Marrying the Belle of Edinburgh: The Marriage Maker and the Widows Book Two

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by Lisa Boero


  The next morning, he bathed and dressed, filled with new purpose. Lady Carlyle would never love him as she had loved his friend. William was wasting precious time waiting when he could be enjoying matrimony with a more willing woman. And the only way he was going to meet such a woman was to speak with Stirling once again.

  He found his friend in his rooms, just finishing a fine steak, some eggs and a cup of strong coffee. “Lord Brandon, my good man. What brings you to my humble abode?” He called his servant and ordered another coffee. Then, when they were alone again, his gaze fixed on William, he said, “Aye, I think I can guess. Is the lovely Lady Carlyle proving harder to woo than you anticipated?”

  William threw himself into a chair opposite Stirling. “I have been a fool for too long and would humbly beg you to introduce me to whichever lady you had originally selected. I promise that you will find me willing to enter into any marriage contract that you propose.”

  “Well, I suppose I could go back and look for another, but I hate to confess to you that Lady Carlyle was the lady I had in mind for you. After it became clear to me that you were besotted already, I thought it better to let you go your own way for a time and see what you made of the opportunity.”

  William sat back in shock. “But how? Has she expressed to you that she wishes to marry? For that was not the impression she gave me.”

  Stirling chuckled. “Perhaps my wife is finally to be found at fault. I am sure she will not be pleased. I must apprise her of her error immediately.”

  When William did not react, Stirling added, “My wife spoke briefly with Lady Carlyle back in Edinburgh, and Lady Carlyle indicated that perhaps her heart had gone some ways toward mending. I believe it was Lady Carlyle’s motive in coming to London for the Season.”

  “It was not.”

  “How can you be so sure?”

  William sighed. Lady Carlyle had not given him permission to speak of Carlyle’s death, but Stirling was eminently trustworthy. “Because I have helped her determine who murdered her husband.” William then proceeded to explain the entire story, not leaving out any detail.

  When he was done, Stirling took a sip of coffee. “You were not jesting when you said you were a fool.”

  “Thank you,” William replied bitterly.

  “But all is not lost. Lady Carlyle is merely trapped by her feelings for her late husband, particularly now that she hunts his killer. Once that mystery is solved, all may be right again.”

  “How can you be so sure?”

  “It appears to me that you have played your cards very badly. You startled her, and she bolted like a rabbit into the bush. But even a rabbit will become tame if you feed it little by little, day by day.”

  William threw up his hands. “I do not understand this talk of hares and bushes.”

  Stirling smiled. “It is a metaphor for the kind of love that grows stronger over time until it buds and blooms.”

  “And now you talk of flowers?”

  “Just continue to be the man you are—kind, considerate, supporting her in all things—until one day she discovers that she cannot do without you.”

  “But what if she falls passionately in love with another before I can make her see that I am the one she should marry?”

  “From what I understand, her love for Carlyle was a passionate love. I am loath to imagine that she will suddenly develop similar regard for someone else.”

  “She could and very easily. You know how the men surround her.”

  Stirling regarded him gravely. “You have a name in mind?”

  William crossed his arms and studied the floor. “Northcutt is one. She seems to find his company quite agreeable. The new Lord Carlyle is another. She doesn’t appear to favor him, but there is some attraction, I’m sure, to resuming her rightful place at Carlyle Court.”

  “Ah, so you are beset by thwarted hopes and green-eyed jealousy. What a tangle. I can guess in this circumstance that you didn’t seek to apologize to her for your behavior.”

  William slumped glumly in his chair. “No. Truth be told, since she threw me out of her house, I’ve been out of my mind drunk most of the time and nursed the most blazing headache the other bits. I hadn’t thought to do so.”

  “Well, you should have. Now, I will not hear another mournful word from you until you go back to your lodgings, sit down, and write Lady Carlyle the most heartfelt and contrite letter of apology that ever existed. One can only hope that Northcutt or Carlyle haven’t stolen the march on you while you have nursed your wounds like a sulky boy.”

  William left Stirling feeling a little more sanguine. He wasn’t sure just how he could express himself in a letter, but if Stirling was correct and Helena was merely trapped by the lack of resolution of her husband’s death, then he would do everything within his power to solve the case. William decided to pay a call on the magistrate of Bow Street and see if he could review the case report with Principal Officer Stephens. Perhaps there was more information to be gleaned.

  Chapter Five

  Lady Carlyle smiled as Mr. Northcutt approached. He had been particularly attentive of late, and his charming demeanor had acted like a tonic for her overwrought nerves.

  “Mr. Northcutt, how lovely to see you again.”

  Northcutt executed his bow with an elegant flourish. “May I be so fortunate as to secure a dance?”

  “I am afraid that I am in no fit shape for dancing this evening. The fatigue of conversation must be my excuse, for I am frankly exhausted.”

  She scanned the ballroom beyond Mr. Northcutt, sure for a moment that she caught sight of Lord Brandon, but no, it was another gentleman of much the same height. Helena had been out every night that week but had seen nothing of Lord Brandon. Instead, she had laughed and danced and talked as if nothing troubled her—sure that if she only pretended long enough, fiction would become truth. Instead, the mantle of weariness and care settled more firmly on her shoulders. Perhaps it was better if she didn’t see him. She wouldn’t know what to say, if she did.

  Mr. Northcutt sat down beside her on the settee that rested against the wall. “Then I shall endeavor to make my conversation as sparkling as possible. How do you like Mrs. Campbell’s take on oriental excess?” He gestured with his quizzing glass at the previously bare walls of the large ballroom, now draped with patterned silk hangings.

  “It is novel. I cannot say I would adopt the same in my own ballroom, but to each his own.”

  Mr. Northcutt smiled. “How very diplomatic you are, Lady Carlyle. No, of course, you would never have imposed garish chinoiserie on the unsuspecting lairds and lasses of Edinburgh. They might have hauled you to the sea and dumped you in to assuage the affront to tartan honor.”

  Helena laughed out loud and felt some of the tension in her shoulders ease. She had slept so little of late that every muscle seemed to hurt. “You have a very wicked tongue, Mr. Northcutt.”

  “No, Lady Carlyle, merely an honest one. And if I am being honest, I must tell you what a lovely picture you make in that blue dress. The color magnifies the beauty of your incomparable eyes.”

  “Thank you, sir, that is very prettily said.”

  “Not as pretty as what I am about to say, dear Lady Carlyle.”

  Helena stiffened. How she could deflect what she felt sure must be some sort of proposal? “Indeed?”

  “Come, you cannot be ignorant of my regard. I am your slave, Lady Carlyle, and want nothing more than to worship you on a daily basis. Tell me you will allow me to do just that?” He looked as if he might say more, but they were interrupted by the new Lord Carlyle.

  “I believe we are engaged for this dance, Cousin Helena.” He held out his hand in an imperious manner.

  Helena sighed. She had forgotten that she’d promised him a dance. “Of course, cousin.”

  But Northcutt, perhaps piqued to have his proposal rudely interrupted, stood abruptly and sneered at Reginald. “Can you not see that the lady is fatigued?”

  Reginald look
ed at him in such a way that Helena’s blood ran cold. “You cannot speak for Lady Carlyle, and if you seek to impose your continued company on her in this manner, I shall know what to do with you.”

  Helena, loathe to make a scene in the middle of a crowded ballroom, stood and stepped between them. “Gentlemen. Your concern for my welfare is most flattering, but I am a woman who honors her promises.” She extended her hand. “Cousin Reginald, I would be honored to dance with you.” Turning back to Mr. Northcutt, “Thank you for charming me out of the doldrums. I am sure we shall have time later in the evening to continue our conversation.”

  As they took their places for the dance, Reginald said, “Mr. Northcutt takes advantage of your good nature, Cousin Helena.”

  “He most certainly does not. I find him an excellent conversationalist, and good conversation is a rarity.”

  “Be that as it may, as your cousin and the head of the family, I must give you a hint that Mr. Northcutt is only interested in one thing, and that is not your conversation.”

  Helena looked at him sharply. “What is it? Pray tell me so that I may be on my guard.”

  Reginald leaned in so close that she felt his sour breath on her cheek. “Your fortune, dear cousin. They say he is quite done up, but then, so it goes with hardened gamblers. He means to repair his fortune through marriage.”

  Helena pulled away and looked down her nose at Reginald. “I find what you are telling me to be incredible. Mr. Northcutt is an acquaintance of old, as you well know, and I do not intend to slight him.”

  The music started, and they parted for a moment. When they came back together, Reginald said in a softer tone, “Forgive me if I have been too abrupt. You know that I only have your best interests at heart. My cousin told me once that I was to take care of you if anything should happen to him, and I take my charge very seriously.”

  Helena said nothing for a moment, her mind in a whirl. She was positive that her husband would never have said such a thing. If he had commended Helena into anyone’s care, it would have been Lord Brandon’s. Yet Reginald’s assertion made her all the more convinced that Reginald had a hand in her husband’s murder. She forced her face into an impassive smile. “I am sure you do, Cousin Reginald, but I am well able to take care of myself.”

  The dance parted them again, and when they came back together, Reginald said, “You are too good, dear Cousin Helena, and require nothing so much as a strong man to guide you.”

  “I had a man such as you speak of.”

  “But he is gone.”

  “Yes, and I fear that I am not likely to meet another, so I have given over thinking of marriage.”

  Reginald looked at her seriously. “Surely you cannot continue as a widow forever. Come, let me be the man you speak of.”

  The dance separated them once more, giving Helena a chance to catch her breath. Despite all of his fatuous flattery, Reginald had never spoken of marriage so boldly before. With all of the composure she could muster, she replied, “Are you telling me that you seek to take your cousin’s place?”

  “If you would let me, I would gladly assume his role as your husband. Think, Helena, you would be able to assume your rightful place as Lady Carlyle, the Belle of Edinburgh, once more.”

  A hot magma of anger bubbled up within her. To think that Reginald assumed he could ever replace his cousin in anything! But antagonizing a potential killer was not a move she should take lightly, until she had proof of his innocence. She replied, “While I am fully sensible of the charming picture you paint, you know my heart is not prepared for marriage. Alas, my poor Charles is still my ideal of a husband.”

  That seemed to rob Reginald of further speech, and they finished the dance in silence.

  Later that evening, after bidding her aunt a good night, Helena retired to her room with a candle, prepared to pass yet another sleepless night. Ever since William’s kiss, her nights had been filled with strange, disordered nightmares. It was as if the kiss had unleashed the dark phantoms of her mind. She ran though forests of grasping trees, chased by unknown demons, only to wake up panting for breath. And then there were the other dreams, the ones that made her blush to even think of them. Once, her husband had been the protagonist of such fantasies, but he rarely appeared of late, replaced instead by a stranger with warm brown eyes and a lopsided smile.

  “I was right to ask William to leave,” she repeated to herself, as if the mere repetition would make it so. But in truth, she knew it was her surprise and shock that had caused her to pull away, for the kiss itself was pleasant enough. No, more than pleasant. She had completely forgotten the warmth of a man’s kiss, and now, in the silence of her bedroom, she absently touched her lip, remembering how much she had wanted him to pull her down into the darkness of desire.

  But what was done was done. She set her candle on the washbasin and noticed a folded paper there. It appeared to be a letter sealed with red wax. The servants must have brought it to her room and forgotten to let her know. She smiled. Her aunt was a dear, but she never could manage an orderly house. Helena picked up the letter. The handwriting was unfamiliar and the seal was also unknown. She broke the seal and unfolded the letter. When she held the page under the flickering light of the candle, she read:

  My Dear Helena,

  I am aware that this manner of addressing you is highly improper, but, under the circumstances, I do not know that I can address you by your title. This letter should have been written and sent as soon as I left your aunt’s house, but my condition thereafter was not such that I could put pen to paper. Incapacity must be my excuse, if you are indeed charitable enough to forgive me. I am ashamed and aggrieved at my actions. They were unpardonable, and I can only thank God that you were good enough to ask me to leave instead of the greater punishment I deserved. I will understand if you no longer desire to acknowledge my acquaintance.

  My only defense, such as it is, is that I have been blinded by a passion so complete that it absorbs my every thought and makes me foolish where I should be wise. You are a woman above all others in intelligence, grace and beauty, and I cannot soon free myself from your intoxicating spell. Nor, frankly, do I wish to cease to worship at the altar of your many perfections. They are too numerous and my devotion of too long a duration to change course.

  However, despite my inability to wean myself from loving you, I was a true friend to your husband and miss him greatly. I therefore desire nothing more than to be a true friend to you, if you can allow me to be of use in your investigations. I am at your service in whatever way you will command, dearest Helena. Again, I am sorry for my actions and faithfully promise no further repetition of my abhorrent behavior.

  Yours,

  William

  Helena sat down and read the letter again. And then again. What a letter to receive! It was hardly credible, and yet there it was on the page. How could she have missed it? She lingered over the phrase blinded by a passion. It sent a strange thrill up her spine. She could have truly said that she had been blinded by passion when she met her husband, but could he have said the same? Of course, he had been charmed by her beauty, or so he said, and had treated her affectionately once they were married, but had there ever been a moment when he was blinded by passion for her? She did not know. He never said as much.

  She set the letter down on the washstand, blew out the candle, and crawled under the covers of her large, cold bed. She would once have asserted that she could never desire another husband, but, in the dark of her room, she had to admit that she longed for the warmth of a man. William could be that man if she let him.

  She had a sudden vision of his arms around her, their bodies entwined as one, and his warm gazed upon her with the flash of hungry desire she had seen when he told her that he loved her. The vividness of the image startled her.

  “What is coming over me?” she whispered into her pillow. “Why am I suddenly consumed with thoughts of Lord Brandon when I had none before? I must have gone mad with loneliness. Or longi
ng for times gone by. He reminds me of happier days. That is the only rational explanation.”

  She finally fell asleep with her thoughts lost in a jumble of memories.

  Chapter Six

  The next day, she awoke with a start when the maid pulled open the curtains of her bed. It was morning, and she had actually slept the entire night. She lay back against the pillow, rested and relaxed, and then dozed a few minutes more just for the joy of it. When she went down to breakfast, her aunt was just finishing hers, surrounded on all sides by pugs anxiously hoping for crumbs.

  “You are late this morning, Helena,” Lady Wickersham said. “Did you sleep well?”

  “Yes, for the first time in several nights. I am sorry to be late. Have we plans this morning?”

  “I wished to see about those gloves we saw at Willingham’s. I do think they will go with my straw satin gown, don’t you?”

  “Most assuredly. I promise I shall make quick work of my food.”

  Lady Wickersham poured herself another cup of chocolate and then shushed several pugs as they whimpered in hopes of a reward. “It is strange that you should have slept so soundly for I was awakened half a dozen times by strange noises. You know how these houses get, all creaks and groans. I sent Abbott around to check and make sure there was nothing amiss, and he tells me that all is as it should be. I suppose it is my imagination. Getting old is so frightfully annoying. One’s mind is beset by foolish ideas.”

  “Hearing strange noises in the night is normal enough. The dark makes the commonplace mysterious.”

  “I suppose you are right. Still, living alone as I have since your uncle died makes one appreciate the male presence in the house. There is that sense of security that I miss.”

  Helena nodded.

  Lady Wickersham continued on, “Speaking of a man, where is Lord Brandon? Have you completed your review of the papers?”

 

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