You seem to understand him quite well. I assume you were once like him?”

  He gave a wry smile. “Not so long ago.”

  Anger tightened her stomach. “I imagine there is no way to prove that Lord Barnton was the man shooting from within the trees?”

  Sir Stirling shook his head. “I am afraid not.”

  “If anything happens to Evan, Lord Barnton will not answer for the crime.” Leslie glanced in the direction of the stairs. She needed to return to him.

  Sir Stirling squeezed her arm. “I have great faith in Doctor Graham. Not to mention, as I said earlier, Mr. MacLaren is a strong man.”

  She started to turn, then stopped. “Forgive my earlier behavior. I accused you of being reckless. You are anything but reckless.”

  “You couldn’t have known.”

  “You might have told me you tampered with the pistols,” she said.

  “I thought it better if no one knew.”

  “I wonder why Lord Barnton shot him,” Leslie said more to herself than Stirling. “What has he to gain?”

  “The duel will take the attention away from him, muddy the waters,” Stirling replied.

  He was right, of course. She nodded, then hurried away.

  When Leslie reached Evan’s room, she half expected him to be sitting up in bed, eating some of the broth Baroness Trent had made for Lord Barnton. Instead, his eyes were closed and the blanket that covered his chest lifted and fell with each shallow breath. She drew a chair up to the bed and laid a hand over his heart. A strong, even beat thumped against his chest.

  The door opened and Baroness Trent entered. She crossed to the bed. “I thought I would find you here. The doctor said he needs rest. I can have one of the servants sit with him. Come, my dear, eat something and get some rest.”

  Leslie shook her head. “Nae. I am not hungry.”

  The baroness sighed. “I will have tea and biscuits sent up.”

  Leslie nodded, but her attention remained on Evan. The door clicked shut behind the baroness and Leslie finally gave into tears. Why didn’t he wake up?

  “You fool,” she whispered. “Lord Barnton’s lies were not worth your life.”

  She lowered her head and let the tears slide down her cheeks. This was too much. She barely knew the man, yet the fear that he would die and leave her twisted her heart. Was he always this reckless? Leslie pictured him on the bow of his ship as a cannonball whizzed past his head. How many brushes had he had with death? A duel with a fop like Mr. Drucker must have seemed like child’s play to him—and would have been so, if not for Lord Barnton.

  Leslie swiped at the tears. If Evan didn’t recover— She cut off the thought. He would recover. And when he did, she would forbid him from such dangerous behavior.

  “You understand?” she whispered. “This foolish behavior must end.”

  Please.

  Her thoughts came to a screeching halt. How many times had Carr said those very words to her…including the plea? Was this how he had felt when he forbade her from certain behavior…racing, in particular?

  She sobbed. How had he lived with the pain?

  How could she live with the pain?

  She looked up and cried out at sight of Evan’s blue eyes staring.

  “Y-you are awake.”

  His eyes flicked to the window, then said in a hoarse voice, “It is morning.”

  She glanced at the window and realized dawn had broken.

  “I see Mr. Drucker is a better shot than I gave him credit for.”

  She looked back at him. “What? Oh, nae.”

  His dark brow lifted and she wanted to cry. He was too handsome.

  Leslie shook her head. “I cannot bear the pain of seeing you hurt. If anything were to happen to you—” She broke off and shook her head.

  His gaze intensified. “You did say you’d been on a warship before.”

  She blinked at the change of subject. Fear stabbed. Had the wound caused damage to his brain. “Are you well, Evan?”

  “I have never been to America,” he said. “Have you?”

  “America? Nae.”

  A corner of his mouth lifted. “Good. That means we can see it for the first time...together.”

  “Together?” Leslie gasped. “I—” She couldn’t speak.

  He withdrew an arm from beneath the blankets and covered her hand with his. “No need to worry, love. I will not try to change you.”

  “Not try to change me?” She choked back a sob.

  His expression sobered. “What is amiss, Leslie? You can trust me. I understand your need for freedom. I promise not to put restraints on you.”

&n
bsp; She stared. “But why would you risk the pain?”

  He flashed a crooked smile. “A man in love risks much.”

  Her eyes widened. “Love? That-that isn’t possible.”

  His eyes gleamed. “Come with me to America and find out.”

  She stared.

  “Marry me.”

  She froze.

  His eyes darkened with challenge. “If you dare.”

  Epilogue

  Leslie stood at the railing of the frigate, Evan’s arms wrapped tight around her as the ship rose and fell with the choppy waters. The Atlantic stretched out before them. Warm, salty air whipped the hair that had broken free of the braid coiled about her crown. Evan nuzzled her ear.

  “Are you certain we will not encounter pirates?” she asked.

  “I am not at all certain,” he murmured.

  A thrill went through her—both because of the tease of his mouth against her neck and the idea of facing down a pirate ship. She’d seen the sword Evan kept in his quarters. She would dearly love to see him wield the weapon. They had two months—more, if they were fortunate and the wind blew against them—to encounter pirates.

  “Perhaps we should retire to my quarters, Mrs. MacLean.” His warm breath washed over her ear.

  Leslie smiled. “We have spent nearly the entire week of our married life in your quarters.”

  “A newly married man is expected to spend a great deal of time alone with his wife.” He kissed her where shoulder met neck.

  She shivered.

  “Unless you are growing tired of me.”

  Leslie kept her hold on the railing, but relaxed her head against his shoulder. “That is not possible.”

  “I am pleased to hear that. Beware, however. With these rough waters tonight, we might be taking our lives in our hands trying to stay in my bed.”

  Leslie turned and wrapped her arms around him. “I am willing to take the risk.”

  Evan lifted a brow. “Indeed?”

  She nodded and pressed her body closer against his. “A woman in love risks much.”

  He flashed a heart-stopping smile. Then kissed her.

  ###

  The Marriage Obligation

  The Marriage Maker

  Book Twelve

  The Marriage Maker Goes Undercover

  Susana Ellis

  Dedication

  This story is dedicated to the members of the Maumee Valley Romance Writers Inc. who attended our September brainstorming event and were instrumental in helping me put this story together. I could not have done it without you!

  Rue Allyn

  Heidi Lynn Anderson

  Kristina Knight

  Shay Lacey

  Constance Phillips

  Katelynn Phillips

  Jenna Rutland

  Mila Winters

  THANK YOU!

  Chapter One

  Leicester Square

  London

  May 1812

  “You cannot force me to marry.” Cornelia planted her feet wide apart. “Papa, why now?” Her heart thudded. “George and Suzanne have married, you have grandchildren. You know that marriage for me is…ill-advised.”

  Her father’s eyes softened. “You deserve happiness. Can you not see that is all we want for you?”

  Happiness? Her heart twisted. Marriage…children were not to be for her. “You would have me lie to my husband, pass myself off as something I am not?”

  “You are a beautiful, intelligent woman,” he replied. “There is no untruth in that.”

  “You know perfectly well that is not what I am talking about, Papa. You know I cannot have children.”

  “Nonsense,” he replied. “That is a notion you have concocted in your head. There is no danger in you having children.”

  “Concocted? I did not concoct the fact that we do not know my father’s identity—or that he was part of a mob who murdered Maman’s family.”

  Her father scowled. “Cornelia, we have been beyond patient with you. A sensible daughter would have reconciled herself to the idea long ago, if only for her mother’s sake.”

  Her mother mopped tears from her eyes with an embroidered handkerchief. The one that a ten-year-old Cornelia had worked for her as a birthday present,

  A knot formed in the back of Cornelia’s throat. “Maman…”

  “Non!” Her pocket-sized mother threw down the handkerchief and rounded on her much larger husband. “I will not have it, Cornelius. My daughter will not be compelled to marry against her will.”

  The admiral shook his head. “Our daughter, Léonie, remember?” He took his wife’s hands in his and drew her into his arms as a tear slipped down her cheek. “She is our first-born and is very much loved and cherished.” He held out an arm to Cornelia. “You know that, do you not, Daughter?”

  She did know. Love had enveloped her from the day of her birth, and, blithely, she accepted her role as Papa’s favorite—even after the arrivals of her younger siblings, George and Suzanne. How she’d wished she’d been born a boy, so she could go to sea as he had at age twelve and follow him as a successful navy officer. To his credit, her father had never once expressed disappointment with any of his children, not even when George had eschewed the sea for a legal career. “The sea isn’t for everyone,” Papa had said. “It takes a certain type of man to endure the long absences from home and family.”

  Most important, as a man, being born a bastard was little more than an inconvenience. As a woman, however…

  She released a sigh. Her father, Admiral Hardcastle, had recently been appointed to the position of Governor General of British North America, which required a move to Canada. He wanted his wife with him—and Cornelia knew how much she wanted to go—but Léonie had stubbornly refused to leave.

  “I do not understand why your mind is fixed on marriage,” Cornelia said for the umpteenth time. “I have no suitors at present. Do you truly mean for me to wed a stranger?”

  Her mother wept noisily into her father’s coat.

  The admiral shook his head. “Of course not. All we wish is for you to go out into the ton and make a sincere attempt to meet eligible young men. A lovely young lady such as you should have no trouble finding admirers. Why, I know of a dozen unmarried officers who would jump at the chance—”

  “Oh no, dear, not a naval man,” cried her mother. “I would not wish my daughter to suffer such loneliness as I have.”

  Cornelia drew a breath. An idea began to form. She smiled. “Very well, I will look for a husband.” She approached her parents. “As soon as I am married, Maman, you must join Papa in the provinces.”

  Her mother threw her arms around Cornelia. “I will, I promise I will.”

  Over her mother’s shoulder, Cornelia met her father’s gaze. He lifted a brow that said, I know you too well, Daughter, to be fooled by your easy acquiescence.

  She would have to tread carefully if her plan were to work.

  * * *

  Three weeks later

  Cornelia’s dance with Lord Fenchurch came to a halt, and she glanced at her mother, who rested with a few of her friends on chairs lined up against the red silken walls to her right.

  Lord Fenchurch bowed. “Thank you for the honor of dancing with me, Miss Hardcastle. I daresay I have not enjoyed a dance so much in all of my life.”

  “It was my pleasure, Lord Fenchurch,” lied Cornelia.

  When his lordship did not take his leave, Cornelia’s hands grew clammy. If he were to formalize his intentions or, even worse, ask to take her for a drive in the park—well, she had exhausted her excuses. Word had spread that she was seeking a husband, and a staggering number of potential suitors had appeared. Many more than she could have anticipated.

  Oh, she’d had beaux before. She had inherited her mother’s dark, exotic beauty and slim figure. But at five-foot-nine inches, she was taller than most women and even some men, which could be off-putting. Although she held no title, she had a respectable dowry and desirable connections—if
one discounted her true parentage. Her father being a near-legendary admiral in the Royal Navy, she had danced at Almack’s and even at Carlton House with the Prince Regent. But after her third Season, when she’d curtailed her social activities in favor of charitable work at the Foundling Hospital, the flock of gentleman callers diminished significantly, to her great satisfaction.

  Practically on the shelf at age four-and-twenty, she had not expected to be in such demand. Of course, she had not considered that her age and maturity might be an asset to some of the older gentlemen, particularly widowers with motherless children. There were half a dozen of those, plus a greater number of younger, perfectly respectable gentlemen in the queue. Rogues and rakes dared not apply; her father discouraged them with one terrible scowl.

  Thus far, however, not one of the gentlemen who approached her met the criteria she had set the day she’d agreed to seek a husband. Each was like Lord Fenchurch—respectable, unobjectionable, and unlikely to leave her for a life at sea.

  “Good evening, ladies and gentleman.” A newcomer inserted himself into their group and nodded at Lord Fenchurch, who promptly excused himself and departed.

  Cornelia let out a breath.

  Tall and handsome, with an air of supreme confidence, the newcomer bowed and looked expectantly at her mother, who beamed with pleasure.

  “Sir Stirling! How delightful to see you this evening. My husband warned—er—informed me you might stop in tonight.” She smiled at her daughter. “Cornelia, this is Sir Stirling James. Sir Stirling, this is my daughter Cornelia.”

  Cornelia looked sharply at her mother, then offered him her gloved hand. “A pleasure to meet you, Sir Stirling.”

  He grasped it and kissed her fingertips. “The pleasure is mine, Miss Hardcastle.”

  “Sir Stirling is in the shipping business. From Scotland, I believe?”

  “Indeed. Inverness, to be precise,” he said. “Have you ever been?”

  “My husband and I were there on holiday once. The scenery is simply spectacular.”