“What doesn’t please you?” came Lord Rankin’s voice from the hallway.
Wonderful, Alex thought. Almost caught with my trousers around my ankles by the man who most wants me to fail my Scottish mission.
“What’s amiss, Arbuthnott?” Rankin’s voice was closer now. “Have you realized your mistake and seen the way I’m going to beat you?”
“Oh, I reckon it’ll come to a beating,” the Scottish laird said. “But it willna be me who’ll be getting it. It’ll be one of yer young gentlemen.”
Rankin’s bulk filled the doorway for a moment. “Mallory, what’s going on here—oh.”
Lucinda was blushing scarlet and fiddling with her bodice buttons as if to make sure they were all done up. Her hair was disheveled, her mouth kiss-swollen. There was no mistaking what had happened.
“Is this what we can expect from the English, Rankin?” Arbuthnott demanded. “Are ye thinkin’ to break the spirit of the Scots by instating some sort of droit du seigneur? Ruining our women with no recourse! I’m telling ye, man, we’ll no’ stand for it.”
“I’m no’ ruined,” Lucinda said softly. “No’ quite.”
“Quiet, Lu—” Alex began. Nearly shagging her was a mistake brought on by the heat of the brawl with MacMartin and the way her eyes went all soft in the light of the banked fire and—oh, hang it all, he was without excuse. But the last thing he needed was for her to try to defend him.
“Lucinda Ismay MacOwen!”
Correction. Great-Aunt Hester making an appearance behind Lord Rankin was the last thing he needed.
“Weel, now,” the old lady said. “What have ye to say for yerself?” When Lucinda started to explain, Hester interrupted her. “No, lass, say what ye will, there’s no excuse for behaving like a trollop.”
“Now wait just a minute,” Alex said, moving in front of Lucinda. “She wasn’t behaving like a trollop. This is my fault entirely.”
“Aye, it is.” It may have been a trick of the soft light, but Alex could have sworn the ghost of a smile wafted across the old woman’s features. “There’s no help for it now, is there? The pair of ye must needs wed and with no more dallying. No need to wrangle over the details on the morrow, Lord Rankin. We’ll have a wedding this very night.”
Aunt Hester waddled toward them, grasped both their hands and pressed them together. “I ken as how the contract specified Christmas Day for the ceremony, but I’ll be bound, I dinna trust the pair of ye to bide under the same roof until the knot’s been tied good and tight.”
She turned back to Lord Rankin. “Wake the vicar.”
“By all means, a young woman should enjoy the preparations for her wedding day. Revel in lace and nosegays and a lovely trousseau. However, the knowledgeable lady realizes these are but pretty distractions from the awful seriousness of what is about to occur—a vow before God and man that ends rather ominously in ‘till death do us part. ’”
From The Knowledgeable Ladies’ Guide
to Eligible Gentlemen
Chapter Twelve
Lucinda was surprised her aunt allowed her a moment to run a brush through her hair, much less change into the gown and veil she’d planned to wear for her wedding. But Great-Aunt Hester insisted that though everything must be done with all speed, there was no reason why it couldn’t be done correctly at the same time.
“It’ll be a mercy to have this wedding over with, so I’ll only have two eejits to watch over instead of three,” Hester had added as she huffed her way up the stairs behind Lucinda and her sisters.
Aileen and Mary fluttered about Lucy, excited as a pair of butterflies flitting around a lily that had just unfurled its petals. Once Lucinda was stripped out of her ball gown and decently laced into the fine pink confection with seed pearls at the bodice and a discreet flounce of lace at the hem, Brodie appeared in her small chamber to wish her well.
Of course, she was the only one who could see and hear him.
“Ye look pretty as a speckled pup, ” the ghost said as he appeared in the mirror behind her reflection.
Everyone else was busy fluffing out the lace on Lucinda’s veil on the other side of the room, so she pulled a face at him.
“Thank ye verra much,” she whispered furiously. “What lass doesna wish to be compared to a dog before she marches down the aisle.”
“I didna mean . . . ’tis only that ye look so . . . weel, ye’re no’ me little girl anymore, are ye?”
He sniffed, swiped his nose with an embroidered handkerchief edged with French knots, and blinked rapidly. If Lucinda didn’t know better, she’d say the spirit was trying to hold back tears.
“Brodie,” she said softly. “Dinna take on so. I’ll always be yer little girl.”
The ghost smiled, his pale face a wreath of satisfied wrinkles.
“Lucinda,” Aunt Hester said sharply, “what are ye natterin’ on about? Folk will think ye’re nipped in the noggin if they hear ye mumbling to yerself like that.”
“I’ll be watching o’er ye in the chapel, just to make sure the knot’s tied good and tight,” Brodie said and then winked into nothingness. Only a faint wisp of white remained in the place where he’d been, hovering next to her reflection like the last breath of a snuffed-out candle.
Aileen and Mary came skittering across the chamber, their mother’s long veil billowing behind them. They settled it on Lucinda’s head and pinned the lacy concoction into place.
“Just think, Lu,” Mary said with uncharacteristic breathlessness. “This verra night, ye’ll share a bed with a man. It’ll be so strange, I’d think. If Lord Bonniebroch snores like Father does, I doubt ye’ll get a wink of sleep.”
“I should hope she doesna.” Aileen rolled her eyes. “Ye’re such a wee ninny, Mary. Do ye no’ ken that when ye share a bed with a man the last thing ye’ll be doin’ is trying to sleep?”
Aunt Hester made a low growl in the back of her throat. “Dinna let me hear the pair of ye talkin’ like that again or we’ll pack up and head back for Edinburgh first thing in the morning. I’ve a notion to do me spring cleaning early and though I doubt ye’d be much help, I’ll find plenty to occupy yer idle hands till yer father comes to collect ye in a few weeks.”
The sisters protested that they had exhausted both their knowledge and interest about how one shares a bed with a man and their aunt would never hear a peep more about it from them if only they’d be allowed to remain at Dalkeith for the Christmas festivities that would stretch into Twelfth Night.
“Verra well,” the old lady said. “Now get ye gone to the chapel and wait for us in the nave there. I’ll be havin’ a privy word with the bride, if ye please.”
Lucinda swallowed hard. So far, Great-Aunt Hester hadn’t berated her for the compromised state in which she and Alex had been found. That was about to change. Once Mary closed the door behind her and Aileen, Lu braced herself for the onslaught.
“Now, I ken as ye were far too young when yer mother died for her to have done the needful by ye on the matter of what passes between a man and his wife,” Great-Aunt Hester began.
Lucinda blanched as white as her veil. This was worse than a dressing down. Aunt Hester was going to explain just how one did share a bed with a man.
“Auntie, I’m farm raised, remember,” she said, trying to head Hester off before she mortally embarrassed them both. “I think I’ve an idea of what to expect.”
“Judging from what passed in the study, ye’ve more than idea.”
Lucinda sighed. Back to the dressing down. She supposed it was the lesser of two evils.
But to her surprise, her aunt palmed both of her cheeks, pulled her head down, and pressed her dry, papery lips on Lucinda’s forehead in an awkward sort of benediction.
“I must swear ye to absolute secrecy,” her aunt said solemnly. “If ye breathe a word of what I’m about to tell ye, I’ll deny it with me dyin’ breath. And I’ll change me last will and testament so ye’ll no’ be getting the bequest of me mother’s brooch when
the time comes. T’was old when my grandmother’s grandmother was a girl, all amber stones and silverwork, so it’s worth a pretty price, ye ken.”
Lucinda had no idea she was even in her aunt’s will. Nor had she seen this valuable brooch. “I’ll no’ tell a soul.”
Her aunt’s face lifted in a ghost of a smile that made her almost pleasant-looking. “I just wanted ye to know ye’re no’ the first bride in the family to anticipate her wedding vows a wee bit,” Aunt Hester said. “Mr. MacGibbon and I fairly led me poor parents a merry chase ’round several haystacks before they hauled us into the kirk to make matters legal. And nary a moment too soon.”
“Thank ye, auntie.” Lucinda threw her arms around the old woman. “Ye really are sweet, are ye no’?”
“Bah! Sweet is for tea and crumpets.” She disentangled herself from Lucinda’s arms with a self-conscious shudder. “Old women should be annoying. We’ve certainly earned the right. Now, let’s get ye marrit to that strapping young man of yours.”
The chapel must have been ancient at the time of the Flood. In stark contrast to the pale sandstone of Dalkeith Palace, the stone that marked this sacred spot might have started out light gray, but it had darkened over the years, black with soot from countless fires and damp with mold and candlelit sanctity.
Alex thought the depressing space fit the occasion.
“You can’t say I didn’t warn you.” Clarindon straightened Alexander’s cravat with disgusting cheerfulness as they waited in the transept. “It’s a matter of physical science. Playing with the business end of a dirk will make you bleed. Playing with a loaded derringer will lead to a gunshot. Playing with one’s fiancée accelerates the velocity at which a man is catapulted toward the altar.”
“You’re not helping,” Alex said glumly.
“Sorry, old son, but you’re beyond help now,” Clarindon said. “If it were only Lord Arbuthnott and Lord Rankin, you might have had a prayer. Once Hester MacGibbon joined the fray, the hill of your bachelorhood was irreparably lost. You may as well smile and make the best of it.”
“How can I do that?” Alex asked through clenched teeth. “You know what we do, the places we go, the risks we take. There’s no room in that life for hearth and home.”
Not to mention that at times, he’d had to seduce information from the wives and mistresses of well-placed foreign dignitaries. While Alexander’s wife might be resigned to a husband who faced danger in performance of his duties for King and Crown, he imagined Lucinda wouldn’t be amenable to his using his bed skills to complete his assigned work. The times he’d been forced to take that route weren’t his proudest moments, but there was no limit to what he’d do for his country.
It didn’t help matters that those amatory exploits were the only ones his father seemed to catch wind of. For example, the marquis wasn’t aware he’d broken into a Barbary pirate’s stronghold and extricated the king’s cousin, saving the Crown a small fortune in ransom money. It was the nature of Alexander’s business that he couldn’t share the scope or details of his covert activities with anyone. As far as the world knew, he and Clarindon were part of King George’s entourage of courtiers. Merely two more among the many sycophants and posers.
Just once he wished he could tell his father, “There, you see, sir. The incident with the King’s brother in Cornwall where disaster was averted. The recovery of the Duke of Cambridge’s stolen signet ring before it could be used to alter military dispatches. Uncovering the plot to murder the Russian ambassador and use his death as a pretext for war. That was me. I did those things.”
But he couldn’t. As far as the marquis knew, his second son was a wastrel who spent his days gaming and drinking and chasing every available skirt. And his father despised him for it.
It wasn’t anything Alex could admit, not even to Clarindon, but the trust of Lord Liverpool began to make up for that lack of fatherly approval. Not that he’d had much chance to serve the prime minister’s interests since he set foot in Scotland.
It was as if Fate had conspired to snatch the only thing in his life that made him feel worthwhile and replaced it with Bonniebroch and all the complications connected with his new Scottish estate and title. Not the least of which was about to corner him at the altar.
“You sound as if you wish to continue working for Lord Liverpool forever,” Clarindon said, smoothing back his own hair. “I certainly don’t.”
Alexander’s gaze snapped toward his friend at that. He’d always thought Clarindon was as addicted to the excitement, the challenge of covert action as he. “Never say your heart’s been snagged by one of those Scottish maidens you were dancing with this evening.”
“No. But my heart is certainly intrigued by the idea of being snagged by one.” Clarindon clapped a hand on his shoulder and steered him to his place before the altar. “Face the facts, my friend. This is your last service to the Home Office. Your traveling days in Lord Liverpool’s service are done unless you mean to make your wife a widow to your career.”
“Not necessarily,” Alex whispered from the side of his mouth. Now that they were beneath the spot where the highest arch vaulted over the cross-shaped design of the chapel, his voice carried further.
“What do you mean?” Clarindon turned to watch the MacOwen sisters precede the bride down the central aisle.
“Simply that annulments can be arranged,” Alex said.
“Yes, but in order to be granted one, you’d need to prove that a true marriage never took place. Rather hard to do since you’re only here now because you were within an ace of shagging the lass on a bearskin rug.”
“You think I can’t control myself?” Alex glared at Clarindon as the vicar ambled sleepily from the door that led to the sacristy. “I have a will of iron.”
“Which does you no good once another thing of iron rises as well.”
The vicar shot the men a black frown that suggested if it were up to him, he’d happily cast the pair of them into the fiery pit. Never mind the scandal of a rushed wedding. The real crime was interrupting the vicar’s sleep.
Alex turned and faced the rear of the chapel. The only witnesses in the pews were Lord Arbuthnott and Rankin on the bridegroom’s side of the chapel, Great-Aunt Hester on the other. The old woman skewered him with an evil glare. Aileen and Mary MacOwen reached the choir, their faces surprisingly fresh considering the lateness—or the earliness, depending on one’s point of view—of the hour, and veered off to their places to wait for the bride’s arrival.
Lucinda appeared, framed in the doorway at the rear of the chapel. She hesitated for a couple heartbeats, then began to walk steadily toward him. The silk of her gown draped her form like water, conforming to her curves and spilling to the floor in pale pink folds. As she walked, her slippered toes peeped from under her hem, shyly disappearing again with each step.
The veil effectively obscured her features.
For a moment, Alex wondered what she was thinking. Was she happy? Resigned? As confused by everything as he?
Guilt flogged him with long heavy stripes. She deserved so much more than to be leg-shackled to a man who had one foot out of the marriage before the vows were even said.
Lucinda stopped long enough for her sister to push back the veil to reveal her face. She leaned to kiss Aileen’s cheek, then turned and met Alex’s gaze.
The naked hope on her features rendered her vulnerable and soft and undeniably appealing. His chest ached. He wished someone would swoop in to snatch her up and carry her away. Someone should warn her not to face the world with such an open heart, not to risk herself on a man like him. He couldn’t love her as she deserved. He’d only bring her pain.
“About that iron will you were talking about,” Clarindon whispered. “Good luck, old son.”
“It is a saying, time out of mind, that whomever one weds, one discovers in short order that one is actually married to someone else entirely.”
From The Knowledgeable Ladies’ Guide
to Eligi
ble Gentlemen
Chapter Thirteen
The ceremony passed by in a blur. Lucinda supposed she gave the right responses at the right time, but she couldn’t swear to it. The warmth of Alexander’s hand when it closed over hers was glory enough for her to lose herself completely. She pretended everything was going to be all right.
After the vicar’s final pronouncement and the chaste brush of Alex’s lips on hers, she still felt as if she were sleepwalking through a dream. Even the procession to Alex’s room, which would be pressed into service as their bridal chamber, had a hazy sense of unreality to it.
But once the door closed and she was alone with Alex in his room, the enormity of what they’d just done came crashing down on her.
Lucinda expected to feel a surge of triumph. After all, she’d secured her family’s fortune with this match. Her sisters’ futures were ever so much rosier because of it and Dougal might yet escape the hangman with a half-English brother-in-law to ease his way toward a pardon.
And contrary to her sisters’ dire predictions, her new husband wasn’t a toothless, hairless dotard. Instead, Alex was so handsome, it hurt to look at him. He was like a lightning bolt at sea or the searing flash of sunlight on the River Tay. She knew it would strike her blind if she looked long enough, but the urge to do just that was beyond her will to resist.
She had every right to feel as if she’d just run a race and won the prize. But she didn’t.
Alex hadn’t said a word to her since they were marched from the study where they’d been caught together on the bearskin. He’d never wanted the match in the first place. He made no secret of it. How must he feel toward her now that his hand had been forced?
He stood looking out the window where the frost-rimed grounds of Dalkeith sparkled with a million pinpricks of diamonds in the moonlight. His back was ramrod straight, his hands clasped behind him. He was the sort to shake his fist at heaven and declare himself master of his fate.
Mia Marlowe Page 13