“I do,” Alex answered. He was many things perhaps, but he was not a liar.
“You’d better marry her then,” his sister answered, looking at a towering elm to their left.
Alex only grunted.
* * *
He found Robbie in the music room. This time he was not playing the fife, but drumming a strange tattoo out on the top of the pianoforte. He would drum, listen to the lingering silence that followed, and then drum again. Alex stared at him for a long time, but finally interrupted him when he realized his brother was not going to stop doing whatever it was that he was doing.
“I don’t think you realize what that instrument is for.”
Robbie turned back to him, his blue eyes slowly losing their faraway look. Like the old ones, he never wrote down a note of his compositions, but he always remembered them.
“I am working on something for the gathering in August. This thing gives the closest tone to a bodhran.” He looked at his brother. “We will be home before August, won’t we?”
“Dear God in His heaven, I pray we will.”
“Prayers don’t get us far,” his brother answered. “As men, we have to do for ourselves.”
“I suppose we could hog-tie Mary Elizabeth to an unsuspecting Englishman until she agrees to marry him.”
“I wouldn’t do that to him, whoever he is. Poor bastard.”
The brothers laughed together, and Alex poured them both a finger of Islay whisky.
“So you’re going to marry her, then?” Robbie said with no segue. His brother always knew what he was going to do, even before he did.
“Aye.”
They drank their whisky in silence. Good whisky required silence to be appreciated, a truth Mary Elizabeth seemed incapable of grasping. But then, Alex did not know a woman who did.
“I’m buying a special license tomorrow,” Alex said at last. “We’ll need to have a Church of England marriage, to make it legal, but I’ll marry her in front of a true priest as soon as I get her home.”
“You’d best go to Uncle Richard,” Robbie said. “The other damned English will make you wait a month.”
They never mentioned the fact that their mother had been born an Englishwoman. She was Scottish now, by clan and kin, and by choice, but she kept up with her English relatives, including her brother, the Bishop of London.
Alex grunted in agreement, and finished his whisky. Robbie stood when he did, setting his glass down on the pianoforte he had just been drumming on.
“Does your girl know she’s to be married?” Robbie asked.
Alex smiled. “Not yet.”
“That’ll be a sight, watching you run her to ground.”
“You think I’ll have to chase her, then? How do you know she won’t come running to me?”
Robbie laughed out loud. “Because, mo bràthair, the good ones never do.”
Twenty-six
Catherine knew that she was being unconscionably rude to her guests, but she could not bear one more moment in Alexander’s company. His beauty struck at her bruised heart. She’d had enough for one day. She went upstairs and let him find his own way out.
She went to her bedroom, but the moss green of her curtains and bedding did nothing to soothe her. Nor did the wood violets she had brought in from the garden. A new bouquet from Lord Farleigh rested on her bureau also, a perfectly respectable bunch of beautiful white roses and baby’s breath, roses that held just a touch of pink along their edges. Buds ready to open, just as she was.
She found next to the bouquet Lord Farleigh’s response to her invitation to Richmond Park on the morrow. Not only was he coming, but he also insisted on driving her mother, her sister, and herself in his open phaeton. It seemed he would also provide the food in a cart that would meet them there. He signed the missive, Arthur, Lord Farleigh. The use of his given name was the sign. He was going to offer for her while they ate his cold chicken and drank his white wine.
Her time was up.
Of course, she had known that already. Why that signature made her feel so miserable, she could not say.
Of course, she did love Alex, more than she would ever love another. But full-blown roses were not for every day, and even the most beautiful flowers wilted and died. Much better to cultivate plants that, while less beautiful, offered more green stability and nurturing fragrance. Lord Farleigh was a boxwood plant that would stay green all winter long, and cheer even her gray days with brightness.
One day, she would come to love him. Not as she loved Alex, of course, but a different kind of love. A love that would last into old age, a love that would keep her warm until death.
She thought of the grandchildren she would one day have, watching them frolic on the lawn at her father’s home in Devon. She watched them run to her, and saw that they bore not her blonde hair, nor Lord Farleigh’s, but Alex’s dark locks.
She said half a rosary, but the image of her grandchildren would not change. So instead of dressing for dinner as she knew she should, she climbed the long, narrow staircase to the servants’ quarters. There was only one man who could help her.
“Miss Catherine,” Giles said. “You must not visit me alone. It is unseemly.”
Her family’s butler struggled to sit up, but his leg was shackled by its splint. He had five more weeks to go before the doctor said the splint could come off, and he could use a cane to go from place to place. At that time, she would move him into a room on the first floor, so that he would not have to climb stairs, but for now, the only way to get him to stay in bed was to keep him in his usual room. The stairs to the fourth floor were so narrow, only an able-bodied man could navigate them.
“It is perfectly seemly, Giles. Do not fuss.”
Catherine left the door standing open behind her and plumped his pillows. She dumped his old water mug out, and poured him fresh from the pitcher by his bed. She was pleased to discover that the water was still cool in its earthenware jar. Mrs. Beam was taking good care of him.
“I find myself at odds, Giles. I have need of your counsel.”
The older man nodded solemnly, his bald pate glinting a little in the light from his open window. His view of the back garden was obscured by the tall oak, but the shifting leaves sounded like peace in the early evening air, filtering the last of the sunlight through their green. Catherine took a deep breath of the fresh air, imagining herself home in Devon, and her loved ones with her.
In her imaginings, her father was always still alive. This made her sad, so she stopped thinking of Devon at once. But her sadness seemed to linger in the room between them.
Giles nodded, as if to acknowledge the passing of Mr. Middlebrook through the silent room.
“Your father was a good man. He is still a good man, no doubt, wherever in heaven the Lord has seen fit to put him. I have no doubt he looks in on you, whenever he can. But I know that just as the dead tell no tales, neither do they offer advice.”
Catherine smiled wryly. “Indeed, they do not.”
“You are torn between two young men,” Giles said.
She blinked at him. “How on earth do you know that?”
“You will find that there is very little that happens in this house, or in Devon, that I am not privy to.” He smiled a mysterious smile, and Catherine had to swallow a laugh, so as not to offend him. “I know what I know. Let us leave it at that.”
“I am torn between two gentlemen. One is calm, reasonable, kind, honorable, everything that is respectable and good.”
“And you favor the second one.”
Catherine did laugh then, and Giles nodded solemnly as if she had spoken.
“It is a difficult question you pose, Miss Catherine. For all I understand, both gentlemen are equals in breeding and in fortune. One has a title, of course, but that does not signify. Not to a sweet, unspoiled girl like you.”
> Catherine felt her hated blush rise, and she wished it away. It stayed as it always did, and she looked at the polished wooden floor and took in the edge of Giles’s warm, braided rug.
“So there is something else,” Giles said. He did not speak again, but waited, knowing that she would answer him, as she knew she must.
“I am bound to one in honor. I am bound to the other in love. I do not know what to do, Giles, or how to choose between them. I tell myself that I know my duty. I must do as honor dictates, but I find my heart does not wish to do it.”
“This is a difficult question, indeed, Miss Catherine. One I fear I am not fit to answer.”
They sat in silence, and she waited, knowing that he was not finished yet.
“I had the privilege of knowing your father all the years of his life. He grew up in the house while I was under butler, and he was always a man of discernment and integrity. He has raised you to be his equal in this, I think.”
Catherine did not answer, for her throat was too tight. Giles nodded and went on as if she had spoken, and agreed.
“I think you do not need my counsel at all, Miss Catherine. I think you came to me only that I may remind you of what your father would say, if he were here.”
Catherine felt her tears come then, but she did not swallow them down, or wipe them away. They made tracks on her cheeks, and she let them flow, two tiny rivers of wasted salt.
“I am a woman of honor,” Catherine said. “I did not need to ask you. You are right, Giles. I knew the answer already.”
Twenty-seven
Catherine dressed with care for her outing to Richmond. She wore a soft green walking dress and pelisse that matched her eyes. Instead of one of her two bonnets that blocked her view of the world, she wore her Sunday hat, which perched on her curls in a becoming fashion but left her eyes free to roam.
She wanted all her faculties about her that day, including her vision.
Margaret raced up and down the staircase, happy as a lark to be going with them. Her mother was strangely calm, standing in the foyer next to a new bouquet from Mr. Pridemore, this one a huge, almost funereal bunch of lilies. Mrs. Middlebrook adjusted her hat, fiddling with it halfheartedly to see how it might look best. Catherine wanted to ask her about Pridemore, but did not. She had enough of her own troubles that day without borrowing more.
The Waterses and Lord Farleigh arrived almost at the same time. Robert Waters was nowhere to be seen, but Alex was very much in evidence, looking too huge to fit in the duchess’s carriage. He helped Mary Elizabeth down from her perch and moved to deal with the horses, but not before giving Catherine a smile that told her she was in trouble, and deeply so.
She shook with fear and longing together, drawing her friend away from the others to whisper in her ear.
“I need your help, Mary Elizabeth.”
“Anything,” her friend answered. “Is there a mouse in the house that needs catching?”
“No. I need you to keep Alexander away from me.”
Mary Elizabeth looked at her shrewdly from beneath her own fashionable hat. Her clear maple eyes took all of Catherine in, and seemed to see past her worries into her soul. “I thought you liked him,” was all she said.
Catherine felt truly terrible, but she knew there was worse to come. She pushed her pain aside, and hid it in her heart. “I do. But I need to be free of him today.”
Mary Elizabeth nodded. “Done. Think no more about it.”
“He is very determined, Mary Elizabeth.”
Mary Elizabeth smiled at her, and for a moment, Catherine’s heart lightened a little as she stood in its warmth. “So am I.”
Lord Farleigh was beside her then, and the girls could no longer speak in confidence.
“Miss Middlebrook. Miss Waters. What a delightful day this promises to be. I hope you fancy cold chicken and white wine.”
Mary Elizabeth turned her smile on him. “I do, my lord. Will you be so kind as to show us your horseflesh? Arabians, are they not?”
“Quarter horses, but you have a very good eye.” Lord Farleigh’s pale face lit up as he began to expound on horse breeding, crossing lines to get stamina as well as beauty, the differences between racing horses versus driving cattle, and so forth. Catherine did not understand or care about a word of it, but it got her placed gently in Lord Farleigh’s high flyer with the lap blanket securely around her waist to keep off the dust from the road.
Her mother smiled over at her as she allowed Alexander Waters to settle her into the duchess’s carriage, and Margaret clambered up behind her, talking to Alex nonstop about the baby bird that was roosting at her windowsill.
Mary Elizabeth bowed to Lord Farleigh almost like a man. Once he was secure on the high seat with the reins in his hands, she gave his lead horse a thump on the rump and his matched grays moved quickly off into traffic, leaving the rest of the party behind. “We will see you there,” Mary Elizabeth called after them, waving her cream-gloved hand.
Catherine could feel the heat of Alex’s gaze piercing her like a blade, but then they turned the corner and were safely out of sight.
“That was neatly done,” Lord Farleigh said.
Catherine feigned ignorance. “I beg your pardon?”
“It seems we have at least one ally among your friends and relations. I am obliged to her. I was afraid your—did you say Scottish ‘cousin’?—was going to wrest you from me and tuck you up beside him in the duchess’s carriage along with your mother and sister.”
Catherine could not help but laugh, for she knew that was exactly what Alex would have done, given enough time and opportunity.
“I will bring you to a spot I know close by the river. Richmond is a bit of a drive, but is a lovely place. Have you been there before?”
“Never,” Catherine answered, smiling, trying valiantly to put her Scottish “cousin” out of her head, and failing.
“Well, this will be a lovely first then. The place is filled with old trees, oaks, and hawthorns, from the days when it was a hunting preserve for the king.”
“Does the King not hunt there now?”
Lord Farleigh looked at her sidelong, and she saw the humor lurking there and found herself smiling in earnest. “I fear our good sovereign is a bit too rotund to be a sporting man.”
Catherine laughed out loud again, and did her best to enjoy his company. He was all that was gracious and charming. She knew that she had to thank him for his intervention in the matter of the mortgage, but it was such a beautiful morning, she told herself, Not just yet.
* * *
“Mary Elizabeth, what were you thinking? Sending off Miss Middlebrook in that carriage with a man we barely know?” Alex felt a headache begin behind the backs of his eyes.
His sister, usually so quick to leap aboard any conveyance, noodled about the front of this one, looking after the horses. She petted the nose of the lead horse and gave him a bit of sugar from somewhere up her sleeve. The second horse saw that and jostled for one himself, and Alex blew out a breath so that he would not curse in front of Mrs. Angel. She would not approve of him as a son-in-law if he used florid language in front of ladies in the middle of a quiet street.
“My daughter is headstrong, like your sister there.” Mrs. Angel leaned back against the velvet squabs like a potentate, ready to convey to him the wisdom of the world. As long as she spoke of his angel, he would listen. “Catherine doesn’t seem overly stubborn, until you cross her,” Mrs. Angel said. “But then, watch out.”
He looked down at his sister’s bent head, where she was now whispering sweet nothings in his geldings’ ears. “What would you suggest?”
“Don’t take no for an answer,” Mrs. Angel said. Margaret listened to her mother solemnly, and for once did not interrupt to talk about birds.
“Mrs. Middlebrook, I am a gentleman.”
Mrs.
Angel waved one hand. “Yes, yes, no doubt. I’m not saying kidnap her and carry her off to the Highlands—unless you must. But I don’t think it will come to that.”
“What are you saying, ma’am, if I might inquire?”
She laughed out loud at him, her blue eyes sparkling. “Oh, but you are delicious! If I were twenty years younger, I’d give my girl a run for her money.”
Alex felt himself blush beneath his tan. He looked down between the ears of his horses. Mary Elizabeth was now currying their manes with a comb from her reticule.
Mrs. Angel reached over and patted his knee. “Don’t trouble yourself, my boy. I have my own kettle of fish to fry.” She leaned back once more, surveying the beauty of the day as if she had ordered it from God herself. “What I am saying, young Mr. Alex of Glenderrin, is that for some reason known only to her, my daughter has convinced herself that Lord Farleigh is good for her, the way the nastiness of castor oil is supposed to purge you of all ills.”
Mrs. Angel shuddered beside him, and Alex found himself smiling at her.
“She is as stubborn as her father, and once she has the bit between her teeth, you’ll have a devil of a time getting her back under control.”
“I don’t want to control her,” Alex answered honestly. “I just want to love her.”
Tears came into Mrs. Angel’s eyes, and she drew out a lace handkerchief and wiped them away. “You’ll do, Alex Waters. You’ll do. Just heed my warning. She loves you, or I’m blind and in my dotage already. Now, we had best get on, or they’ll have eaten all his lordship’s chicken.”
“Catherine can’t eat that much,” Margaret said.
But Alex heeded her mother.
“Mary Elizabeth, leave those horses be and get in this carriage now, or I’m leaving you behind on the street.”
His sister must have heard in his voice that he meant business, for she vaulted into the carriage and away they went.
He had an angel to run to ground, and he was burning daylight.
How to Seduce a Scot Page 17