Scandal's Daughters
Page 26
Well. Hamish withstood the blow with all the sanguinity he could muster. “Then I think, my dear aunts, that we had best get you two packed for Edinburgh.”
Chapter 23
Elspeth was tired and footsore by the time she made St. Andrew Square, for she had walked a long way past the next village before she had found a farmer’s dray heading for Edinburgh’s Grass Market. But her spirits were revived when Aunt Augusta opened the door herself.
“My darling girl!” She enveloped her in a tight, heartfelt embrace. “Oh, it is so lovely to have you back. We have so much to do. I am so very, very excited and pleased—” She took another look at Elspeth’s face. “But what is wrong? Where is Mr. Cathcart?”
“Gone to the devil for all I know—he did not deign to come. I left him with his betrothed.” Elspeth curbed her bitterness and firmed her resolve. “As for me, I’ve come to Edinburgh to be a wastrel, just like my father. Blood will out, the Aunts said, so here I am.”
Instead of gasping in shock as she might have expected, Lady Augusta broke into a smile so wide and bright, Elspeth might have put out her chilled hands to the warmth. “Bless them for being so stupidly missish.” Aunt Augusta clasped her hand to lead her upward to the drawing room. “Their loss is my gain. And your father was a wastrel only because he wasted his gifts—squandered on women of no character and wine of little distinction in the terrible grief of the loss of your mother. And you, my darling brave girl, will never do that.”
“I thank you for your enthusiastic and unwavering confidence, Aunt Augusta, but the unhappy truth of the matter is that I find myself in an awful pickle.”
“And by awful pickle,” that kind lady asked gently, “do you mean falling in love with Mr. Cathcart?”
It was a long moment before Elspeth trusted herself to speak clearly. “I suppose I do. More or less.” It was all so complicated and sad. She had thought she loved him, most fervently. But now she was angry as well as sad. “But before I can allow myself to love Mr. Hamish Cathcart, the man needs to be taught a lesson.”
“Oh, yes.” Lady Augusta clasped her hands together, as if in prayer. “How entirely delightful. I offer you my full and wickedly experienced assistance on the instant, for we must act quickly, at once!” She drew Elspeth to her in a fierce embrace. “Oh, I knew I should grow to love you, now more than ever before.” She clapped her hands together, immediately calling for the butler. “Reeves, call all the staff immediately. As my dearest Admiral Ivers would have said, pipe all hands to battle stations!”
Battle stations turned out to be a great deal more comfortable that Elspeth might have thought—she was bathed and coiffed and fed and dressed in a gown of cerulean blue silk that shimmered and whispered encouragement when she walked.
“Perfection,” Aunt Augusta decreed as her dresser put the finishing touches on Elspeth’s ensemble. “Pure, absolute perfection. Nothing more—her head bare and honest. Yes,”—she stood back to peruse Elspeth once more—“You’ll do perfectly.”
“Do for what, Aunt Augusta?”
“The occasion,” she answered, as if that explained anything. “Battle armor, as it were, though I should think it safe so say you have already won the war.”
“What war?”
Aunt Augusta favored her with that mischievous smile that carved dimples deep into her cheeks. “All in good time, my darling. And it is time”—she picked up her own silk skirts and proceeded to the door—“for us to go.”
“To where, pray, madam?
“To church.” She swept down the steps and into the waiting carriage.
“But it is a Thursday morning,” Elspeth objected. “Is there some holy day that I did not know existed?”
“There is indeed,” Aunt Augusta said with mischievous tartness. “Now get yourself into the carriage, and say not another word.”
They had not far to go, only around the corner onto George Street, headed for the high-clocked steeple of St. Andrew’s kirk.
He was waiting beneath the tall columned portico, her Mr. Hamish Cathcart, looking as tall and mischievous and Scots as ever she might have imagined.
Aunt Augusta took her elbow and urged her on.
Hamish just smiled.
He was dressed in the old style, in the distinct blue, red and green plaid of the Clan Cathcart tartan, with a sword hung at his side. He was breathtaking and impressive. And confusing.
And what was more confusing was the way Hamish offered her his hand, and wordlessly led her into the kirk, past the astonishing sight of the Aunts Murray, smiling wistfully and dabbing at their damp eyes with familiar worn lace-edged handkerchiefs.
Past the Countess of Inverness smiling contentedly. Past Aunt Augusta, who slipped into the pew with the countess, looking entirely too pleased with herself.
“Just as you are,” Aunt Augusta whispered, as Hamish swept Elspeth past on the way to the altar, where a rosy-cheeked rector peered down his glasses at her.
“We’re all assembled then?” the white-robed cleric asked. “Are we ready to begin?”
“Elspeth?” Hamish finally spoke. “Are we ready?”
“Nay.”
“Elspeth—”
“What of your Miss Lorimer and her brewery?” she demanded.
“A misunderstanding. A great, unnecessary misunderstanding that has delayed my making you my wife.”
“Nay. Not until you propose to me. Properly. On one knee before everyone and God, the way you ought to have done at the start.”
“I couldn’t have done so at the start, as I hardly knew you.”
“You know what I mean.” She held her ground. “I want a proper declaration of love from you, Hamish Cathcart. And I want it now, or we go no further.”
If anything, Hamish’s smile grew wider, spilling across his face with reckless abandon. “Then you shall have it. My darling Miss Otis,” he began, going down on the cold, slate floor on one bare knee. “I beg you to make me the happiest of men, by doing me the honor of accepting my unworthy proposal for your hand.”
It was a pretty enough start. But not enough. “Why?”
“Because without you, my life and my world would be a poorer place.”
Elspeth was about to object—this was no time for the man to talk of money—but she saw the mischievous twinkle in his eye, and knew he was teasing her. Which was a good sign, she thought. A person couldn’t tease someone who wasn’t their equal.
“Because I love you with all my heart and all my mind and all my soul, and I do not want to face another dawn of waking up without you.”
“That’s better.”
“Is that a yes?”
“Nay, it’s an aye.”
The rector cleared his throat and began, “Dearly beloved brethren, we are here gathered together in the sight of God, and in the face of His congregation to knit and join these parties together in the honorable estate of matrimony—”
Epilogue
He took her home to Cathcart Lodge, of course. There was nowhere else where she would feel so at home but in her native country. And yet the quiet lodge was still private enough that they would not have to see anyone from the village for a week if they so chose. And they did not so choose.
They chose to lie naked hour after hour in a soft, comfortable bed, with the windows wide open to the fragrant summer air. They made love through rainstorms and sun squalls, through chilly mornings and warm afternoons. They talked and ate and loved and rewrote her father’s book without ever leaving the bed.
And Elspeth had never, ever been happier. “Have I thanked you properly?”
“For what,” he asked, pulling her closer to lie atop his lovely naked chest.
“For making me write books, and marrying me, and making me so happy.”
“We make ourselves happy, my darling heart, when we are true to ourselves.” He kissed her forehead. “And it was really your Aunt Augusta who made you write books.”
“Aunt Augusta and, perhaps, the ghost of my father.”<
br />
“Pray don’t talk of fathers, my sweet, when I am intent upon ravishing his daughter.”
Elspeth felt her smile spread across her face until it became a laugh. “I think my father, of all men, would approve.”
“And I approve of his daughter, most heartily.”
“Love me, Hamish Cathcart. Give me another one of your lessons in kissing.”
He rolled her onto her back, and gave her that smile that said he would lead her into mischief. “Oh, Elspeth. Wouldn’t you prefer a lesson in a great deal more?”
She did. And she always would. It was in her blissfully tainted blood.
Acknowledgements
To my sisters of the pen, Christi Caldwell, Eva Devon, Anthea Lawson and Erica Ridley: what a pleasure it is to be included in your company.
And for Delilah Marvelle, whose generosity was the catalyst for this book.
More from Elizabeth Essex
Want to Read More from Elizabeth Essex?
Highland Brides
Mad for Love
Mad About the Marquess
Mad, Bad, and Dangerous to Marry
Mad Dogs and Englishwomen
The Haunting of Castle Keyvnor
Vexed
Dartmouth Brides
The Pursuit of Pleasure
A Sense of Sin
The Danger of Desire
Reckless Brides
Almost a Scandal
A Breath of Scandal
Scandal in the Night
The Scandal Before Christmas
After the Scandal
A Scandal to Remember
About the Author
Elizabeth Essex is the award-winning author of critically acclaimed historical romance including the Reckless Brides and her new Highland Brides series. Her books have been nominated for numerous awards, including the Gayle Wilson Award of Excellence, the Romantic Times Reviewers’ Choice Award and Seal of Excellence Award, and RWA’s prestigious RITA Award. The Reckless Brides Series has also made Top-Ten lists from Romantic Times, The Romance Reviews and Affaire de Coeur Magazine, and Desert Isle Keeper status at All About Romance. Her fifth book, A BREATH OF SCANDAL, was awarded Best Historical in the Reader’s Crown 2013. When not rereading Jane Austen, mucking about in her garden or simply messing about with boats, Elizabeth can be always be found with her laptop, making up stories about heroes and heroines who live far more exciting lives than she. It wasn’t always so. Long before she ever set pen to paper, Elizabeth graduated from Hollins College with a BA in Classics and Art History, and then earned her MA in Nautical Archaeology from Texas A&M University. While she loved the life of an underwater archaeologist, she has found her true calling writing lush, lyrical historical romance full of passion, daring and adventure.
Elizabeth lives in Texas with her husband, the indispensable Mr. Essex, and her active and exuberant family in an old house filled to the brim with books.
Elizabeth loves to hear from readers, so please feel free to contact her at the following places:
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A LADY’S CHOICE
By Anthea Lawson
Copyright 2016 by Anthea Lawson. All rights reserved. Any resemblance to actual persons or events is strictly coincidental. Please do not copy or share without the author’s permission.
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QUALITY CONTROL: This book has been professionally edited, however, an occasional typo may have slipped through. If you find one, please contact anthea@anthealawson.com so that we may correct it in future editions. Thank you!
Chapter 1
London, July 1847
“Lady Sara, a letter from your mother.” The butler deposited a cream-colored envelope beside Lady Sara Ashford’s breakfast plate.
“Thank you, Mr. Carlisle,” Sara said, though she was not actually grateful for the correspondence. A letter from Mama was something to be wary of.
She did not pick it up right away, but instead took another sip of tea from her gold-rimmed cup and studied the envelope. The heavy paper was slightly crumpled along one edge, and an array of colorful postage stamps decorated the upper right-hand corner. The flourishes and colors were distinctly non-European.
Sara’s Aunt Eugenie, seated at the head of the table, gave her a pointed glance and then transferred her gaze to the letter, brows raised. Sara brushed the envelope with her index finger, wondering what Mama was up to. Having the notorious Marchioness of Fulton as a relative was not an easy thing, but lucky Aunt Eugenie was only related by marriage. It was worse for Sara, being the woman’s daughter.
“Blood will tell,” the gossips murmured at balls and parties, giving Sara sidelong glances over their fans. “She’ll be as wild as her mother any day now, you’ll see.”
To their disappointment, however, Sara had reached the venerable age of one-and-twenty without doing anything remotely scandalous. Speculation about her had almost entirely trickled away, now that she was no longer seen as competition for the most eligible gentlemen. After all, she was practically on the shelf.
The thought made her chest tighten. It was true: her prospects of making a match were beginning to wane. But she and Aunt Eugenie had a plan.
“I wonder where your mother is now.” Aunt Eugenie continued to stare at the envelope. “Still in Persia?”
Sara nudged her plate aside and pulled the letter in front of her. “No—she was in Egypt last time, don’t you remember?”
Her aunt frowned. “Without a map, I find it difficult to keep your mother’s wanderings in my memory.”
Sara did not have that problem. When she was younger, she’d spent hours studying the globe in the library, running her fingers over the bumps of mountains and smooth dips of lakes until she’d memorized the entire world.
That was before she understood that gallivanting about the globe was not an option for a young lady of good breeding. Not if she wanted to preserve her reputation. When her father died and Aunt Eugenie had taken over Sara’s upbringing, that fact was made quite clear.
“It’s all very well for your mother to hare off to those exotic destinations,” her aunt had explained when ten-year-old Sara had voiced her hopes of joining Mama on her travels. “She is a rich widow and can afford to raise eyebrows if she pleases. But she was wise to leave you in my care now that your father has gone to his eternal reward, God rest his soul.”
“Doesn’t she want me anymore?” Sara had asked, fighting back tears.
“She wants what is best for you, which is to remain with me so that I might, despite the obstacles, turn you into proper young lady and ensure that you make a suitable match. A young woman has only one thing of value in this world, and that is an impeccable reputation.”
For the last eleven years, Aunt Eugenie had been true to her word. Sara had, indeed, grown up to be a proper young lady, and had learned to quash any foolish notions of adventure. Though it was harder when Mama’s letters came.
But Sara’s immaculate reputation and flawless deportment were finally about to produce the desired results. Next month there was to be a house party at Lord Whitley’s estate, and the viscount had specifically invited Lady Sara and her aunt to attend.
True, the gentleman in question was several years her senior, and not the brightest candle in the bunch—but he possessed an estate, and was generally regarded as a decent catch.
Especially for a lady teetering dangerously close to spinsterhood.
“We will ensure you spend as much time as appropriate with Lord Whitley.” Aunt Eugenie’s eyes shone at the prospect. “I’m certain you’ll be able to bring him to the point by the end of the house party. You’ll have a solid fortnight in his company, after all.”
Two weeks to wring a proposal from Lord
Whitley. Sara had nodded. She must do her best. There were perilously few other options available to her, except to become Aunt Eugenie’s companion into old age. It was not an invigorating thought.
“Are you going to open that?” Her aunt nodded at the letter resting under Sara’s fingers.
“Yes.” There was no point in delaying any longer.
She took up the letter opener, a sharp-edged implement with the bejeweled head of a tiger that her mother had sent back from India three years prior, and slit open the thick envelope.
She read, giving Aunt Eugenie the salient points as she went.
“Mama has been travelling about the Mediterranean basin. The heat is invigorating, the food spicy. She found Tunisia very accommodating.”
“Hmph.” Aunt Eugenie’s mouth formed into a disapproving line.
“Oh dear.” Sara kept reading, her blood going cold.
“Well? What does she say?”
“She is coming back to England this month.”
“High time! She hasn’t seen you in three years. One might think she’s entirely forgotten she had a daughter.”
Except for the regular letters, Sara refrained from pointing out. And the money that went to support both herself and Aunt Eugenie in fashionable style at the widowed Marchioness of Fulton’s Mayfair townhouse.
No, she didn’t think Mama forgot she had a daughter. Merely that she found her offspring an inconvenience, though not a large enough one to prevent her from living her life in the manner she preferred. Namely, having disreputable adventures everywhere she went, and then writing home about them.
Aunt Eugenie folded her napkin and set it precisely even with the edge of the tablecloth. “The timing is not the best, with Lord Whitley’s house party imminent. You know as well as I that your future must take precedence even over your mother’s visit, but surely she will be here at least a month. One can’t gallivant about the world nonstop. Does she say how long she plans to stay?”