by Lucy Monroe
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This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locale or organizations is entirely coincidental.
Samhain Publishing, Ltd.
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Warner Robins, Georgia 31093
Copyright © 2007 by
Cover by Scott Carpenter
ISBN: 1-59998-539-X
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All Rights Are Reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
First Samhain Publishing, Ltd. electronic publication: August 2007
Prologue
Graenfrae, Scotland 1818
Laird Ian MacKay, Earl of Graenfrae, wanted to slam his fist into the gray stone wall of his study. “Ye’re telling me that my stepfather left me a fortune, but I canna get it unless I marry?”
Ian impatiently watched the elderly solicitor, Eggleton, as he removed his spectacles and carefully cleaned them with a cloth. Replacing the eyeglasses on his face, the solicitor shuffled the papers before him. He cleared his throat. “Precisely speaking, milord, if you marry within the year.”
A year. Ian clenched his hands and pivoted away from the other man. Bloody hell.
The tenants on Graenfrae’s farms needed seed and farming implements. Many of their homes would not last another winter without new thatch on their roofs. Ian needed blunt. Money that was only available if he wed within a year.
The urge to slam his fist into something grew stronger. Ian’s chest constricted with anger and another emotion. Betrothal and marriage would make him vulnerable to betrayal.
Again.
He had a difficult time believing that the late Earl of Lansing would take such drastic measures to see his wishes fulfilled. “Did my stepfather tell you why he placed this restriction in his will?”
Again the white head bent as the solicitor went through the ritual of cleaning his spectacles. Ian wanted to tear the wire frames from Eggleton’s hands. Were na the man’s eyeglasses clean enough?
“Lord Lansing believed that after the unfortunate incident with your broken betrothal you might hesitate to marry. He wanted you to secure your line, so to speak.”
“Then why did he no just add another rider requiring I set up my nursery?” Ian asked with disgust, ignoring the issue of his ended engagement.
Eggleton appeared to take his sarcastic question seriously. “He did in fact wish to do so. I convinced the earl that these matters are uncertain. It would be difficult to predict, ah hem…” Eggleton coughed delicately. “When your wife might begin increasing.” Things were not as bleak as they could be. Without the requirement for an heir, nothing would stop him from finding an obliging woman and entering a paper marriage.
An annulment could be secured in due time. Feeling better than he had since the solicitor had begun reading the will, Ian sat down.
A look of relief passed across the Eggleton’s face. “There is one final matter regarding the inheritance.”
What could be worse than marriage? Ian raised his brow in question and Eggleton continued. “Your wife must be English.”
“Bloody hell.” Ian shot from his chair. “You canna be serious.” Eggleton looked offended. “I assure you, I would never make light of the last wishes of one of my clients.”
An English wife.
“How am I supposed to find an English wife and marry her in the next year?” Were he looking for a proper wife, he knew it would be easy. He could think of several ladies who would be thrilled at the opportunity to be Lady MacKay. He could not envision any of them going without new dresses and fripperies while he made necessary improvements on his tenants’ properties, however. Finding a wife would not be hard.
Finding a woman who would sacrifice for the good of Graenfrae might be impossible.
Far better to plan a paper marriage.
“The London season opens in less than a month, milord.” Of course his English stepfather’s lawyer would think in terms of London. It was a fair distance away, but the season attracted many ladies. One of them would surely be practical enough to fit his purpose. He needed a plan of action.
Ian moved toward the desk, amused when the lawyer hastily retreated toward the window. Grabbing paper and a quill pen, Ian dipped it in the inkwell. He started writing.
Several minutes later he blotted the paper. Blowing on it, Ian read again the words he had written.
Requirements for a wife:
Plain.
Modestly dowered.
Older.
Eggleton cleared his throat once again. Ian looked up from his paper. The solicitor said, “The late earl instructed me to give you a message when I told you the details of the will.”
Ian felt a premonition of disaster on the horizon. “Aye?” The solicitor shifted from one foot to the other and repeated the process of cleaning his glasses, this time taking an inordinate amount of time to wipe the lenses. “He wanted me to remind you…” The man let his words trail off.
Ian prompted him, “Aye?”
Eggleton coughed. “He said to tell you that when a man takes the holy vows of matrimony, he is giving his word to the woman he takes to wife. The earl wanted you to remember that honor demands the gentleman in question keep that word for a lifetime.” Ian could no more deny the honor demanded by his stepfather than he could deny the responsibility to his tenants he had learned at his da’s knee. Feeling like a man facing the gaol, Ian accepted that there would be no paper marriage.
After the solicitor had left, Ian settled against the dark leather of his favorite chair and studied his surroundings with a critical eye. A man’s room, his study fit his need for stark simplicity. Bookcases on either side of the massive fireplace relieved the unending gray of the circular stone walls.
Multiple windows high in the walls of the turret’s chamber bathed the room in the fading light of evening. A scarred oak table served as his desk. Only two other items of furniture had made it into his sanctuary, another chair and small round table.
Soon a woman, an English woman, would be living in his home. A wife. He did not have time to cater to the needs of a woman, especially the romantic ideals so many ladies seemed plagued with. Taking a sip from his brandy, he thought of another requirement to add to his list for a wife.
Practicality.
The list would do him well in selecting a woman to wed for a lifetime. He would not make the same mistake he had with Jenna. He would find a woman as unlike her as possible, a woman who would be faithful.
Chapter One
Hyde Park - London, England 1818
Perfection wore a simple gray gown and unadorned poke bonnet.
Ian turned in his saddle toward his companion. “Who is the lady in the gray carriage yonder?”
Finchley, a longtime friend, was one of the few boys Ian had been able to stand at the English school his stepfather insisted he attend. Ian had no doubt the other man, an unrepentant gossip, would know the identity of the vision of plain perfection sitting with an elderly woman in the gray carriage.
Finchley rotated his entire body so that he could look where Ian indicated, the points on his collar too tall to allow him to turn his head. “That’s Lady Annabelle. Known each other this age, don’t you know? Her father, the late Earl of Hamilton, had estates that bordered ours.”
Ian felt his first surge of satisfactio
n since arriving in London the previous day. This lady was exactly what he needed. Her plain appearance spoke for itself and Ian had to assume that if she were of more than moderate means her clothing would be more elaborate. Ladies liked that sort of thing. Even from a distance, he could tell that she was past the blushing age of most debutantes. Not that she looked old, but her composed expression as she spoke to other members of the ton clearly indicated a woman beyond her first comeout.
Nightsong tried to prance sideways. Ian reined in the huge black stallion, not without some regret. Neither he nor his horse enjoyed the slow pace maintained during the social hour on Rotten Row in Hyde Park.
Finchley asked, “Shall I introduce you?”
Ian’s eyes locked with those of his lady of perfection and he could not look away from their hazel depths. His insides tightened in an unexpected way. “Aye. Introduce us.”
Without breaking eye contact with her, Ian guided his mount toward the carriage. He enjoyed the way she gave no indication that she found his interest unusual other than her eyes growing wide. She did not blush, or look away. In fact, her shoulders stiffened and he had the sense that she was challenging him to do so first. Unusual behavior for a gentle lady, some might even think it forward. Ian reveled in the strong will that emboldened the plain spinster to meet him look for look. He did not want a mouse for a wife.
Was she married? Ian’s mind rebelled at the possibility. Then he remembered that Finchley had called her Lady Annabelle. That indicated an unmarried daughter of the upper nobility, not a woman leg-shackled. He and Finchley drew abreast of the carriage.
She finally broke eye contact to acknowledge Finchley. “Ceddy, this is a pleasant surprise.” Her smile sparkled with mischief. “I thought you would be staying in the country helping your family prepare for your sister’s wedding this season.” The dandy visibly shuddered. “Not my cup of tea, eh what?” She laughed and Ian had an amazing and potentially embarrassing reaction to the melodic sound. He shifted in his saddle, uncomfortably aware of the tight fit of his riding breeches.
The older woman seated next to his lady spoke. “Cederic, I would expect you to show more family support than that, though I will admit a young gentleman underfoot is the last thing a mother needs when preparing for a wedding.” Sighing, she looked sideways at Annabelle, her expression speaking volumes. “Not that I would be averse any manner of annoyance were I given the opportunity to plan one myself in the near future.” The older woman gave Ian a pointed look before turning back to Finchley. Ian’s friend might be a dandy, but he was far from stupid. He introduced them. “Lady Beauford, Lady Annabelle, may I present to you, the Earl of Graenfrae, Mister Ian MacKay?”
Turning his head toward Ian as far as his high shirt points would allow, Finchley said, “MacKay, this is Lady Beauford and her niece, Lady Annabelle.” The older woman smiled and Ian found that he liked her frank regard. “It is a pleasure to meet you, my lord.”
Annabelle said nothing, merely inclining her head. The coolness of the action amused, rather than irritated him. Was she embarrassed by her companion’s thinly veiled hint at her unmarried state? If so, she gave no indication. Still, her aunt’s words implied the courtship should be an easy one.
Finchley asked a question of Lady Beauford and soon the two were engrossed in Town gossip.
Annabelle smiled at Ian, her hazel eyes lit with warmth and genuine interest. “Are you new to Town, my lord?”
He once again had to rein in Nightsong. “Aye. ’Tis no my intention of staying any longer than necessary either.” His irritation at having to control his mount in the park came out in his voice.
A small smile twitched the corner of her lips, making them look very kissable.
Demme. Had he been so long without a woman that he could not hold a conversation with a lady and not think of kissing her? Other images had popped into his head as well, images that would undoubtedly shock the plain spinster to her dainty toes.
“I see,” she said. “I assume you are not in Town to enjoy the Season, then.”
“I’m here to find a wife,” he said, agreeing silently that his task was not an enjoyable one and then added honestly, “Though I look forward to discussing the new theories in sheep breeding and crop management with members of the local natural sciences club.” He could have sworn she stifled a laugh. “You have a great deal in common with my brother, the Earl of Hamilton.”
“Really? Which plan for land management does he follow?” As he spoke the words, Ian realized how foolish they were. A lady of the ton would not interest herself in her brother’s estate management.
“He has read several essays by the American, Edward Elliot, and the former President, George Washington. Robert leans toward their view on land management rather than the popular thinking currently held among English estate owners.” Interesting. “I dinna ken if I have heard of this Edward Elliot you speak of.”
“You’ll have to discuss the matter with my brother. He is also experimenting with a fertilizer combining fish heads and marl to improve his crop yield.” She spoke in a tone that implied she knew he would find that bit of information interesting.
She was right.
“Fascinating.” He had not heard of fish heads. Marl, on the other hand, was quite common. “Please go on.”
This time she did not stifle her laughter and once again his body reacted in a very physical manner. Even the knowledge that she was laughing at him did not diminish it.
What was it about the clear, honest sound that affected him so strongly?
* * *
Ian reclined in a comfortable chair in Finchley’s library. He sipped at brandy he had brought from his cellars at Graenfrae. His grandfather had let the tenants starve, but he had kept the wine cellars stocked.
“Thank you for inviting me to stay with you. My trip to London was no expected,” Ian said to Finchley.
“Not at all. Glad to be of service.” Finchley cleared his throat. “The earl was a good man. He’ll be sorely missed.”
Ian nodded his agreement. Despite his current anger at his stepfather, the earl’s absence would leave a permanent hole in Ian’s life. The Englishman had taken on the role of father seriously and treated Ian as a natural son until his death. He could even accept that his stepfather had intended the codicil to his will as a way of helping Ian, regardless of how much he disliked the notion of taking on a wife.
Finchley took a sip of his brandy. “You may live like a Puritan, but you certainly know how to stock your cellars.”
Ian grimaced at the other man’s implication that Graenfrae was too austere. “Do you think a lady would find the surroundings too simple?” Finchley gave him a startled look. “You’re planning on getting leg-shackled?”
“Aye.”
“Who’s the lucky gel?”
“I dinna ken.”
The other man’s eyes opened wider. “You don’t know?” Ian laughed mirthlessly. “No.” He told his friend the details of his stepfather’s will.
“You don’t say. That’s infamous.”
“Aye, ’tis infamous indeed, but true nonetheless.” Finchley shook his head. “What are you going to do?”
“I dinna ken.”
“But you are going to marry?”
“Aye. My tenants’ needs are great.”
“And you say you must marry an Englishwoman?”
“Aye.”
“Your mother or brother could recommend someone.” Ian grew cold at the thought of going to his brother for help. Innate loyalty toward his family had prevented Ian from even telling his closest friend about his brother’s betrayal. “I can find my own bride.”
“Do you have any possibilities?”
Ian shuddered when he thought of the few English ladies he knew. They lived near his brother and would expect to keep the family connection with someone as important as Lansing. “Nay. ’Tis why I have come to London for the Season.” Finchley nodded. “Plenty of gels eager to marry, eh what?”
“Whatever you need,” Finchley replied.
“I’ve made a list of requirements for a wife. You can help me determine if ladies are suitable. I dinna have time to waste with them if they are not.”
“Of course, of course. What are you looking for?” Ian retrieved the folded foolscap from his waistcoat pocket and handed it to Finchley. “I have one more to add. The lass needs to be practical.” Beginning to read, Finchley took a sip from his brandy. Suddenly he started coughing and choking. Ian jumped up to pat his friend’s back. “Are you all right, man?” Eyes watering, Finchley gained control of his paroxysms. “Yes.” He coughed again lightly. “Quite all right. Brandy went down wrong. That’s all.” Ian nodded. “What do you think? Will it be difficult to find a lady with those attributes?”
“Attributes? Oh, eh, no, of course not. Matter of fact, I can think of one right off.
Lady Annabelle. You met her today. Good sort, but she’s got some funny ideas.” He had been right. Annabelle was all that she seemed. And his body reacted to her in an unexpected, but wholly pleasant way. “What kind of funny ideas?”
“She’s a blue-stocking.” Finchley said it as if he was confessing that Lady Annabelle was not all that she should be.
To Ian’s way of thinking, Annabelle’s intelligence was not a shortcoming. “I dinna think her mind is filled with a bunch of silly romantic nonsense.”
Finchley shook his head violently, or as violently as his high pointed collar would allow. “She’s not romantical at all, don’t you know.” Ian smiled. Perhaps this trip to Town would not be so bad after all. He would get to know Annabelle better and if she met his requirements, they could be married and return before the spring lambing.
* * *
Annabelle watched the glittering crowd at Almack’s and tried to ignore the leap of her heart every time a new arrival entered. She must stop acting like a silly schoolgirl.