The Virgin Of Clan Sinclair

by Karen Ranney

  Lady Pamela would smile and approach him, hand off her prayer book to someone standing behind her, turn and place her hand on Ross’s arm, all without a trace of fear.

  She managed most of it but she couldn’t banish the trembling.

  When it came time for her to recite her vows, she did so in a firm, clear voice. No one was more surprised than she. Evidently, she had more Lady Pamela in her than she realized.

  She signed her name in a passable rendition of her usual signature, stepped back and accepted the congratulations from her family and her new mother-in-law.

  Her mother frowned at the woman, but all her mother-in-law did was smile back at Enid.

  There was a battle brewing there, but that wasn’t entirely unexpected.

  Ellice, with an incipient headache, a feeling of unreality, and a desperate desire to maintain her composure, was escorted back to Huntly and into a massive dining room by her new husband.

  He was a man she didn’t know, a man who intrigued her, charmed her, and excited her, but still a stranger, and one who would soon climb into bed with her.

  She didn’t know if what she was feeling was terror or excitement.

  Ross had the curious feeling of déjà vu as he walked into the dining room with his bride at his side. A few years ago he’d been a new bridegroom, but it was Cassandra who accompanied him then.

  His father and mother had welcomed them along with Cassandra’s large family.

  A strange thing, to think of her with fondness now. The girl she’d been, innocent and artless, had been replaced in his memories by another woman, one who was so desperately in love she was willing to shock the world.

  This time he was determined to be wiser. This time, if any suspicions arose, he wouldn’t shut them off. This time he’d be certain of the woman he called his wife.

  Certain was not a word he would use in conjunction with Ellice.

  She confused him to the point that he wondered if she did it deliberately. One moment she was a bright-eyed beauty with a mouth that lured him. The next, she was a fragile-looking female with hunched shoulders and downcast eyes.

  Which one was she, truly?

  Ellice had trembled during the ceremony, reminding him of a leaf in a gale. She bit her lips and took deep breaths as if mustering her courage.

  Twice, she looked as if she were about to faint. He’d put his hand over her cold one, smiled into her eyes, and she responded with the helpless glazed look of a dying fawn.

  If he didn’t know better, he would have thought Ellice Traylor Forster, Countess of Gadsden, was a virgin. A terrified virgin, one who kept shooting wide-eyed glances in his direction. Her laughing brown eyes were filled with fear. Her easy smile had vanished, replaced by lips thinned in nervousness.

  The Ellice he’d come to know had disappeared again.

  Perhaps it was better if she stayed gone for a while.

  He found himself wanting to reassure her somehow, to tell her that he had no intention of bedding her until he could ensure that she wasn’t with child. His heir must be his and there mustn’t be any doubt about it.

  Instead, he remained silent and escorted her to the place of honor at the table. Their guests stood, waiting for her.

  “You have to sit,” he said, whispering to her.

  She shot a panicked glance down the table and nodded.

  Her mother frowned at her, and he suddenly wanted to shield her from the woman’s disapproval. His own mother was smiling at Ellice. No doubt she considered his marriage a sign of progress, an indication he was able to put Cassandra and her betrayal behind him.

  He’d forgiven Cassandra. He couldn’t forgive her lover. Not yet and perhaps not ever.

  Ellice finally sat, and he lifted a hand in a signal that the meal should begin.

  The dining room was suddenly filled with servants bearing trays of steaming meats and vegetables, tureens of turtle soup, and platters of salmon in dill sauce.

  He turned to Ellice, to find her staring down at the wineglass now being filled.

  Reaching over, he placed his hand over hers.

  She jerked, turning to stare at him.

  If he hadn’t been so conscious of the glances of the others, he would have leaned over and whispered something reassuring to her. Or perhaps he would have teased her, asked why she looked so uncomfortable when he knew for certain that she wasn’t a virgin.

  Certain—there was that word again.

  Was she dreading the night to come? Or simply this dinner in front of her family? Did she regret their marriage?

  Withdrawing his hand, he smiled down the table, made a comment about the duck to Sinclair, and asked Logan Harrison a question about Edinburgh.

  All in all they weren’t a large group. He hadn’t invited any friends to attend, simply due to the nature of the ceremony. This wasn’t a love match. Nor was it an arranged union as his marriage to Cassandra had been. This was an attempt to prevent a scandal, no more or less.

  Why, then, was he feeling like a villain?

  Chapter 19

  “Are you certain you understand, Ellice?”

  Ellice folded her hands together on her lap, stared at the blue and white carpet beneath her slippered feet and nodded.

  Her mother’s heavy French perfume was making her nauseous. Or maybe it was simply this meeting her mother had insisted on, one she’d dreaded.

  “I understand,” she said.

  “I know such frank talk can be embarrassing, but no daughter of mine will meet her husband ignorant of her duties. A man does not require much to be excited to that state. A glimpse of your breast or bottom will be sufficient that he is able to perform.”

  Dear God, please silence my mother. Do something.

  God ignored her.

  “You must indulge in the act as often as he wishes. You must submit, my child. That’s what men want.”

  She could only say a hurried prayer of thanksgiving that her mother hadn’t yet read her book.

  Lady Pamela knew that submission was the last thing men wanted.

  Her mother sighed. “I’ve thought of this conversation a great deal, my child. I always thought I would give advice to Eudora first.”

  Thankfully, her mother seemed to have forgotten the carnal nature of The Lustful Adventures of Lady Pamela.

  “Can you not feel your sister near? I can and have all day.”

  All she’d been able to think of was her own anxiety. Huntly was a behemoth; the wedding ceremony had been an awe-inspiring event even on such short notice, and the dinner following had been fit for royalty.

  How could she possibly be the Countess of Gadsden?

  “She would have fit in well here, don’t you agree?” Enid asked, looking around the sitting room.

  As opposed to her, who was a poor substitute for the lovely Eudora?

  Eudora would have been proper, wouldn’t she? She wouldn’t have been overwhelmed by Huntly. She would have been a regal countess. Perhaps she would have been majestic in her greeting of her bridegroom. When her husband entered, she would open her wrapper and give him a glimpse of the curve of her breast. She might even have bent over and let him look at her bottom.

  Everything else would have been done in the darkness. She would have lain still and proper and silent, obeying her mother’s dictates to the letter.

  Ellice was tempted to ask her mother if a woman was not supposed to feel passion. If she was brave enough to do that, Enid’s eyes would widen. Her face would take on a rosy hue and she would be rendered speechless.

  Or worse, Enid would harangue her for hours about her lack of decorum, her demeanor, and the fact she wasn’t Eudora.

  She wished Virginia and Mairi had come to her room, but her mother specifically requested time alone with her daughter. The other women would have told a different story, she was sure of it. They would have spoken of love and eagerness. Light the lamps, sing songs of joy, and prepare yourself for bliss.

  A far cry from the endurance her mothe
r counseled.

  “Thank you, Mother,” she said, careful to keep her head bowed and her voice low.

  “I will see you in the morning, my child. Then we must away to Drumvagen and leave you and your husband time to yourselves.”

  She could only imagine what that meeting would be like. Would Enid question her? Would she ask if she’d lain as still as a board? Or would she just assume that no proper woman would feel anything?

  She walked her mother to the door, kissed her on the cheek, and thanked her again. Once alone, she turned and faced the sitting room, overpowered by its sheer size. Was there no place at Huntly that was cozy and intimate? No room that was small, enclosing, and warm? Or were all the rooms designed to house an army or to impress?

  Entering her bedroom, she gathered up her yellow silk wrapper, climbed the three steps to the bed and waited.

  She was not afraid. She would be like Lady Pamela, eagerly anticipating the arrival of her lover, imagining the delights in store for both of them.

  Ross kissed like a demon. Was he as skilled in other ways?

  She lay back on the counterpane, staring up at another scene painted on the ceiling. This one was of nymphs and cherubs, all scantily clad and portrayed as smiling in the clouds.

  He would be taken with her beauty, enough that his fingers would tremble as he reached out to rid her of her wrapper.

  You are so magnificent, he would say. Even my dreams of you were paltry compared to the exquisite reality.

  You dreamed of me?

  How could I not? You are my heart’s wish. My soul’s partner.

  No, that was Donald, not Ross. Even though he looked like her hero, that’s where the similarities ended. Ross was not in love with her. He’d married her to prevent a scandal.

  She rose from the bed and walked to her secretary, wondering if she might ask that it be moved into the sitting room. Was that acceptable? Or must every one of her requests be filtered through the earl?

  Sitting, she opened the drawers one by one, surprised to discover a thick supply of paper and new pens. Someone had thought of everything, even the rocking blotter she would use to dry the ink.

  She had left her manuscript behind at Drumvagen. After Mairi returned it to her, she’d taken it to the cottage and hidden it in the stone safe. Now she wished she had it with her. She would have read about Lady Pamela’s fearlessness, imbuing herself with some of the woman’s courage.

  Ross had married her because of the manuscript. He’d brought her to this palace and ensconced her here as its princess.

  She didn’t want to be a princess. She wasn’t even sure she wanted to be a wife.

  What did she want? Oh, that was the question, wasn’t it?

  She picked up a pen and a blank sheet of paper, finding solace from the world in a place she imagined, among people who were more real to her than her absent bridegroom.

  When she looked up at the mantel clock, Ellice was startled to find that three hours had passed. Time always flew by when she was writing. Tonight, however, she’d expected to be interrupted by a knock on the door or even Ross’s precipitous appearance.

  He hadn’t come.

  She stared down at the page before her, placed her pen on the stand and sat back.

  He hadn’t come.

  Was she supposed to go to him?

  He hadn’t said, and that was a bit of information her mother hadn’t imparted, either.

  She knew where his rooms were, or could at least guess. The double doors at the end of the corridor were a match to hers. Surely that meant they led to the earl’s suite.

  Should she go to him now?

  She stood, pushing back the chair. Another thing she’d ask for, a more comfortable chair. Something with a bit less gilt and a better cushion. A footrest as well, perhaps, could she ask for that? She’d also request pens like the ones she had at Drumvagen and more paper so she didn’t run low.

  She brushed down her wrapper, wishing it hadn’t wrinkled so much. In addition, there was an ink spot in the middle of her chest. She might as well have an arrow pointing to it. Plus, there was another stain in the area between her thumb and forefinger.

  Perhaps other people could write without getting ink all over them. She’d never mastered the knack.

  She went to the dresser, pleased to find that she had another wrapper and nightgown, this one in a color she liked even better than the yellow. It reminded her of the sky at sunset, when the orange of the sun faded to a pale salmon shade.

  Dragging a brush through her hair, she stared at her reflection. Her eyes looked tired. Her face was too pale. Would he even want to bed her, looking as she was? She certainly didn’t have Eudora’s regal appearance. Nor was she a blond beauty like Cassandra.

  She was just herself, flaws and all. Her shoulders were too rounded and she had a habit of hunching them, no doubt from hours sitting at her desk. One of her teeth slightly overlapped the other. Virginia said it gave her an endearing appearance. Perhaps Ross thought it ugly. Her hair was dull brown in the lamplight. Sometimes her eyes looked almost black but tonight they were simply brown.

  She looked away from her reflection, wondering if he would come to her at all.

  Or did he regret this marriage already? Was he mourning his first wife on the night of his second marriage?

  Lady Pamela wouldn’t tolerate being pushed aside, but Lady Pamela wasn’t a transplanted, uncertain English virgin, either.

  Still, the longer she stood there, the more she glanced at the clock, the greater her annoyance.

  She’d kissed him and he’d been affected. Even a fool knew that. He’d felt the same passion she had. Why, then, was he ignoring her now?

  Was she supposed to remain meekly in her room, waiting for him? Hoping he would appear and then be abjectly grateful when he did manage to show?

  No, she wasn’t going to be that kind of wife. Not ever, and certainly not from the beginning.

  Lady Pamela would never tolerate such behavior.

  She went into the bathroom, washed her hands and face, surveying herself once more in the mirror. Walking back to the secretary, she found her slippers, fluffed her wrapper, and made it to the door before she stopped.

  Returning to the dressing room, she donned her cloak. The earl’s suite was some distance from hers, and she didn’t want to be seen in her nightwear by any of the servants.

  The sconces in the corridor were turned low, no doubt in deference to the hour.

  She approached the earl’s suite and knocked on one of the double doors. She waited a while, then straightened her shoulders and knocked again, but was still met with only silence.

  Had he fallen asleep?

  Warmth suffused her, but it wasn’t passion as much as embarrassment.

  Was it terrible, my child? She could just imagine her mother asking that. How would she answer?

  No, Mother, he fell asleep. So much for deathless passion.

  You must simply try harder to interest him, my child.

  She could stand naked at his door, but if he wasn’t going to answer, there was little she could do.

  “Your ladyship.”

  She jerked, startled, then glanced to her right to see a footman standing there.

  “His lordship is not in his suite,” he said, bowing slightly.

  She was torn between asking where he was and simply thanking the man, turning and walking back to her room.

  Thankfully, she didn’t have to ask.

  “He has gone to his library, I believe, your ladyship.”

  She nodded just as she’d seen her mother do. An almost regal gesture that implied, yes, I’ve heard you, and I’ll either act on your information or I shall not.

  She didn’t know what to do.

  “Where is the library?” she heard herself ask.

  So much for decorum and dignity.

  She knew, because of her mother’s training on staff, and not because they’d employed any in London, that a footman was not supposed to smi
le. Nor was he to look at her with a compassionate glint in his eye.

  She didn’t bother to chastise him for his familiarity. A little kindness didn’t seem amiss right at the moment. All she did was listen intently to his directions, nod again, and pretend she wasn’t the least discomfited by the idea of having to search out her own bridegroom.

  Huntly was too large.

  She walked down to the end of the corridor and turned left, following the instructions. She came to a large anteroom, for lack of a better name, at the convergence of two wings, the one she’d come from and another, according to the footman, that housed the kitchen, pantries, and laundry.

  Above her a ceiling was lined with skylights. During the day this one spot would be bathed in light, a bright and pleasant place to stand. Now it was dark with not a hint of moon or stars. All she could see above her were fast moving clouds.

  The house wasn’t a house but a giant creature of myth and magic into which she’d crawled. Perhaps it was a giant reptile that stretched, serpentine, over the hills and around the carved lake.

  The heart of it would be the kitchens, the tail and wings all these impossible corridors. The brain, if a creature could be said to possess one, might be her destination—Ross’s library.

  Who would build something so large? Of course it had been done to impress. My dear, have you any idea of the Gadsden fortune? Simply look to Huntly and you’ll see. Not only was the house larger than any other structure she’d ever seen, including the British Library, but the upkeep and maintenance must cost a fortune.

  She’d seen gardeners crawling about the place like industrious ants. How many maids were employed here? How many footmen, standing guard in the shadows?

  The cathedral had amazed her with its beauty, but the courtyard stunned her. She’d never considered that an expanse of that size would be cobbled, and in a pattern that could be seen for miles.

  Finally, she was at the front of the house, with its enormous foyer and dome. Here she saw two more footmen standing beneath the sconces. She nodded to them as if she’d expected them to be there. Perhaps they wouldn’t challenge her.

  A draft blew the hem of her cloak, revealing her bare legs. She hurried on her way before they realized that the newly made Countess of Gadsden was wandering through Huntly in her nightgown.