‘Shall we go inside?’ Lady Jenna said. ‘I expect you would care to refresh yourselves after your journey.’
The guests passed the servants standing on each side like soldiers on parade: the secretary, butler, the head groom, maids and footmen. Only McBane nodded an acknowledgement of their presence. He was a good few years older than the other two and a widower by all accounts, and the best of the bunch from Niall’s first impression.
The other two were popinjays, one a sportsman and the other a dandy. But it was wrong to judge a man by appearance alone. Carrick must think any one of them would make a good husband and it was actions, not appearances, that counted.
Niall followed them in. It was his duty to show them to their quarters and give them a brief explanation of the castle layout, so they could find their way to dinner in the dining room later.
A dinner where he would sit in place of her guardian. A role he would not shirk.
* * *
Almost over, dinner had gone perfectly smoothly. Not that Jenna had expected otherwise. The castle staff were a well-oiled machine. Conversation during the meal had allowed her to learn more about the characters of her suitors.
Mr Oswald, seated to her left, was the second son of an earl and a tulip of fashion. She suspected he might even be wearing a corset. Not that he creaked or anything, as she had heard about the Prince Regent, but she sensed an odd stiffness in his spine.
He also lisped very slightly, yet his blue eyes seemed to glimmer with humour at the oddest moments. ‘My dear Lady Jenna,’ he said, putting down his fork, ‘when I learned I was to live in a castle, I must be honest, I had no idea what to expect. I am entirely gratified to discover there are no rushes on the floor, or dogs scrabbling for bones under the table.’
She couldn’t help but laugh at his droll expression. ‘We aim to please.’
‘What are the plans for tomorrow?’ Murray asked.
‘Do you like to shoot, Mr Murray?’ she asked.
‘Rather,’ Murray replied. ‘I never travel without my own shotgun. Ordered it from Manton’s to my exact specifications. I am an excellent shot. Bagged the most birds of anyone last time out.’
An excellent shot or a braggart. Time would prove which.
‘At this time of year we have little to offer in the way of game birds,’ Mr Gilvry said matter-of-factly. ‘But if it is sport you want, there are hares and wood pigeons aplenty.’ He had been silent for most of dinner, watching their guests with a grim intensity as if he would pounce on anyone who stepped out of line.
Jenna had smiled at him once or twice and received only a steady stare in return. Clearly, he was taking his position seriously.
‘And you, Mr McBane?’ she asked the gentleman seated beyond Murray, the oldest of the three gentlemen, a widower with three children according to the latest edition of Debrett’s Peerage.
‘I’m not averse to an afternoon with a gun, Lady Jenna,’ he replied, shifting slightly to permit one of the footmen to refill his glass in a polite little gesture that suggested a kindly heart. ‘A little variety in the kitchen is a good thing, I believe. I did not bring my shotgun, however.’
A man with a practical turn of mind, it seemed. ‘Lord Carrick keeps guns for his guests.’
‘I prefer my own,’ Murray said, thrusting his jaw forwards and looking around as if daring anyone to suggest he was wrong.
‘Then we shall definitely have to see if we can provide you with some sport,’ she said soothingly. ‘If the weather remains fine. And once you have recovered from your journey.’
‘I expect I could manage it in a day or so,’ Mr Oswald said, ‘provided we are not required to be in the field before noon.’
‘You cannot be tired, Oswald,’ Mr Murray scoffed. ‘You didn’t set foot from your cabin the whole time we were on board.’
‘I loathe travelling by sea.’
‘I’m a fine sailor,’ Murray said. ‘Never see me keeping below. I was able to put a line in, too. Caught a couple of cod. Had ’em for dinner.’
Did the man think of nothing but sport? Would he care about the land and the people at Braemuir, or only about its game?
‘You gentlemen did not run into any trouble on the road from town?’ Mr Gilvry asked. ‘We’ve had trouble with footpads in the area.’
‘Never saw a one,’ Mr Murray said. ‘Would have dealt with them soundly if I had.’
Mr Oswald gave a good imitation of a yawn. ‘It might have alleviated some of the boredom.’
Mr McBane smiled at him cheerfully. ‘I doubt any footpad would dare come anywhere near us with so many grooms and outriders as Oswald brought with him.’
‘My dear fellow, a man must have his comforts,’ Oswald said.
Mr Gilvry’s mouth flattened. ‘No doubt you are right.’
Whether he referred to the comforts Mr Oswald required or the size of the party putting off any villains, Jenna wasn’t quite sure. Likely both, from the look on his face.
‘I don’t know if you gentlemen are interested in history, but there are a few sites not far from here worth visiting,’ Mrs Preston said hesitantly. ‘Some ruined castles. And standing stones.’
Mr Oswald unsuccessfully hid yet another yawn. Mr Murray frowned.
Mr McBane on the other hand brightened. ‘Perhaps a picnic would be in order.’
‘My thought exactly,’ Jenna said. She was beginning to like this man, even if he was a little older than she had expected. He certainly seemed easier to please than the other two. But being easy to please could be a sign of lack of energy.
‘And we could arrange a day of sailing up the coast,’ she offered.
‘With fishing,’ Mr Murray said, looking more cheerful.
Mr Oswald shuddered. ‘I’ll vote for the picnic after all.’
Jenna couldn’t help it—she laughed.
He grinned at her. ‘And if there are enough of us, I would not be averse to an evening of cards.’
So that was where his preference lay. And if it was deep play he wanted, he was not the man for her. ‘I am sure it can be arranged,’ she said with a cool smile.
‘You are a wonderful hostess, Lady Jenna,’ he said with fervour. Oddly enough, she had the feeling he meant it.
The servants began to clear the last course.
‘Shall we retire, dear, and leave these gentlemen to their dram?’ Mrs Preston said, smiling brightly at the company. ‘After such a long journey we do not expect your company in the drawing room this evening, but we shall not let you off so lightly again.’
The gentlemen rose and smiled their agreement.
To a chorus of goodnights, she and Mrs Preston left the room.
* * *
‘They are all such handsome, eligible gentlemen,’ Mrs Preston said as they walked along the corridor to their respective chambers. ‘I have no idea how you will choose which one to marry.’
Jenna held back a hysterical laugh, a reaction to the panic she was feeling inside. ‘Neither do I.’
She hadn’t expected to know which of these men to choose at first sight, or to fall in love with. Indeed, that would be the last thing she wanted. She just hadn’t expected to be left feeling quite so indifferent.
* * *
Niall paused outside the library door, bracing to steady himself, and checked his cravat and fastened his coat buttons. He’d been on his way to bed after too much of Lord Carrick’s whisky. The other men had talked and he had listened. And drank. More than he should have. But not nearly enough to dampen the feeling of foreboding that had plagued him from the moment these men had arrived. A feeling that this role of watchdog was far more onerous than he could ever have imagined.
Being polite to men for whom he held a feeling of contempt. And, damn it, envy.
And now Lady Jenna had asked him to meet with her.
God help him, what on earth could she want at this time of the night? He hoped to hell she was wearing proper attire. His body tightened at the thought that she might not be
. At the hope. The drink was making him stupid. The last thing he needed was any kind of entanglement with a woman he was supposed to be protecting as if she was his ward or his daughter.
He glowered at the door. He should just turn around and go to bed. See her in the morning, when his head was clear. But then, the footman who had caught him outside his chamber had said it was urgent.
Aware of that same footman watching in the hallway, he knocked. When invited, he stepped into the room, deliberately leaving the door open. He remained standing, barely over the threshold. ‘You sent for me, my lady.’
She was seated on the sofa, dressed in the rose-hued gown she’d worn at dinner tonight. A far more daring gown than the one she had worn to welcome their guests this afternoon. He’d had the strong urge to wrap her in a shawl when he’d first seen her in the drawing room where they had gathered before going into dinner. Especially after young Murray had openly ogled her breasts.
Though it was hard not to ogle—they were so bounteously displayed. But it had offended him the way Murray had looked at her: like a horse trader at a fair.
‘I am sorry to interrupt your evening, Mr Gilvry,’ she said, her voice brittle.
He dragged his gaze away from that lovely expanse of creamy flesh to gaze at her face. She looked anxious. Just as anxious as she’d looked this afternoon standing on the steps. Shouldn’t she be happy? She’d got her wish. Her choice of a husband. The idea of it churned in his stomach, mixing with whisky and the coarse talk of men in their cups.
He narrowed his eyes, squinting at her to make sure she stayed properly in focus. ‘How may I serve you, Lady Jenna?’ He glanced around pointedly for her companion. ‘The hour is late.’
She got up and paced to a small inlaid table on the other side of the room. She picked up the decanter. ‘May I offer you a dram?’
Oh, yes, that was all he needed. More whisky. He already had so little defence against all that lovely exposed flesh. Another drink and he’d be trying to ravish her on the sofa. ‘No, thank you, my lady.’ Ha. That sounded polite enough.
She splashed some of the golden liquid into a tumbler and took a deep swallow. ‘I find I am in need of some advice.’ Her voice trembled a little.
The word tumbled through the molasses in his brain. ‘Advice,’ he echoed. He pressed his lips together, determined to say nothing more until she revealed what was on her mind.
‘Perhaps it is more your opinion I am seeking. In my cousin’s absence.’
His gut gave a nasty lurch and tossed his dinner upwards towards his throat. Suddenly, he wished he had not refused the whisky.
She gave him a quick glance and returned her gaze to her drink. ‘I wondered...’ She paused, swirling the liquid in the glass as if trying the words out in her head before actually saying them. Picking over them with care, if her frown was anything to go by.
His heart stilled. She was not going to ask him... No. Oh, no. ‘It is not my place to offer an opinion,’ he said swiftly, surprising himself at how easily the words formed on his tongue, when his tongue felt rather too large to fit behind his teeth.
‘But you have formed one?’
‘No.’ He could see that answer was too blunt. Too cryptic. He got his thoughts in order. Spoke carefully. ‘All of these gentlemen are approved of by your cousin. They must all be equally...equally...’ What? Equally idiotic? Rich? Connected? He shrugged, lost for words. He did not like equivocating, but he would not give her his opinion. Because if she listened to him, she would be sending all of them back where they came from.
And not because there was anything wrong with them.
She stared at him. Her shoulders slumped. ‘I see.’ She swallowed hard. ‘I thought it would be easy. I find I don’t know how to choose,’ she said huskily. ‘And I only have a week. They are all perfectly pleasant, each in his own way. They are all of good family and suitably wealthy. But how can I be sure I understand their real characters in such a short time?’
Wealth. Was that all she cared about? What he wanted to say and what he should say were so diametrically opposed. He remained silent.
‘What if I said I was leaning towards Mr McBane, then?’
A man nearly old enough to be her father. His mouth tightened.
‘You don’t like the idea?’
‘I don’t have an opinion, my lady,’ he said woodenly.
‘You perhaps prefer Mr Oswald?’
The man set his teeth on edge. ‘No, I don’t.’
‘Then it is Mr. Murray you favour?’
‘I favour none of them.’ He cursed inwardly at the harshness in his voice. He gentled his tone, forced a smile that he had the feeling was more like a grimace. ‘I mean, my lady, it is your decision.’
She finished her drink and turned away, looking towards the hearth, the fire dancing in her hair like flame and heat. And if he wasn’t mistaken there was a slight tremble in those milky-white shoulders. ‘You are of no more help than Mrs Preston,’ she declared. ‘I am sorry to have troubled you.’
The tone in her voice said she’d thought he’d let her down. For some reason she had expected him to have the key to choosing the right man. And damn him, he had the urge to offer help. But how?
He recalled words his grandfather had said to him and his brothers time and again. ‘The true worth of a man can only be judged by his ordinary behaviour in extraordinary circumstances.’ He winced as he realised he had spoken out loud. But it had been on his mind while listening to those three men brag and posture, jostling for position in the marriage horse race after she’d left them in the dining room, as if it was his decision as to which of them would be the winner. They clearly were thinking about themselves and not the woman for whom they vied.
She whirled to face him, her skirts belling around her tiny feet. ‘What sort of circumstances?’
‘How he accomplishes a difficult goal. Some worthy objective.’
Her head tilted. ‘Oh. Like the fairy tale. The princess who set her suitors tasks so she could choose the right man to marry. Stealing gold from a dragon.’
He stared at her blankly. The molasses once more made it impossible to follow the twist and turn of her mind. He had thought they were talking about the men who had come to offer for her hand. ‘There is no such thing as dragons.’
She frowned. ‘I know. But something of that nature. Something that would test their mettle.’
He wished he’d never mentioned it. Because he remembered the circumstances surrounding those words spoken by his grandfather each spring with a feeling of nausea.
‘What if we have each of them rescue me from some sort of danger?’ she mused.
The hairs on his nape rose. ‘What if they fail?’
Her eyes slowly focused on him, as if she had been drawn back from somewhere far away. ‘What did you say?’
‘I said, if you are in danger and the man fails, what then?’
‘Oh, you will be there to straighten everything out.’
‘Me?’ He felt as if a huge weight had landed on his shoulders.
‘Yes. It is your idea.’
‘It is not my idea to put you in danger.’ He dragged through what had been a pleasant buzz in his mind and was now a poisonous fog, searching for something that would keep this under control. ‘Test their dancing skills. Their intelligence. Their...I don’t know...their competence with regard to putting food on the table. You suggested they go shooting. Pick the one who bags the most pigeons.’
She frowned. ‘I don’t care much about how they shoot, or dance, or ride. And my understanding is that most gentlemen do all these things very well.’
‘Even Oswald?’ He could not keep his lips from forming a smirk at the thought of that fussy gentleman doing anything that involved breaking a sweat.
‘I think Mr Oswald has more to him than he lets on.’
‘Then pick him,’ Niall said and winced at the irritation in his voice.
She put her hands on her hips and looked at him, but she w
asn’t seeing him, she was seeing something else entirely. He wanted to move out of her line of sight. He did not like the way she was looking right through him. He remained still. Waiting for her to realise it was all nonsense. She wasn’t brainless. She’d see it in a moment or two. And then he could crawl into his bed and try not to dream about kissing her and more.
She drifted to the sofa and sat down. ‘What I want to know is,’ she said softly, so softly it was almost a whisper, ‘will they make decisions that are just and fair? Will they keep their word, no matter what the temptation? Will they deliver on a promise, no matter what? These are things I must know before I make a decision.’
He found himself dropping down to sit beside her, looking into stormy eyes and feeling as if he was sinking fast. ‘Why? What does it matter? They are all wealthy. All well connected and all approved by Lord Carrick. Pick the one you like best.’ And end his torture.
‘But which one will be best for Braemuir.’
He frowned. ‘I thought Braemuir was a house. And land.’
A tinge of red coloured her cheeks. Anger. Or passion. It lit her from the inside out as he gazed at her. ‘You don’t understand,’ she said, twisting her hands in her lap. ‘How could you? How could anyone? I love Braemuir. I grew up there and always knew it would be mine one day. Braemuir is who I am. What I am. The house. The land and its people. It has been neglected for too many years. The man I marry, the next Baron Aleyne, must be willing to invest in its future. And soon if it is to be saved. I must make the right choice.’ She looked at him, her eyes full of fire. ‘I promised my father.’
Passion indeed. A great responsibility for such a small delicate lass. Yet she had more determination than most men. And he certainly understood her sense of responsibility. But he could not see how he could help her make her choice.
‘You definitely need to ask them to fight a dragon.’
Ann Lethbridge Page 8