by Fascination
“And what was that?” Mama asked rudely.
“I think Mortimer should be the one to explain,” Mrs. Pincham said. Her white gauze dress was striped with violet the exact shade of her eyes. Little bunches of violets confined white satin bows in the full auburn curls at each ear. Grace admired the charming picture the woman made.
“Where’s Father Struan?” Mama asked suddenly. “Mr. McWallop said he’d be dining with us.”
Lady Cuthbert cast up her eyes. “Who can possibly rely on such an impossible man? He’s been throwing the family into fits since he was a difficult little boy.”
“You didn’t know Struan when he was a little boy, lovie,” Sir Mortimer said.
Mrs. Pincham made an odd sound and said, “I expect Theodora means that he’s seemed unconventional for as long as she’s known him.”
“Don’t you presume to explain what I mean, Melly!” Lady Cuthbert’s narrow face turned an unpleasant shade of red.
“Now, now, lovie.” With yet another wink in Grace’s direction, Sir Mortimer slid an arm around his wife’s waist and hauled her against him. “Tired, aren’t we? Overwrought, aren’t we?”
“Addlepated, aren’t we?” Mrs. Pincham murmured for Grace’s ears only.
Grace tried not to grin. She failed.
“May I call you Grace? I should very much like you to call me Melony.”
“Please,” Grace said, warming to the other woman, who did not appear much older than herself.
“I thought Mr. Innes was to dine with us,” Mama said. Pouting, she sat alone at one end of a red damask couch. “And Mr. MacFie, so I was told.”
“Calum Innes won’t be here,” Sir Mortimer said shortly. “He keeps out of my way. Just as well.”
“Don’t mind Mortimer,” Melony said. “Calum rubs him the wrong way and—”
“Calum Innes is an upstart. They should have left him—”
“Mortimer,” Lady Cuthbert said. “You do not care for Calum. We need not bore Grace with the details of old family quarrels.”
“He’s not a member of this family, although he’d—”
“Yes,” Lady Cuthbert said, glaring. “We know. For goodness’ sake, where is dinner?”
“Should have thought MacFie would have put in an appearance by now,” Sir Mortimer said. “Useful chap, that. Best estate commissioner in the land, so they say.”
“I saw him earlier,” Lady Cuthbert said. “He sent his apologies. Problems at the dairy or some such thing. Said he wouldn’t be able to be present.”
“Shouldn’t have thought he could do much about dairy problems at this time of night ...”
How could she be standing here in this sumptuous room, making polite conversation with strangers, listening to their empty prattle, when her entire life was in ruins?
Grace had a wild notion to shout, I don’t care about any of you, and rush away.
But she couldn’t do that. She would probably never be able to do anything but stay in this castle she hated ... with a man she hated ... or wished she hated more.
Praise be that Stonehaven had made no attempt to see her today. She’d made no attempt to see him—despite Mama’s pleadings. And there was no danger of having to deal with him tonight. According to every source, the man never left his private quarters, so he wouldn’t be at dinner.
“Speakin’ for meself,” Sir Mortimer said, approaching Grace on the balls of his feet, “I’m remarkably glad to have this time alone with you ... and your charming mama.”
Mama gave a fluttery giggle, which Grace determinedly ignored.
“Indeed,” Lady Cuthbert said. “This is a very special time, my dear.”
“A family time,” added Sir Mortimer. “We’re here to offer you our support. We want you ... and your dear mama ... to think of us as your nearest and dearest. I understand you have no relatives ...?” He let the question hang.
“Only distant ones with whom we have no connections,” Grace said.
Sir Mortimer bent from the waist. “Quite. But now you do have relatives.”
Melony squeezed Grace’s arm and dropped a soft kiss on her cheek. “I am so happy, dear Grace. We always had one another, of course, but Theodora and I were still very much alone as children. We know how it is to be lonely and to long for a confidante. We are warmed to our hearts to know that we now count you a dear friend—and that you share our feelings.”
Sir Mortimer extended a hand to Grace. “Come, my dear, I want to have a few private words with you—if your mama agrees.”
“By all means,” Mama said from the couch.
Grace allowed Cuthbert to fold her fingers into his palm and draw her a short way distant from the others.
“Permit me to say a few words that are to be between the two of us alone,” he said in low, intimate tones. “Arran is an excessively uncomfortable ... He’s not warm; I’m sure you agree?”
Be careful. “He is private,” Grace said. “I’m sure we can agree on that?”
“Indeed.” He led her to a window alcove where, to her slight alarm, Grace found the two of them to be shielded from the rest of the company. “It pleases me deeply to discover that you are already so loyal to my cousin. However, I don’t think it would be less than loyal for us to agree that he is not a happy man?”
She lowered her lashes.
“Yes, well, I’ll take that as an affirmative. Arran is a quiet, withdrawn man. I sincerely hope that, with you to help him, he will learn to embrace the world of the living again.”
The living. Grace dug her fan sticks into her hand. Would this man tell her about the dead marchioness?
“I do not know exactly how you came to meet Arran.”
Grace said nothing.
“Not that it is my concern—or that it matters. However, I cannot help wondering if you know him well enough to embark on this marriage.”
She looked up into his gray eyes. Yes, he was still a good-looking man, if a little the worse for too much good food and drink.
“Grace ... oh, my dear, you are such a gentle soul. I feel that.”
To her amazement, he caught her chin between finger and thumb and placed a slow kiss on her brow.
Before she could pull away, he released her and held her arms. “That was a mark of affection, dear little girl. And a mark of my concern for you. Please, if there is anything I can do to help you in the days ahead, come to me. Promise me you will.”
She couldn’t think of an answer.
“How overwhelming this must be for you. All this. Tell me you will count me your nearest and dearest friend in times of great stress ... possibly great danger.”
Grace felt her face pale. Danger here. Danger in London. There was nowhere to turn, yet she could not leave this place, where there was at least a chance for financial security.
Dimly she heard the rustle of fine fabrics in the room—and noticed the women had stopped talking. They must be straining to hear what she and Sir Mortimer were saying.
“We should return to the others,” she said. Her voice sounded shaky.
Sir Mortimer rubbed her bare arms. “And we will. Listen, Grace. Listen well. This is a desperate step, but I implore you not to enter this marriage in haste. Give yourself more time to be certain it’s what you want. Put off the wedding, dear one.”
“Why—?” Grace stopped. A movement had caught her eye.
Another, taller figure loomed behind Sir Mortimer. “What a pretty little domestic scene. Come, my dear, allow me to escort you in to dinner.”
Stonehaven, magnificent in austerely cut black evening dress, brushed his cousin aside and took Grace’s arm. He swept her into the middle of the room and on to the dining room without a sideways glance at any of his guests.
Grace glanced. The gathered company stood and sat in utter unmoving silence.
“You decided to put off your departure?” Stonehaven said, very low. “Your renouncement of me was quite convincing. What can have made you change your mind?”
“
We have nothing to discuss.”
“We have a great deal to discuss. I shall look forward to dealing with much of it later—when we are alone.”
“We shall not be alone until I decide it is appropriate.”
“When we’re married, you mean? How very provincial of you.”
“You are unkind, sir. You enjoy tormenting me.”
“Nonsense,” he said. “That gown is charming. Gray is unusual for one so young, but it becomes you.”
“Thank you, my lord.” The others were coming, but for the moment she remained alone with him.
“A ruby and diamond girdle would be a dazzling addition, don’t you think? To the gray gown?”
She would not let him goad her further.
“Should I have a servant bring it to you?”
“I want nothing from you,” she said under her breath.
Stonehaven laughed softly. “Au contraire. You want everything from me.” His narrowed green eyes sent a thrill down her spine. “And you shall soon get exactly that.”
Chapter 16
The girl had spirit.
Arran watched her covertly, this complicated creature who would become his wife. The gown was demure, and the more enticing because a pelerine of palest lavender silk covered Grace all the way from her charming neck to the neckline of her bodice.
Not beautiful, but the most unforgettable, the most distracting, woman he’d ever met. Tonight her hair was pulled smoothly back from her finely boned face and wound into a simple, braided chignon. A deceptively demure facade. Fascinating.
Grace spoke intimately with Mortimer, who sat on her other side and appeared captivated by her every word—none of which were audible to Arran.
Mortimer had been captivated by her throughout dinner, although he had managed to devour duck pâté with lemon jelly, salmon with lobster sauce, pigeon en croûte, chicken fricassee and sweetbreads, Florentine rabbits, and was now about to demolish a last mouthful of venison and black olives. The man had scarcely paused to allow servants to remove or place a dish throughout the meal.
Blanche Wren, who had met her introduction to Arran with avid delight, was clearly impressed by Theodora’s pompous largess. Theodora pronounced such gems as “One must be ever vigilant in the management of servants,” whilst Blanche’s brow puckered in concentration as if she were committing a timeless teaching to memory.
McWallop, in the company of Shanks, stood by, observing the conduct of the understeward, under-butler, and the minions who bore up admirably under the weight of great platters covered with gleaming silver.
He had not, Arran thought idly, missed such events as this piece of nonsense. Five years had passed since he’d last presided over his own table to entertain guests. The next few months would probably necessitate similar annoyances, but he would tolerate them whilst he must and set them aside as soon as possible.
“The venison is heavenly, my lord.”
Unwillingly he turned his attention to Melony Pincham, who sat at his left. “I’m glad you approve.”
“Is it from your own estates?”
“One hopes so.” Where else would it come from?
She leaned forward and pressed his arm. “Silly me. Of course it does.” She dropped her voice. “You must think me a hopeless widgeon, but I am always looking for ways to improve myself. Should you feel inclined to instruct me in matters of importance to you, I assure you I take instruction well.”
A coy, downward flutter of her lashes, the discreet slipping of her fingers behind his wrist to his palm, alerted him. The comely widow was engaged in the first step of the most ancient game of all: prelude to seduction.
“I shall remember that.” Mrs. Pincham was the embodiment of all he detested most in women, but she could prove diverting if the need for diversion arose. And she might have other minor uses also. A moment might arise when he’d be glad of a means to reinforce the fact that his heart had no part in his arrangement with Grace.
The double doors at the end of the dining room were thrown open, and Struan, dressed in his abominably shabby cleric’s garb, strode in. “Evening, all.” He favored the entire company with his damnable benevolent smile and nodded at Arran. “Forgive me, dear brother. Sorry to be late, but there was a small professional matter I needed to attend to.”
“Do tell,” Mrs. Pincham caroled. “Something frightfully wicked? I’m sure you have to listen to some quite dreadful things, Father. When people want to be forgiven, I mean.”
“A man thought he was dying,” Struan said simply. “One of the villagers. Heard I was here and wanted reassurance. Tends to be the good who feel they’ve something to confess. The wicked are too busy convincing themselves they’re just. Actually, he wasn’t dying, just in his cups and wishing he were already dead.”
Blanche Wren giggled—stupid bitch. Theodora’s sharp nose rose and turned disdainfully away from Struan. The rest of the company appeared uncomfortable—with the exception of Mortimer, damn his grasping hide. Mortimer was still assessing Grace as one might a piece of fruit ripened to perfection.
The evil bastard was almost drooling.
Time enough to deal with Mortimer. As far as the marriage was concerned, everything would be done with perfect decorum. No unseemly rush. Arran had overheard Mortimer’s plea that Grace should delay the wedding. For an instant there’d been an impulse to rush her off to the nearest minister who could be persuaded to perform a ceremony without the usual waiting period.
Mortimer would be looking for any means to question the validity of the match and its issue.
There would be no such means.
Before Shanks could close the doors behind Struan, Calum arrived, looking calm and unruffled—and elegant. “Evening, all. In time for the festivities, am I?”
“Upstart,” Mortimer said, just loud enough for his closest neighbors to hear.
Arran fixed his cousin with an icy stare that didn’t waver until the other man looked at his plate. “Sit down, Struan, and you, Calum. Eat something. We have business to accomplish here, and I don’t have all night.” He ignored his brother’s reproachful frown, and Calum’s knowing little smile. “This is an important occasion. But I’m sure everyone present knows that.”
He was rewarded with the complete attention of all assembled—including Mortimer, whose high color took on a purplish tinge.
“Shanks, serve the champagne. I’m anxious to say what I came to say. Thank you all for coming, by the way.”
A mumbled chorus rose and instantly faded.
Vultures.
Arran snapped his fingers, and McWallop came instantly to his side. “Here you are, your lordship.” A shabby black velvet bag was placed at his right hand.
He waited until champagne glasses were filled before raising his own. “Shall we toast the future of the lords of Stonehaven?”
The slightest of pauses followed before Mortimer swept up his glass, said, “Here, here,” and downed most of its contents. The rest offered a smattering of “Stonehaven,” and “The future,” and drank.
Arran spared a level look for Grace. She stared back, unblinking, her pretty mouth set. Spirited she might be, but he saw through her. She remained at Kirkcaldy because she expected to get everything she wanted from him, everything. Behind that intelligent, engaging face she was already scheming, plotting how she would turn him into her slave. He would not forget what she’d come to Kirkcaldy to gain: a title, vast wealth, and widow’s weeds ... and then the passionate enslavement of a man who could satisfy her considerable sensual requirements.
Grace now knew widow’s weeds were unlikely to come readily to hand. But he was no fool; the girl found pleasure with him, and he had no doubt that she’d decided he could be brought to heel—her heel.
In their high-backed Jacobean chairs on either side of him at the highly polished table, Arran’s guests waited expectantly.
Let them wait.
Switching his attention to flickering candles in lofty golden candelabra, he dra
nk of his own champagne.
“Now.” He set down his glass and reached into the velvet bag to withdraw a green silk pouch. From inside he took a brooch. “I thought you might enjoy this, Mrs. Wren. I understand you have quite an affection for such things.”
He gave the gold dragon with one eye of sapphire and one of ruby to McWallop, who carried it in two hands to Blanche Wren and placed it beside her plate.
Arran tried to shut out the squeals and shrieks and exclamations that followed. He smiled benevolently, all the while aware that Grace watched, not her mother, but him. Eventually, while the company still exclaimed over Blanche’s treasure, he met Grace’s eyes.
Puzzled?
Accusing?
Perhaps ... fearful?
Arran bowed discreetly and made certain his smile held mockery. If only these tiresome games were not necessary.
“You are too kind, my lord,” Blanche cried.
“Think nothing of it.” This eternal, bloody smile would shortly crack his face. “Only appropriate.”
The neat fingernails of Grace’s left hand drummed the table.
Arran rested his own right hand beside his plate.
“Isn’t that Great-Aunt Maud’s brooch?” Mortimer said, peering down the table.
“It was Great-Aunt Maud’s.” Arran’s mother and Mortimer’s had been sisters. An aunt, Maud Fenwick, had raised the two girls.
“Mother always admired that dragon. She’d hoped Auntie Maud would leave it to her.”
Arran shifted his fingers closer to Grace’s. “How disappointing for your mother.”
Mortimer pursed his lips. “When your mother died, she felt she had reason to hope again.”
Grace had stopped drumming.
“Life can be fraught with little disappointments.”
“After all, your mother didn’t have a daughter.”
Another small shift and Arran’s small finger came very close to Grace’s. “Neither did yours, as I remember. Seems to me you were an only chick. My mother had two sons. She chose to leave the dragon to me. And now I choose to give it to my future mother-in-law,” he said, growing bored and disgusted with his cousin’s avarice.