The Earl of Benton: Wicked Regency Romance (Wicked Earls' Club)

by Madeline Martin

  He chuckled. “Ye dinna know Madge.”

  “Why do you call her that?”

  “Madge?” Alistair rolled his eyes at the ridiculousness before he had to say it. “She always said being called mother made her feel like a prize breeding heifer and she was no man’s cow.”

  Emma’s mouth curled in a slow smile. “I think I’ll get along well with Madge.”

  Alistair was doubtful, but didn’t bother to say as much. In fact, he hoped Emma was correct and she and Madge got on well with one another.

  Outside the window, the high roof of the castle came into view. And even though Alistair had much to contend with upon their arrival, he could not help the relaxing of his muscles, the quiet joy spreading through him. He was home.

  “We are nearly there,” he said quietly.

  Emma left her hand in his but faced the window and gave a delighted sigh. “Oh, Alistair. It's lovely.”

  His chest swelled with pride. The sun had begun to set, painting the sky with streaks of orange, pink, and purple with the looming height of Lochslin Castle in its center.

  It had been a year since he had last been home. Looking through Emma's eyes, he could understand how she might be impressed. But unlike him, she hadn't seen it before when its roof sagged and the walls were crumbling. After all the funds he'd sent to Madge to commission its repair, he was eager to view the castle in its restored state.

  The carriage rolled onto the cobbled entrance and bounced this way and that, suggesting the stonework had not yet been mended.

  Very well. Alistair would handle it while he was home.

  Emma maintained a pleasant expression, politely ignoring the discomfort of their arrival. They stopped in front of the castle and Alistair's heart fell from what he could make out through the windows. Cracks fissured down the plaster face like errant spider webs and the door hung crookedly off its hinges. It was not in better repair since last he saw Lochslin Castle. It was far worse.

  ***

  Emma exited the carriage with excitement to view the castle and nearly fell. Had it not been for MacKenzie's polite help, she truly could have. She peered down to find what had upset her balance. There, amid the cobblestones, was one absent, leaving a vacant gap, like a missing tooth.

  Beast darted out and knocked into her. Again, MacKenzie steadied her with a slight, apologetic smile. She laughed at her clumsiness.

  “Thank you for your assistance, MacKenzie,” she said and glanced up at the castle. “I fear I'd…”

  Whatever she had planned to say fell from her mind and was whisked away from her mouth. Trickles of water wept in rivulets down the cracked front, following the lines in the stone made black over time where moss grew in threading green veins among the mold. A sudden sense of unease swam in the pit of Emma's stomach.

  Alistair stopped at her side and lifted his head to survey the castle’s broken face, his jaw set and his expression unreadable. He indicated the lopsided door, and suddenly Lochslin was not nearly as welcoming as she had anticipated. Beyond the entry lay an impenetrable cloak of darkness. A shiver wound its way up her spine.

  She was being foolish. There was nothing to be afraid of within the castle, and perhaps the disrepair was not so bad in the light of day. In truth, shadows always did lend things a certain element of gloom.

  Her spirits bolstered, she allowed herself to be guided into the castle. It was, as she’d expected, dark within, and her eyes took a second to adjust. But when it came fully into view, she rather wished it hadn't.

  For however much of a mess the outside of the castle had been, the inside was far worse. The odor of must and rot permeated the interior, as if the castle had not been properly used in some time. The rushes beneath her feet were sodden and covered in dirt, leaving her wishing she did not have to tread upon it. Several buckets were scattered throughout the large entryway. The tomblike silence was punctuated with drops falling from the ceiling and splashing into buckets in need of a good emptying.

  Emma pursed her lips, uncertain what to say. She had been raised to exhibit good manners, as did most children of considerable wealth and upbringing, but she could find nothing to compliment within the castle Alistair had described with so much pride.

  The unease in her stomach churned and left her chest aching with pity for Alistair. What if he did not have the wealth he implied he did? A brief flash of doubt crashed through her. What if it had been a ruse to get her to trust him, to care for him? It was possible he intended to get her to marry him in order to lay claim to her inheritance.

  “This wasna the welcoming condition I was hoping to find Lochslin Castle.” The tension along his jaw and the narrowing of his eyes indicated he was not pleased. “If there are no’ hospitable rooms, we will find an inn for the duration of our stay.”

  Emma’s fear relaxed and relief was so freeing, she almost laughed at her own skepticism.

  Of course Alistair had been truthful. About not having a wife, and about not using Emma for her wealth. A life of rumors had merely left her suspicious, especially when she was mere days away from personal liberation. In less than two weeks, she would be five-and-twenty. She would be free.

  “MacKenzie, find Madge,” Alistair said. “Inform her we've arrived.”

  MacKenzie walked off to fulfill Alistair's request. Hamish, Emma noticed, had not entered the castle with them.

  “It’s no’ been well kept.” Alistair said in a tight voice.

  In truth though, the kind of disrepair affecting the castle was not one done over several months, it was the byproduct of years of neglect. Surely he must have beheld it in its broken state at some point.

  “I'm sorry ye had to see it this way,” Alistair offered uncomfortably.

  “What's this?” a rasping voice came from the doorway.

  Emma spun around to find a woman with wild red hair and a shawl clutched tight over narrow shoulders.

  “Ye've brought a girl with ye?” The woman stalked forward and shifted her cane with each step, the rhythm smooth with the ease of someone who had walked with its aid for years.

  Alistair lifted his brow. “Madge, this is Miss Emma Thorne. Miss Emma, may I introduce my mother, Madge.”

  Emma offered the woman a curtsy. “I am pleased to meet you.”

  Madge's nose wrinkled as if she smelled something gone bad. “English?” Her head snapped toward Alistair. “Ye brought home some English chit?” She spat on the ground directly in front of Emma.

  Emma stared down at the foamy pool glinting in the low candle light in disbelief. Had the woman actually spit at her feet?

  “Madge,” Alistair said sharply.

  “Nay,” Madge shrieked. “Ye've been in England for well over a year and finally ye're home. No' to see me, but to bring home this.” She waved her hand at Emma and snarled.

  Beast whimpered and hugged his body close to Emma’s legs.

  The hatred coming off the woman was tangible and left an ugly sensation crawling over Emma’s skin.

  “Madge, ye dinna understand, and ye're being incredibly rude.” Alistair's voice had elevated above what was considered genteel. “Apologize to Miss Emma. Now.” The last word was pronounced low and held a dangerous edge.

  Emma eased back from the glob of spit at her feet and met the bloodshot eyes of Madge. The older woman's upper lip curled to reveal strong, straight teeth. She swept her arm through the air. “Nay. I'm going to my room, and I'll no' come out until you've gotten rid of this English bitch.”

  With that, the older woman swiveled around and, with a stiff, clipped pace, limped away.

  Chapter 11

  Emma had had quite enough. All of it had stacked atop her shoulders from when she first found poor Jenny and was forced to leave home to Lochslin Castle seeming as though it might fall down around her ears. Madge's crass behavior to her was the absolute final straw.

  “You suggested an inn, I believe.” Emma lifted her chin and tried to ignore frustration welling inside her at the whole miserabl
e situation.

  He glanced in the direction Madge had stomped off in her wicked tantrum. “We will stay here tonight.” The brogue he’d acquired in Edinburgh, the one he’d tried so hard to temper once more the following morning, was even thicker here in his home.

  Everyone spoke thus, with the Scottish burr. Everyone except her. She was clearly an outsider, clearly not welcome. And now she was being told she could not go to the inn, as she’d been promised.

  Disappointment gripped her, and tears prickled in her eyes. She fisted her hands. Blast it, she would not allow herself to cry.

  “You said we could stay at an inn,” she said in as level a tone as she could muster given the circumstances.

  “The nearest inn is at least two hours from here.”

  Thunder snarled overhead, an ominous sound in light of the dilapidated castle. The soft roar of rain came from outside and the plinking drops of water in the waiting buckets increased their pace.

  “Make that three hours,” Alistair amended dryly.

  Suddenly, this man with whom she had been so enamored, with whom she had devoted so much thought and consideration for, was tearing at her last shred of patience.

  She regarded poor MacKenzie, who stood awkwardly by with his gaze averted. “I'd appreciate being shown to my room.”

  “Of course, Miss Emma.” MacKenzie bent to retrieve the pathetically small parcel of her effects.

  Alistair scooped it up before the valet could reach it. “That isna necessary, MacKenzie.”

  She threaded her hand into the strong crook of Alistair’s proffered arm. Despite her storm of emotions rivaling that of the squall outside, heat warmed through her body at merely touching Alistair. His arm was strong beneath the cloth of his jacket and the subtle smoky scent of him elicited too many erotic memories to shove away.

  “I shouldn't be here,” she said when they were out of earshot of poor MacKenzie. She would not make the man feel more uncomfortable than he evidently already felt.

  “It's my home, and I welcome ye to it.” He gave a heavy sigh. “Regardless of how far it’s fallen into disrepair. I assure ye, yer room will be in order.”

  She kept her doubts to herself. “Your mother does not want me here.” It was a gross understatement, of course, but she was endeavoring to be polite. “I confess I don't understand her vehemence when she has never met me.”

  “It isna ye. It's the English.”

  “And I am English.”

  “Aye.”

  She chewed her lip. He was clearly more Scottish than he was English of late, the thickness of his brogue creeping into his cultured speech, and the way he slipped into Gaelic at every opportunity. As much as he was home, she was a stranger.

  “Do you hate the English as well?” she asked.

  A heartbeat passed before he answered. “It's no' an easy a question to answer.”

  “But it is. Either you do, or you do not. It is not so difficult.”

  He stopped in front of a door and opened it for her. She entered and found herself pleasantly surprised. It was small inside, squeezed in on all four sides by massively fortified stone walls, but it was clean and possessed a light, pleasant scent from the meadowsweet rushes strewn underfoot.

  The carved bed and chest were devoid of dust and a fire crackled with a cheeriness the storm outside did not suggest. Not one bucket stood within view and there was a wonderful absence of plinking.

  Instead, the crackling pops of the fire mingled with the rain pouring beyond the windows and left a rather companionable quiet between she and Alistair. The kind they'd shared on the road, before Lochslin Castle and Madge.

  Alistair entered and closed the door behind him. For that she was grateful. After all, words always had a way of carrying in a home, no matter how thick the walls.

  “Ye dinna know what the Scottish have been subjected to at the hands of the English.” He approached her slowly as he spoke, his voice gentle. “It's about more than superiority of person, it's about the oppression, the degradation and centuries of depravity we've suffered at the hands of the English. And it’s about the damn snobbishness.” He clenched his jaw before continuing. “In order to even be accepted by the English, I've had to remove most of the evidence of Scotland from my person. Even still, I hear the whispers of what they say about me when I'm about in their circles. I see the men who refuse to acknowledge my presence.”

  “And do you hate me?” Her fingers went to her wrist, seeking strength from the memory of her mother. “I am part of those people.”

  He shook his head. “Nay, ye're no'. Ye dinna think as they do, ye dinna act the same. In fact, are ye sure ye’re no' Scottish?” He grinned at her and her heart gave a pathetic flutter. Blast her reaction to him. She wanted to be angry, affronted by this conversation and the entire situation.

  “Are you sure you are not letting the judgement of the ton sway you against all of England in general?” She trailed her hand over the plaid blanket laid out across the bed. It was of the softest wool.

  “I assure ye, it's more than how the ton judges me.” He shot her a dark look. “Ye dinna know what I went through as a lad at Eton, when I couldna speak with the refinement of the noble-born boys, when I had to learn their customs and rules through error and correction.”

  She hated the idea of him as a boy, small and vulnerable, at the mercy of highbrow snobbery. “This title, did it belong to your father?” she asked.

  A flicker of something unreadable showed in his eyes. “My grandfather. On my da's side.” He crossed the room and stared out the window. “My grandfather took me in when I was a lad and sent me to Eton for my studies. My da dinna want the earldom, no’ that he could have refused it. As it was, he hated his courtesy title of viscount and ignored it. At least he was lucky to die without having to deal with it as I have.”

  “Why do you stay in England if it plagues your happiness?”

  Emma slowly approached Alistair. His strong forearms were braced against the window ledge.

  He turned from the rain spattered window to her. His gaze slid to her mouth and the gentle thrum of desire became an insistent pounding. “In two weeks, it willna matter, will it?”

  “No,” she said carefully. “I suppose it will not.” She tried to push the sudden ache from her heart. It was a silly emotion. They had not discussed what might happen to them when their precious bit of time had run out. And she did not wish to discuss it.

  “If your father was English, did your mother never warm to him? How did their match come to be?” she asked.

  He scoffed. “They fell in love after my da came to Scotland and drank too much whisky. The previous Earl of Benton was horrified at my da’s choice and strove to drive them apart, including insisting on my going to Eton. Were it no’ for their desperation for his money, my parents would have declined.”

  Emma’s stomach inched even lower at the mention of money, at the desperation to have it. The doubt in her mind nipped at her awareness once more.

  “In the end, my parents hated one another.” He smirked. “It would appear a match between the English and Scottish is impossible. Even for love.” He chuckled and shrugged. “Or whisky.”

  Emma’s heart sagged in her chest at his words. “I’m afraid I’m quite tired suddenly.”

  He eyes darkened with concern. “Shall I send someone up to attend to ye?”

  Drat. Her gown. She would require help out of it, and it wouldn’t do to have Alistair do it for her. As it was, being alone with him was highly improper.

  “Please.”

  “Aye, I’ll have MacKenzie find a maid for ye.” He took her face in his large hand. His palm was cool from where it had rested against the stone sill. “I must speak to Madge. I will try to visit ye later tonight.”

  Emma ought to have said no, but his mouth claimed hers and any protests fled her thoughts. It was not until after he left that her mind finally cleared enough for her to realize two exactly terrible things. The first being that Alistair wa
s correct, there could be no true happiness between English and Scottish, not with what he’d said.

  The second being that she was completely and totally besotted with Alistair Johnstone, and might very well be in love.

  ***

  Alistair rapped softly upon his mother's door with great apprehension. This conversation would not be a good one, but it must be done.

  She didn't answer. Of course.

  It was so like Madge to make him work hard for her forgiveness, especially when the English were involved. “Let me in, Madge.”

  This time his mother answered readily. “Is she gone?”

  “Nay. I canna simply send her out on her own. She’s in danger, she—”

  “She's English. I would’ve thought ye’d understand. Ye, of all people in my life.”

  Alistair gritted his teeth. “I've sacrificed a lot to be here. And I came for ye, to help ye.”

  “I dinna need yer help.”

  He braced his hands on either side of the doorway. “Open the door so I can speak to ye.”

  “Do ye intend to marry her?” his mother asked, her voice closer.

  He already was married to her. The thought hit his mind with such suddenness, such surety, it made him hesitate before answering. “No,” he spoke hastily, but knew Madge would have already caught the pause. “She doesna want to wed.”

  “Do ye love her?”

  Alistair crossed his arms over his chest, as if that might ease the strange tightening there. “Nay. Of course I dinna.”

  That was an answer he could readily answer. Emma was a bonny lass, aye, and they complemented one another well, but certainly he was not in love with her after only a fortnight together, especially not when she would be returning home soon.

  The door opened. Madge's mouth was tucked into a disapproving line on her face. “I dinna want her here. I dinna want ye being gone.”

  Guilt at leaving her hit him hard in a soft spot he didn't realize he still had. “I know. I had to, to ensure we had the funds to repair the castle. To give ye a comfortable life.”