The Naked Laird

by Sally MacKenzie

  Ian’s eyes narrowed. “Lady Remington was not invited.”

  “Oh? I’m surprised.” She fanned the flames of her anger higher. She had perfected the art of sarcasm over the years. It was an excellent way to repel unwanted advances. “Does Lord Motton not read the society pages? Doesn’t he know the identities of Lord K. and Lady R.?”

  Ian’s face grew stiffer and his voice sounded more English, precise and cold. “I have no idea what Lord Motton does and does not know. I didn’t know you read that twaddle.”

  “Well, I do. I like to be au courant. It’s so entertaining to keep up with your escapades.” The anger felt good—and she could see she was infuriating him as well. “I would have thought you could have got her an invitation.”

  “Perhaps I could have, had I tried.”

  “Oh, so you didn’t wish to be encumbered by your mistress? Did you hope to find her replacement at this house party, then—someone younger, more entertaining? Poor Lady Remington.”

  Ian’s face was red with anger. It was a wonder he wasn’t causing the bathwater to turn to steam.

  She glanced down at the thought—and jerked her attention back to his face. The water was exceptionally clear. She could see ... everything. At least that part of him had calmed down—unlike the rest of him. His jaw was tense—he must be gritting his teeth. His words certainly came out as though he were.

  “Perhaps I shall look around. I don’t usually have difficulty finding bed partners—and I suppose that would help our rather cramped situation here, wouldn’t it? If you are certain you aren’t interested? Though I suppose a wife can’t be a mistress, can she?”

  She wanted to slap him. “You conceited, arrogant—”

  “Consider carefully. It would make sharing that bed so much more comfortable. As you point out, I am without Garo—and you are without Pennington—”

  “Pennington?” She might be able to generate some steam herself. How dare he throw that disgusting, slimy ... octopus in her face?

  “MacNeill said the man was embracing you in the library. ”

  “Exactly. He was embracing me—I was not embracing him. You are the one who sent the man to Pentforth. What were you thinking?”

  “I certainly wasn’t thinking to send my wife a paramour!”

  “You really think ... Pennington and I ... you actually thought we ...”

  Ian shrugged. “You used to be a lusty girl. I’m not naive—I know women have needs. It’s been ten years since we ...” His voice softened. “I assume you’ve had lovers over the years, Nell—you’ve just managed to be discreet—and you’ve not presented me with another man’s brat, for which I’m thankful, by the bye.”

  Her jaw was hanging open. She wanted to cry and scream at the same time. She wanted to drown the despicable, obnoxious, ignorant cur. Did he understand nothing?

  She would hit him. She would strangle him. She would—

  She was still holding the cake of soap in her hand. She wanted to throw it at his head; instead she flung it into the bath, sending water splashing.

  She sincerely hoped she’d hit her target.

  CHAPTER 3

  He’d certainly bungled that.

  Ian opened the bedroom door and let Nell precede him into the corridor. She’d wanted him to leave as soon as he’d got his clothes on, but he’d pointed out she needed help dressing. That had been an uncomfortable exercise, akin to clothing a statue. They’d not exchanged a single unnecessary word since she’d tried to emasculate him with the soap cake. He winced. Thank God the water had slowed that missile. Her aim had been uncomfortably good.

  “Will you take my arm?”

  She spared him one cold look and started down the corridor alone. Wonderful. He lengthened his stride. He was not going to chase her all the way to Motton’s drawing room. “Don’t you think you are being a little childish? ”

  She glared at him again, eyes narrowed, nostrils flaring.

  “If you clench your teeth any tighter, you’ll break your jaw.”

  She made a short noise—a cross between a hiss and a growl—and moved faster.

  Blast it. It wasn’t his fault they’d been tossed into that wee room together. He was as much a victim of Miss Smyth’s twisted sense of humor as she was.

  He offered her his arm when they reached the stairs. She grabbed the banister.

  Zeus! So he’d flirted with her. He was a man. Damn it, he was still legally her husband. He could have insisted she climb into that bed and fulfill her wifely duties. Not that he would have, of course. He had no need for an unwilling bed partner....

  But she hadn’t been unwilling. Hell, she’d hardly been able to keep her eyes off him. He’d been holding his breath, waiting for her to touch him, to run her fingers over his naked—

  He could have seduced her. She must know that—she’d never been a cabbage head. And she had no cause to get on her high horse. If he’d had mistresses, she’d had many male “friends.”

  He glanced at her. Her face could have been carved from stone. She still would not look at him.

  He should divorce her. Caro had been teasing him to do so almost from the moment he’d first climbed into her bed. Her motivation was obvious, of course—she wanted to be his next countess. Hell would freeze over before that happened.

  Truthfully, he’d used his married status as protection, to stave off husband-hunting mamas and their daughters. Any female choosing to dally with him knew from the outset a wedding ring was not in the cards. That suited him perfectly. He had absolutely no desire to step into the parson’s mousetrap again.

  But now he was thirty. He could no longer ignore the reality of his position—he needed an heir. He had no brothers or male cousins waiting in the wings. And to get an heir he needed a wife—a real wife. A woman who would—if not welcome, at least allow—him into her bed and into her body. Obviously Nell would do neither.

  He would have Motton fix this infernal room situation and then he would avoid her for the rest of the house party. When he got back to London, he would see about ending his marriage.

  Bloody hell, his stomach felt like lead. He’d love to hit something. Someone. Perhaps Motton—he couldn’t very well hit Miss Smyth.

  The footman took one look at them and flung open the door, almost jumping out of their way.

  There was Motton, by the hearth, talking to two young women—twins. They could be trained monkeys for all he cared.

  “Motton.”

  The man raised an eyebrow. The women actually stopped their bibble-babble to gape. He had not sounded particularly polite. Well, he did not feel polite.

  “If I might have a moment of your time? We”—he gestured toward Nell—“have something of an urgent nature to discuss.”

  “Ah.” Motton’s smile remained in place, but his eyes turned watchful. He’d always been a downy one. “What—”

  “Lord Kilgorn, Lady Kilgorn, how lovely to see you.”

  Ian was certain there was nothing lovely about him at the moment. He turned to see who had spoken. A short, gray-haired woman smiled up at him.

  His frown deepened; her smile widened. Her blue eyes were actually twinkling.

  “May I present my aunt, Miss Winifred Smyth?” Motton said. He treated the woman to a very pointed look. She patted him on the arm.

  “Have a touch of indigestion, do you, Edmund? Never fear. I have just the elixir for that. I’ll give you some later, if you like.”

  “No, thank you.” Motton smiled slightly. “The last time I tried one of your quack remedies, Aunt Winifred, I had to see a physician to be cured of your cure.”

  “Fiddle-faddle. You probably took too much—or not enough.”

  Miss Smyth turned back to Ian and smiled even more brightly, if that were possible. “I’m so sorry I wasn’t there to welcome you when you arrived. I trust you found everything in order?”

  Motton choked on his sherry.

  “Actually, Miss Smyth, things are most certainly not in order.”
<
br />   “Oh? I’m sorry to hear that, Lord Kilgorn. What is amiss? ”

  Had he entered Bedlam? “Perhaps we could discuss this in a more private location? It is an issue of some delicacy.” Not that the entire drawing room didn’t already know he and Nell were estranged. Motton definitely knew or he wouldn’t have that carefully blank expression pasted on his face. Miss Smyth must be the only woman in all of England and Scotland who was not fully aware of their marital situation—if she were truly in ignorance.

  “Of course.” Miss Smyth sounded as cheery as if they were chatting about a balmy spring day. “Let’s step into the green parlor, shall we? Edmund, why don’t you bring along the sherry?”

  “A splendid idea.” Motton grabbed a decanter and motioned Ian and the ladies to precede him.

  The green parlor was a modest room with a settee, two upholstered chairs, a scattering of tables—and not a single hint of green.

  “It used to be green,” Motton said, pulling the door closed behind him, “but my mother hated the color. Had it painted over the day after she married Father. Care for some sherry?”

  “Please.” Whisky would be preferable, but Ian would take anything alcoholic at this point.

  He considered Miss Smyth. How did one vent one’s spleen on an exceedingly cheerful woman who looked old enough to be one’s mother? Nell was sitting on the gold-colored settee next to her. Perhaps she should handle the issue.

  Or perhaps not. Miss Smyth was leaning over and patting Nell’s hand.

  “Don’t say a word until you’ve had a glass of sherry, Lady Kilgorn. You poor thing! You do look like you could use a restorative.”

  “Yes, well—”

  “And I shall have one, too, Edmund—a full glass, please.”

  “Of course.” Motton handed the ladies their drinks.

  Miss Smyth took a sip and smiled broadly at Nell. “You know, I’m so looking forward to you making Theo’s acquaintance, Lady Kilgorn. You seem exactly like the merry sort who would enjoy him.”

  “Merry?” Ian blinked. Nell had been anything but merry recently.

  “Not Theo, Aunt Winifred.” Motton actually groaned.

  “And Edmund!” Miss Smyth laughed. “Oh, not this Edmund—the other Edmund.”

  Motton groaned again, louder this time. “And not Edmund, either. Most certainly not Edmund. I had enough trouble with him earlier.”

  “Oh, pooh!” Miss Smyth waved a dismissive hand at Motton. “Where is your sense of adventure?”

  “Not in a drawing room with a monkey on the loose.”

  “A monkey?” Nell choked on her sherry.

  “Yes, indeed. A very sweet little, well-behaved—”

  Motton snorted. Miss Smyth glared at him. “—very nice monkey, though why I named him after my dull nephew I will never know. My Edmund is not dull.”

  “And Theo?” Nell smiled. She looked as if she might even laugh.

  “Theo is Aunt Winifred’s parrot.” Motton rolled his eyes. “Her talking parrot.”

  “Oh.” Nell did giggle then.

  Ian could think of a few things to say, but none of them was appropriate for a lady’s drawing room. Apparently they had landed in a zoo as well as an insane asylum. But seeing Nell amused, his mood lifted as well.

  Miss Smyth took a sip of her sherry. “But we didn’t come in here to discuss my pets, did we? You said you had a problem. What seems to be the difficulty, Lady Kilgorn?”

  Any trace of mirth vanished from Nell’s expression. “It’s our bedchamber, Miss Smyth,” she said.

  “You are in the Thistle Room, are you not?” Miss Smyth smiled. “I thought that was rather clever, you being Scots and all.”

  “Yes, but—”

  Miss Smyth’s brow wrinkled into a frown. “Is it too small? I know it’s probably not what you’re used to. I do apologize.”

  “It’s not the size that is the problem, Miss Smyth, it’s ... well ... surely you know ...?” Nell shrugged eloquently. Miss Smyth blinked at her.

  “Surely I know what, Lady Kilgorn?”

  “That Lord Kilgorn and I are ...” Nell shrugged again.

  “I’m sorry. I’m not understanding.” Miss Smyth made the mistake of looking up at Ian.

  Could the woman really not know? “Miss Smyth,” he said, “surely you are aware of the fact—the well-known fact—that Lady Kilgorn and I have not lived together for ten years.”

  “Oh.” Miss Smyth frowned. “But you are still married, are you not?”

  “Yes, technically we are, but—”

  It was as if the sun had come out from behind a cloud. Miss Smyth beamed at him.

  “Well, there you are, then. This will be an excellent time for you to become reacquainted.”

  Nell took another sip of tea and listened with half an ear to white-haired Lady Wordham, Lord Dawson’s estranged grandmother, and Lady Oxbury, a delicate woman of about forty who was there with her niece, Lady Grace Belmont, the Earl of Standen’s daughter. They were discussing people Nell had never heard of.

  The men would enter the drawing room shortly, as soon as they finished their port. Could she slip out now and hide in her room?

  No, it was not her room—it was hers and Ian’s. It was more a trap than a refuge.

  How was she going to survive this house party? Dinner had been torture, seated between Ian and Mr. Boland, a thin, balding man of indeterminate age who was far more interested in his mutton than his dinner partners. One would think the poor soul hadn’t eaten in a month. She’d tried to engage him in conversation—even a discussion of the food on his plate—but he’d answered every one of her attempts with a grunt, a glare, and vigorous chewing.

  She closed her eyes briefly. She’d been much too aware of Ian. She’d swear she’d felt the heat from his body. They had been seated very close together. Someone—Miss Smyth, most likely—had decided to squeeze in an extra chair on their side of the table. She couldn’t move without brushing up against him.

  She’d felt his thigh against her thigh. She’d watched his broad, strong hand reach for his wineglass and his long fingers twist its stem, his heavy gold signet ring glowing in the candlelight. The sleeve of his tightly fitted coat—with his muscled arm inside, an arm she had viewed in all its naked glory just hours before—touched her arm more than once.

  The first time it had happened, she’d tried to put more space between them by leaning toward Mr. Boland. Mr. Boland had glared at her as if he suspected she would snatch his buttered prawns from his plate.

  “Would you like more tea, Lady Kilgorn?”

  Nell jumped, splashing a few drops of liquid on her bodice. She hadn’t seen Miss Smyth approach.

  “No, thank you. I am quite content as I am.”

  “Are you, Lady Kilgorn?” Miss Smyth raised her eyebrows and gave her a very significant look.

  “Am I ... what?”

  “Quite content as you are.” She now wiggled her eyebrows. She clearly was not talking about tea.

  “Well, I ...”

  “Perhaps it is time for a change.” Miss Smyth leaned closer, her lips curving in a small smile. “One often finds opportunities in the most unexpected places, you know.”

  “What?”

  “Think about it, dear Lady Kilgorn.” She patted Nell’s hand. “I do apologize for my ... mistake. I will talk to Mrs. Gilbert in the morning and see what she can do. Now if you’ll excuse me?”

  “Yes, of course.” Nell watched Miss Smyth slip out the door.

  It was extremely difficult to believe a house this size didn’t have plenty of spare bedchambers, but Miss Smyth had blamed leaky roofs, mold, mildew, smoking chimneys, even rodent infestations for the shortage. She glanced around the drawing room. It didn’t look as if the viscount took such poor care of his estate, but he hadn’t protested his aunt’s story in the green parlor. He’d just calmly sipped his sherry and examined a black and gold vase on the immaculate surface of a small table.

  “Here they come!” The two Misses
Addison leaped from their seats as the door opened and the first unsuspecting male crossed the threshold.

  Lady Oxbury frowned. “I don’t understand why Mrs. Addison doesn’t rein in her daughters.”

  “Probably because she is upstairs in her room with a brandy bottle.” Lady Wordham shook her head. “I’m afraid she’s given up even trying to control them. A pity. I cannot like the way they pursue my grandson.”

  Lord Dawson appeared quite adept at dodging the twins, however. He managed to keep Ian between him and the Addisons, then slipped behind the tea tray to reach Lady Grace.

  “Well, if I had a daughter—” Lady Oxbury stopped abruptly. She turned bright red and then ghostly white.

  “Are you all right?” Nell put a hand on Lady Oxbury’s arm. Her skin felt almost clammy. Was she going to swoon?

  “Yyes. I’m fine.”

  “Pardon me, but you don’t look fine. Shall I get you a glass of water?”

  “Lady Kilgorn is right, my dear.” Lady Wordham appeared as worried as Nell felt. “You look distinctly out of curl all of a sudden. Perhaps we should send for your hartshorn.”

  “No, no, really I’m fine.” Lady Oxbury mustered a weak smile. “Please, don’t give it another thought.”

  Nell exchanged a glance with Lady Wordham. The elderly woman shrugged.

  “Very well, but do be careful. I know I am ancient, but you are not as young as you once were. You need to take good care of yourself.”

  Lady Oxbury made an odd noise, something of a cross between a giggle and a sob. “Yes, I will. If you’ll excuse me? I believe I’ll get a fresh cup of tea.”

  Nell watched Lady Oxbury pour her tea and then wander over in Mr. Wilton’s direction. Why had she reacted so oddly? They’d been talking about the Addisons and daughters....

  “Do you suppose Lady Oxbury lost a baby?” Nell didn’t realize she’d spoken aloud until Lady Wordham answered.

  “You mean miscarried? Perhaps. It is a common occurrence, though I can’t imagine her loss could be recent. Oxbury’s been dead a while, sick longer than that.”