by Lisa Kleypas
Standing still as she tried to gather her wits, Aline was diverted by the unexpected appearance of her brother, who wore a perturbed frown as he came to the hall entrance. Marcus had changed from his shooting clothes into pearl-gray trousers, a dark blue waistcoat, and a blue patterned silk necktie.
“Where is Livia?” Marcus demanded without preamble. “She’s gone missing all morning.”
Aline hesitated before replying, keeping her voice low. “I suspect she may be in Mr. Shaw’s company.”
“What?”
“I believe he joined Livia for her morning walk,” Aline said, striving to sound casual. “To my knowledge, neither of them has been seen since then.”
“And you let him go with her?” Marcus whispered in outrage. “For God’s sake, why didn’t you do something to stop him?”
“Oh, don’t carry on so,” Aline said. “Believe me, Marcus, Livia is perfectly capable of telling a man to leave her alone. And if she wishes to spend some time in Mr. Shaw’s company, I think she’s earned the right to do so. Besides, he seems to be a gentleman, regardless of his reputation.”
“He’s not like the gentlemen that Livia is accustomed to. He’s American.” The particular emphasis he placed on the last word made it sound like an insult.
“I thought you liked Americans!”
“Not when they’re sniffing around one of my sisters.” Marcus’s gaze was taut with suspicion as he regarded her more closely. “And what have you been doing?”
“I…” Briefly taken aback, Aline put a hand to her throat, which had become the focus of his darkening scowl. “Why are you looking at me like that?”
“There is a whisker burn on your neck,” he said grimly.
Deciding to play ignorant, Aline gave him a blank look. “Don’t be silly. It is merely some chafing caused by my cameo ribbon.”
“You’re not wearing a cameo ribbon.”
Aline smiled and stood on her toes to kiss his cheek, knowing that underneath his glowering exterior, he was terrified that one of his adored sisters might be hurt. “Livia and I are grown women,” she said. “And there are certain things you can’t protect us from, Marcus.”
Her brother accepted her kiss and offered no further complaint, but as Aline walked away from him, she heard him murmur something that sounded suspiciously like “Oh yes, I can.”
That night Aline found a single red rose on her pillow, its lush petals slightly unfurled, its long stem carefully stripped of thorns. Picking up the fragrant blossom, she drew it over her cheek and parted lips.
My lady,
Flowers, and a serenade to come forthwith. As for the poetry…you’ll have to provide me with further inspiration.
Yours,
M.
Eleven
For the next two days McKenna could find no opportunity to get Aline alone. Playing the part of hostess with sparkling skill, she seemed to be everywhere at once, efficiently orchestrating suppers, games, amateur theatricals, and other entertainments for the horde of guests at Stony Cross Park. Short of stalking up to her, seizing her, and dragging her away in front of everyone, McKenna had no recourse but to wait for his chance. And as usual, he found it hard to be patient.
Everyone flocked around Aline whenever she appeared. Ironically, she possessed the ability that her mother, the countess, had always coveted—to draw others to herself. The difference was that the countess had wanted their attention for her own benefit, whereas Aline seemed to possess a sincere desire to make people happy in her presence. She flirted skillfully with old men, and sat and gossiped over glasses of cordial with old women. She played games with the children, listened sympathetically to the unmarried girls’ tales of romantic woe, and deflected any young men’s interest by acting like a kind older sister.
In this last endeavor Aline was not entirely successful. Regardless of her lack of interest, many men were obviously smitten with her…and the sight of their hopeful, barely suppressed ardor turned McKenna’s entire being to gall. He wanted to dispatch them all, drive them away, bare his teeth at them like a snarling wolf. He owned her, by virtue of his need and the bitter-washed memories of their past together.
In the afternoon, as McKenna, Gideon, and Lord Westcliff relaxed in an outside conservatory, Aline appeared bearing a silver tray. A footman followed closely, carrying a small portable mahogany table. The day was humid, the summer breeze doing little to cool them as they sat in their shirtsleeves. Lazy quietness ruled the estate, most of the guests having elected to nap with the windows open until the cooler evening hours approached.
For once, no soiree, supper, or al fresco party had been scheduled for tonight, as the annual village fair had begun. There would be much drinking and reveling in Stony Cross while practically everyone in the county attended the fair. It had been held once a year since the mid-1300s, a week-long event at which all of Stony Cross was overtaken with happy chaos. High Street was virtually unrecognizable, the usually tidy succession of storefronts surmounted with booths run by jewelers, silk mercers, toymakers, cobblers, and a host of other craftsmen. McKenna still remembered the excitement he had felt as a boy at fair time. The first night always began with music, dancing, and a bonfire located at a short distance from the village. Together he and Aline had watched the conjurors, tumblers, and stilt walkers. Afterward they had always gone to the horse fair, to view dozens of gleaming Thoroughbreds and massive draught horses. He still remembered Aline’s face in the light of the bonfire, her eyes shining with reflected flame, her lips sticky from the iced gingerbread she had bought from one of the merchant stalls.
The object of his thoughts entered the conservatory, and all three men began to stand. Aline smiled and quickly bade them to remain seated.
Although Westcliff and Gideon obediently settled back in their chairs, McKenna stood anyway, taking the tray of iced lemonade from Aline while the footman unfolded the portable table. Aline smiled up at McKenna, her cheeks flushed from the heat, her brown eyes velvety. He wanted to taste her dewy pink skin, lick the salt of her perspiration, and strip away the gown of thin pastel-yellow muslin that clung to her body.
After setting the tray on the table, McKenna straightened and caught Aline staring at the hair-roughened surface of his forearms, where his sleeves had been rolled snugly over his tanned skin. Their gazes meshed, and suddenly it was difficult for him to remember that they were not alone. He could no more hide the fascination in his eyes than Aline could conceal her own helpless attraction.
Turning to the tray, Aline reached for the etched-glass pitcher and poured some lemonade, the brief rattle of ice shards betraying a momentary slip of composure. She gave him the glass, refusing to look into his face again. “Do be seated, kind sir,” she said lightly. “And continue your conversation, gentlemen—I did not intend to interrupt you.”
Gideon received his glass of lemonade with a grateful smile. “This kind of interruption is always welcome, my lady.”
Westcliff motioned for Aline to join them, and she sat gracefully on the arm of his chair as she gave him a glass. The warm friendship the siblings shared was obvious. Interesting, McKenna thought, remembering that in the past, their relationship had been rather distant. Aline had been intimidated by her accomplished older brother, and Marcus had been isolated from the family during his years at school. Now, however, it seemed that Marcus and his sister had formed a close bond.
“We were discussing the question of why British firms don’t sell their products abroad as effectively as the Americans and Germans do,” Westcliff told his sister.
“Because Englishmen don’t like to learn foreign languages?” she suggested cheerfully.
“That’s a myth,” Westcliff told her.
“Is it?” she responded. “Then tell me how many languages you know—aside from Latin, which doesn’t count.”
Westcliff gave his sister a challenging glance. “Why doesn’t Latin count?”
“Because it’s a dead language.”
“It’s still a language,” Westcliff pointed out.
Before the siblings became detoured in an argument, McKenna steered them back on course. “The problem isn’t language,” he said, earning the attention of them both. “The difficulty with British trade abroad is that the manufacturers here have an aversion to mass producing their goods. You value individuality over conformity—and as a result, the average British manufacturer is too small, and their products are too varied. So few of them can afford to launch a strong selling effort in the world markets.”
“But shouldn’t a company please its patrons by offering a variety of products?” Aline asked, her brow puckered in a way that made McKenna want to kiss it smooth.
“Within certain limits,” McKenna said.
“For example,” Gideon broke in, “British locomotive foundries are so specialized that no two engines coming out of any one factory look alike.”
“It’s that way with other British-owned firms,” McKenna continued. “A biscuit factory will make a hundred varieties of biscuits, when it would do far better to offer only twelve. Or a wallpaper printer will produce five thousand designs, even though it would be more profitable to offer one-fifth that amount. It’s too expensive to offer so many different products, especially when one is trying to market them overseas. The numbers don’t support it.”
“But I like having a large assortment of things to choose from,” Aline protested. “I don’t want my walls to look like everyone else’s.”
She looked so adorably perturbed by the notion of having fewer choices of wallpaper that McKenna couldn’t help grinning. Noticing his amusement, Aline raised her brows in a coquettish tilt. “What are you smiling at?”
“When you spoke just now, you sounded very British,” he told her.
“Aren’t you British too, McKenna?”
Still smiling, he shook his head. “Not any longer, my lady.”
McKenna had become an American the very second his foot had touched Staten Island all those years ago. While he would always admit to a certain nostalgia for his birthplace, he had been reinvented and forged in a country where his common blood was not a hindrance. In America he had learned to stop thinking of himself as a servant. Never again would he bow and scrape before anyone. After years of backbreaking work, sacrifice, worry, and sheer mulishness, he was now sitting in Lord Westcliff’s library as a guest, instead of working in the stables for five shillings a month.
McKenna quickly became aware of the way Marcus looked from him to Aline, his sharp black eyes missing nothing. The earl was no fool—and it was obvious that he would not suffer Aline to be taken advantage of.
“I suppose you’re right,” Aline said. “If a man looks, speaks, and thinks like an American, he probably is one.” She leaned toward him slightly, her brown eyes sparkling. “However, McKenna, there is some small part of you that will always belong to Stony Cross—I refuse to let you disclaim us entirely.”
“I wouldn’t dare,” he said softly.
Their gazes held, and this time neither of them could manage to look away, even when an uncomfortable silence gathered in the conservatory.
Westcliff broke the spell, clearing his throat and standing so abruptly that Aline’s weight on the arm of the chair nearly caused it to topple sideways. She stood as well, giving her brother a little frown. As Westcliff spoke, he sounded so much like the old earl that the hairs prickled on the back of McKenna’s neck. “Lady Aline, I want to discuss some of the arrangements you’ve made for the next few days, to ensure that our schedules do not conflict. Accompany me to the library, if you will.”
“Certainly, my lord,” Aline said, and smiled at McKenna and Gideon, who had both risen to their feet. “Do excuse me, gentlemen. I wish you a pleasant afternoon.”
After the earl and his sister had departed, McKenna and Gideon resumed their seats and stretched out their legs.
“So,” Gideon remarked in a casual tone, “it seems that your plans are well on the way.”
“What plans?” McKenna asked, moodily surveying the watery remains of his lemonade.
“To seduce Lady Aline, of course.” Lazily Gideon went to pour himself more lemonade.
McKenna responded with a noncommittal grunt.
They sat in companionable silence for a few moments, until McKenna asked, “Shaw…has a woman ever asked you to write a poem for her?”
“Good God, no,” Gideon replied with a snicker. “Shaws don’t write poetry. They pay others to write it for them and then they take the credit for it.” He arched his brows. “Don’t say that Lady Aline asked for such a thing?”
“Yes.”
Gideon rolled his eyes. “One can’t help but marvel at the variety of ways that women have devised to make us look like flaming idiots. You’re not actually considering it, are you?”
“No.”
“McKenna, how far do you plan to take this revenge notion of yours? I rather like Lady Aline, and I’m discovering an odd reluctance to see her hurt.”
McKenna shot him a glance of cold warning. “If you try to interfere—”
“Easy,” Gideon said defensively. “I don’t intend to foul up your plans. I expect you’ll foul them up quite well enough on your own.”
McKenna lifted one brow sardonically. “Meaning?”
Gideon withdrew his flask and poured a liberal quantity of alcohol into his own lemonade. “Meaning that I’ve never seen you so spellbound by anyone or anything as you are by Lady Aline.” He took a deep swallow of the potent mixture. “And now that I’ve had some liquid fortification, I’ll venture to say that in my opinion, you still love her. And deep down, you’d rather die by slow inches than cause her one moment of pain.”
McKenna stared at him stonily. “You’re a drunken fool, Shaw,” he muttered and rose to his feet.
“Was that ever in question?” Gideon asked, tossing back the rest of his drink with a practiced swallow as he watched McKenna’s departing figure.
As evening approached and the temperature cooled, the guests at Stony Cross Park began to congregate in the entrance hall. Small groups drifted out to the graveled drive, where a line of carriages waited to convey them to the village. Among those who wished to amuse themselves at the fair were Gideon’s sister, Mrs. Susan Chamberlain, and her husband, Paul. During the past few days Aline had found it easy enough to socialize with the Chamberlains, but she could not summon any real liking for them. Susan was golden-haired and tall like her brother Gideon, but she did not possess his easy humor or his gift of self-mockery. Rather, she seemed to take herself a bit too seriously—a quality that was shared by her husband, Paul.
Just as the first carriage left, Aline happened to glance at Gideon Shaw, and she saw that his attention was ensnared by someone coming from the house. A faint smile curved his lips, and his expression softened. Following his gaze, Aline saw with a jolt of glad surprise that Livia had finally ventured out of her self-imposed seclusion. It was the first time that Livia had gone on a public outing since Amberley’s death. Dressed in a deep rose gown edged with pale pink piping, Livia looked very young, and more than a little nervous.
Aline went to her sister with a welcoming smile. “Darling,” she said, sliding an arm around her sister’s slender waist, “how nice that you’ve decided to join us. Now the evening will be perfect.”
Susan Chamberlain turned to whisper to her husband, delicately cupping her hand over one side of her mouth to mask the gossip she was relating. Chamberlain’s gaze flickered to Livia and then slid quickly away, as if he did not want to be caught staring at her.
Determined to shield her sister from any slights, Aline urged Livia to come forward. “You must meet some of our guests. Mr. and Mrs. Chamberlain, I should like to introduce you to my younger sister, Lady Olivia Marsden.” Aline adhered exactly to the order of precedence, wishing there were some way she might emphasize that they were, socially speaking, of a lower rank than Livia—and therefore they had no right to slight her. After the Chambe
rlains had acknowledged Livia with shallow smiles, Aline introduced the Cuylers and Mr. Laroche, whose wife had already departed in the first carriage.
Suddenly McKenna appeared before them. “I doubt you’ll remember me, my lady, after all the years that have passed.”
Livia smiled at him, though she suddenly looked pale and guilty. “Of course I remember you, McKenna. Your return to Stony Cross is quite welcome, and long overdue.”
They came to Gideon Shaw, who did a poor job of concealing his fascination with Livia.
“A pleasure to make your acquaintance, my lady,” Shaw murmured, taking her hand and bowing over it, rather than simply nodding as the others had. When his head raised, he smiled at Livia, whose cheeks had turned several shades darker than her dress. The attraction between the pair was nearly tangible. “You will ride to the village in our carriage, I hope,” Shaw said, releasing her hand with obvious reluctance.
Before Livia could reply, Shaw’s sister Susan intervened. “I’m afraid that won’t be possible,” she told Shaw. “There simply won’t be enough room in the carriage for someone else. We’ve already got you and Paul and I, and Mr. Laroche, not to mention McKenna—”
“McKenna isn’t riding with us,” Shaw interrupted. He glanced at McKenna meaningfully. “Isn’t that right?”
“Indeed,” McKenna confirmed, taking his cue. “Lady Aline has already arranged for me to ride in another carriage.”
“Whose?” Susan asked peevishly. It was obvious that she was not pleased by the substitution.
Aline smiled brightly. “My own, actually,” she lied. “McKenna and I have not finished an earlier conversation about, er…”
“Poetry,” McKenna supplied gravely.
“Yes, poetry.” Maintaining her smile, Aline resisted the temptation to step hard on his foot. “And I had hoped to continue our discussion on the way to the village.”
Susan’s blue eyes narrowed into suspicious slits. “Really. I doubt that McKenna has ever read a poem in his life.”