Rake Ruiner: The Marriage Maker and the Widows Book One

by Summer Hanford

  The tall, broad shape before her shifted as the gentleman turned from his silent perusal of the dark garden and came around to face her. There was a flash of even, white teeth, but not what she would call a smile. “Missus Fairhaven.”

  She recognized that deep, rumbling voice. The farmer with the weasels. “Where is Lord Edward?”

  He bowed with enviable elegance, especially in so strong a frame. “At your service.”

  Her eyes adjusting, she could make out his features now. The square jaw. Unforgiving lips. Eyes, gray if she recalled properly, that bespoke of an equally exacting personality. Even dressed as he was now, to the height of sophisticated fashion instead of appearing as a warrior of old, he was still daunting.

  Not that she would permit him to realize as much. She squared her shoulders and crossed to stand before him. His eyes traced a lingering trail along the low neckline of her gown. The blush that heated her cheeks surprised her. Thankfully, the terrace was dark.

  “The Baron of Gaoth, then, and not a wayward farmer,” she murmured in mimicry of his earlier words, to further show him that she was in no way intimidated. Did she imagine the smile that flickered across his lips?

  “Yes, I am Baron of Goath, and as such, it is my duty to welcome you and offer what assistance I may to make your stay in Caithness pleasant, even if that means vacating my property with immediacy.”

  Charlotte stared at him for a long moment, trying to reconcile the sophisticated gentleman before her with the mud-spattered, rodent-bedecked, kilt-clad barbarian of that afternoon. He leaned against the balustrade and folded his arms across his chest, waiting. There was no mistaking the gleam of amusement in his gaze now.

  “I apologize for my error earlier, Lord Edward,” she finally allowed. “I should not have ordered you from your own home.” She tried to hide a grimace as she realized that was her lesser crime. “And I should not have entered the ballroom, which you’d clearly locked.”

  Those strong arms dropped to his sides. He turned back to face the empty garden. “Apology accepted.”

  Was she being dismissed, and churlishly at that? How utterly intolerable. She joined him at the rail.

  Though she felt slightly dwarfed beside him, she steeled her voice and offered, “And I daresay you’re sorry for yelling at me in a manner not befitting the address of a maid. In fact, for employing a tone unacceptable for speaking to any woman, and for spreading the rumor that I’m an old crone.”

  “I thought you were a maid because I assumed a woman of standing would not sneak into a locked room,” he growled.

  “Yes, that’s the tone.” She made her voice sunny and light, to hide the anger his growl awoke. “The very one. Thank you for the repeat demonstration.”

  He glanced at her, expression startled. Scrutinizing him, she noted how his large hands clenched the stone railing. As if sensing her attention, his grip eased.

  “I also assumed the widow I was renting to was, indeed, considerably older.” He shrugged, the movement lacking ease. “Stirling wrote that you hoped six months in the Highlands would alleviate your situation. I took that as his delicate reference to ill health.” Crossing his arms again, he turned to her, one hip propped against the railing. “You, however, appear robust.”

  Charlotte was unsure if that was a compliment. She remained facing the garden, not wishing for the intimacy of looking up at the aggravating Lord Edward. “My situation, as Sir Stirling so delicately phrased it, is the unwanted persistence of a former lover.” She meant the declaration to sound worldly, confident. Instead, her words rang hollow.

  “I see.” Condemnation rolled from him.

  Charlotte whipped around to face him, eyes narrow in anger. She didn’t have to defend herself to any man, let alone this boorish, arrogant, penniless, backwater Highland lord.

  “Papa, Missus Neville wants to know if you or Missus Fairhaven require refreshments, and for me to tell you the dancing has begun.”

  A pretty, red haired girl, perhaps fifteen, stood framed in the parlor doorway. Behind her, Charlotte could see the room was clearing as people filed out, presumably toward the promised refreshments and dancing. The girl smiled at Charlotte, cheeks dimpling, before aiming a quizzical look at her father.

  “Thank you, Hetty,” Lord Edward said. “Please tell Missus Neville we’ll be in shortly. We are, indeed, nearly done speaking.”

  As he addressed his daughter, Lord Edward’s voice and mien transformed. He sounded kind. Warm, even. His strong features molded into a caring look. Why, when he spoke to Hetty, he didn’t seem brutish in the slightest. It was a pity he’d yet to apply such civility to Charlotte. She’d assumed, in spite of the urbane figure he cut, that he didn’t possess the nuances of courtesy.

  “I’ll tell her.” Hetty darted a glance at Charlotte. “Also, Tom asked if I could dance, but Missus Neville said I cannot unless you’re there, which is silly because everyone else is there and it’s only Tom.”

  “I believe you mean Mister McAullum.” Lord Edward’s voice held only mild reprimand. “You are correct, you may dance with Mister McAullum under Missus Neville’s supervision.”

  Hetty gave her father another pretty smile. “And Mister MaClagan also asked me t—

  ”

  “No,” Lord Edward said sharply. “You are not to dance with MaClagan. Ever.”

  Hetty blinked rapidly. “But Marian always said he’s the best dancer and—”

  “I forbid it.” There was no warmth in Lord Edward’s tone now.

  Charlotte looked from father to daughter, wondering what she didn’t know. Why did Lord Edward, and Missus Neville, show such marked dislike for Mister MaClagan? Could it simply be the snobbery of old wealth? Jealousy, perhaps, as well, on the baron’s side, to see the flashy young upstart gallivanting about his community, dazzling and carefree, with his father’s money, acquired through trade. Charlotte had seen that sort of snobbery more than once in Edinburgh.

  Far from daunted, Hetty rolled her eyes skyward. She turned to Charlotte, her smile back, and dipped a curtsy. “It’s very pleasant to meet you, Missus Fairhaven.”

  “You have not met her,” Lord Edward corrected before Charlotte could speak.

  Hetty rolled her eyes. “Only because your manners are remiss, Papa.”

  Lord Edward turned a frown on Charlotte. She had the decided impression he’d prefer his daughter didn’t make her acquaintance, or even know Charlotte’s name. In contrast, Hetty’s face, still touched with a childish roundness, was the very archetype of innocent cheerfulness.

  Charlotte couldn’t betray that look by remaining aloof. “I am pleased to meet you as well, Lady Hetty.”

  Hetty’s dimples deepened. “That’s a very pretty dress, Missus Fairhaven. When you come in, will you show us the latest dances?”

  Beside Charlotte, Lord Edward stiffened.

  “Thank you. This gown is one of my favorites,” Charlotte temporized, surprised at the pang of sorrow his reaction evoked. Did he truly believe she would corrupt his daughter? “As for dances, we shall see.”

  “I really should love to learn them.” Hetty’s wheedling tone bespoke of a young woman who often got her way. “You could come show me now. You’ve been out here for ages. You can’t have more to say.”

  Charlotte would have agreed, except they hadn’t discussed her one true concern, staffing Talla Gaoithe. “We’ve yet to make arrangements for my household. I haven’t even a single maid with me.”

  “Oh.” Hetty’s crestfallen look showed she couldn’t argue with the importance of procuring a maid. She brightened again almost instantly. “My Papa knows everyone. I’m sure he’ll find you someone.”

  “I’m certain you’re correct,” Charlotte agreed.

  “Hetty, go let Missus Neville know we’ll rejoin the gathering shortly,” Lord Edward said. “And don’t forget what I said about dancing.”

  “Yes, Papa.” Hetty curtsied. “Good evening, Missus Fairhaven.”

  “Good evening,
Lady Hetty,” Charlotte replied with a grave nod.

  Hetty slipped back inside, the parlor empty aside from the waiting Missus Neville. She gave them an inquiring look, then put her arm about the girl to lead her away. Through the panes, Charlotte watched them disappear into the hall.

  “You laid off your staff before coming here?” The Baron’s voice held condemnation, but at least he wasn’t growling.

  “I most certainly did not,” Charlotte snapped. “What do you take me for?”

  “So, you lied to Hetty about not having a maid?”

  Ah, there was the growl. Charlotte’s balled fists found their way to her hips. “I have never met a more presumptuous, disagreeable gentleman than you,” she declared, fed up with his accusations and snarling. Really, the man was too much to bear. “Not that it is any of your concern, your lordship, but I left my staff fully employed in Edinburgh, save for the handful who accompanied me. My cook was fearful of odd Highland cuisine and my maids, along with the bulk of my other staff, are all young, living with their families or just starting families of their own. I didn’t wish to uproot them for half a year when keeping them on puts no strain on my finances.” She narrowed her eyes at him. “What sort of monster would even think of casting a whole household of people out onto the streets?”

  He stared at her, appearing somewhat startled.

  In truth, she was as well. He aggravated her, but that was no excuse for her tirade. She, who normally gave inordinate thought to the feelings of others, was yelling at an impoverished gentleman who had no wife and a daughter near to coming out. Worse, in her fit of temper, she’d been so crass as to essentially brag about her wealth.

  Charlotte drew in a long, slow breath and let it out. “I apologize. I don’t know what came over me.”

  He frowned at her, his expression best befitting a man contemplating a Newtonian riddle. “Righteous indignation, I believe.”

  Charlotte blushed. This time, her face was so hot, she doubted even the darkness of the terrace hid the brightness suffusing her cheeks. “Again, I am sorry.”

  He nodded. “I shall rectify your staffing issue tomorrow and, do not fear, your staff here will be aware of the duration of your lease. I shouldn’t want you to feel obligated to finance two households for any longer than required to escape your lovelorn pursuer.”

  She tilted her chin up, angered by his mocking tone, but now in control of her desire to return his taunts. “Thank you.”

  Those gray eyes lingered on her for a long moment. Lord Edward bowed low. “Missus Fairhaven,” he said in his deep baritone, then turned on his heels and quit the terrace, leaving Charlotte quite alone.

  Chapter Five

  Charlotte was pleased to be out in the sunshine, stretching her legs, though she was unsure if she would make the entire walk to the nearest village. Her long strides quickly took her past the first crossroads, but she felt the journey would still take over an hour, with little reward at the end. Reputedly, there was no tearoom and but a handful of shops. She was in no mood for shopping and had elected to come alone, despite Cuthbert’s opposition, and so had no one to carry her parcels for her. Besides which, she’d a note from Lord Edward saying he would arrive that afternoon to discuss her staff. It wouldn’t do to confirm his ill opinion by returning late.

  Although, being late would vex him, something she was sorely tempted to do. If she’d a single maid with her, so that she wouldn’t have to take up her housekeeper’s time with menial tasks, she might stand up Lord Edward. She kicked a pebble down the roadway. It bounced along, sending up little spurts of dust. Lord Edward would not take well to waiting for her. He was obviously quite accustomed to being accommodated. His family had likely been lording over the region for hundreds of years.

  A smile curved her lips as she contemplated reducing Lord Edward to growling but wavered when the creak of tack and pummel of hooves penetrated her thoughts. Somewhat dismayed that she’d been too wrapped in her musings to attend to the world, she stepped to the side of the roadway, into the tall grass lining the verge. The blades caught at her slate-blue skirt, along with leaves and the stems of wildflowers about to burst into bloom. She was delighted she would see the transformation. Spring came late in the Highlands, and departed in haste.

  “Missus Fairhaven,” a familiar voice called.

  Charlotte looked up to see MaClagan seated in a brightly painted curricle drawn by matched white mares. Hands steady on the reins, he drew to a halt beside her.

  “Mister MaClagan,” she acknowledged with a nod. “What a fine pair of mares.”

  “Thank you.” He tipped his hat, yellow to match the vest peeking from beneath his forest green coat. “Many gentlemen think mares difficult to handle, but I’ve found that given a firm hand and a bit of affection, the fairer sex will gladly get you where you want to go.”

  Charlotte raised her eyebrows. He wasn’t very subtle, this MaClagan. “And where, pray tell, is that?”

  He grinned down at her, the picture of a carefree bon vivant. Just the sort of man Charlotte preferred. “At the moment, I am going to my lair,” he said in mock-mysterious tones. “Where I keep my secret obsession. Should you care to join me, Missus Fairhaven?”

  She tipped her head to the side, considering. Her day had certainly become more interesting, of a sudden. Visiting the wealthy Mister MaClagan’s so-called lair promised to be more diverting than walking down a deserted country road, daydreaming about tormenting Lord Edward. “That depends, Mister MaClagan. What is your secret obsession?”

  His grin only widened. “I paint, madam.”

  “Paint?” She didn’t hide the surprise in her tone. “As in, landscapes and bowls of fruit and such?”

  “Oh no, something far more interesting.” Mischief danced in his eyes. “But you must see for yourself. Having admitted so much, I really must insist.”

  Charlotte did not care for insisting, but his tone was playful. She went around the curricle, resisting the urge to pat his flat-eyed mares on the way for fear they would bite her. He turned to follow her progress. When she reached the other side, he extended a hand to help her up. She was pleased to find his grip strong, not limp like some gentlemen’s.

  “So, where is this lair of yours?” she asked as she settled her skirts.

  “Not far. I rent the property adjoining yours, though Lord Edward’s estate is large enough, that doesn’t place me near.” He slapped the reins to start his team moving before turning to her with a hooded look. “At least, not so near as I should like to be.”

  Charlotte laughed, for he was a bit silly, this garish young man. In Edinburgh, he would soon learn a bit more polish, or never find himself in the arms of a lady. In Caithness, she supposed he was the local charmer. “Let me inspect your lair first, sir, and then decide how close I would prefer you to be.”

  His grin was confident as he guided his team up the roadway. Somewhat to Charlotte’s relief, he left off his innuendoes to chat amiably about local scenery and occupations, most of which seemed to revolve around various notable rocks and sheep. True to his word, it wasn’t long before they turned between two stone pillions and headed up a drive toward a country manor. The building was large, and appeared old, but had none of the charm of Lord Edward’s keep. She wondered that Mister MaClagan, with his flamboyance and his wealth, didn’t rent Talla Gaoithe.

  Somewhat to her surprise, Mister MaClagan didn’t steer his team toward the squat manor. Instead, he drove the curricle around, down a narrow drive and through a stand of pines. In short order, he brought them to a halt outside a small, equally squat building. He leapt down before turning to offer his hand.

  Charlotte scanned the pines encircling them before placing her gloved fingers in his. “Do you not live in the manor?”

  His grin didn’t waver as he handed her down. “I do, but this is my lair. I believe it was the caretaker’s residence, or perhaps a dower house, but I have converted it for my painting.”

  Intrigued, Charlotte follo
wed him to the wood plank door. He reached up and pulled down a key from above the doorframe, which he applied to the lock. Bowing with excessive flourish, he gestured for her to precede him as he pushed open the door. Bemused, she stepped into a large open interior, brightened by the spring sunlight streaming in, and stopped.

  Charlotte blinked. Her gaze swept across the airy room. She blinked again. Before her, each canvas on an easel of its own, stood an astonishing array of skillfully rendered nudes.

  The paintings were arranged in a double row, a loose semicircle, over twenty in all. Each contained a woman in a varying state of repose, silken sheets draped with more or less modesty about her. It took Charlotte only a moment to realize they were all painted while reclining on the large bed in the center of the room. Though the color of the sheets varied, all of the women wore the same warm, satisfied expression.

  Mister MaClagan walked past her. He angled his head to take in the display, then turned to face her, a grin on his face. “My secret obsession.” He made a sweeping gesture.

  “I can certainly see why you keep the door locked,” Charlotte allowed, unsure what else to say.

  He was very skilled. Incredibly so. The women before her were eminently real, their expressions perfectly captured. Some she recognized as people she’d met the evening before. That realization sent heat into her cheeks, which only intensified as his grin widened, ruining any hope he hadn’t noticed her blush.

  Mister MaClagan meandered deeper into the room. He halted before a blank canvas on an easel beside the bed. A nearby table was crowded with accoutrements. He ran a long-fingered hand across a row of brushes.

  “Every one of these has touched silken skin,” he said. “I find tracing each curve teaches my hand. It’s by sweet memory as much as skill that I retrace every lovely arc.” He raised his gaze to the blank canvas beside him.

  His next conquest waiting to be immortalized. In all her years, Charlotte had never seen anything like Mister MaClagan’s lair. She was only four and twenty, true, but she’d been widowed for four years. She considered herself a worldly sort. This, though… What was a woman to say to this?