The Marquess's Scottish Bride

by Lauren Royal

  Jason was a marquess. Jason had been trying to protect her.

  Kendra bounded back in with a plain-faced woman at her heels that Caithren assumed was Jane. “It’s past two o’clock already. The play will start in less than an hour, and we must dress you before Jane does your hair.” She swept the gown off the bed while Jane put curling tongs to heat at the edge of the banked fire.

  Cait’s fingers shook as she detached her purple stomacher and loosened the laces beneath. What was she doing in London, dressing in English clothes, planning an evening out with an English marquess? Who would have thought, less than a month ago in Da’s study—

  Her thoughts were interrupted by Kendra’s impatient hands drawing the turquoise gown down and off. She touched the bandage on Cait’s arm. “What happened here?”

  “I was cut. And then I failed to care for it properly, so it festered and had to be stitched.”

  “Ouch.” Kendra’s face scrunched up in sympathy, then turned speculative. “And I’ve a feeling there’s more to the story. But it will have to wait for tomorrow. You won’t want to be late.”

  Jane came to help, and together they lifted the rose gown and dropped it over Cait’s head, settling it carefully to avoid damaging the artfully applied cosmetics. The top was a wee bit loose, but the cloth-of-gold stomacher took care of that, pushing her bosom up to fill it. She could only wonder what Kendra’s more generous bosom looked like in the low, square neckline. Scandalous, she imagined.

  The back of the dress had a low neckline as well, exposing more skin than she was used to. The gown was stiff and heavy. Very English.

  By the time Jane was done with the curling tongs, Caithren’s hair looked English, too. Long curls draped to her shoulders in front and gathered in back, entwined with rose-colored ribbons.

  With Kendra standing behind her, she stared at herself in the pier glass. “I look English,” she whispered, watching her glossed lips form the words.

  “Is that bad?” In the mirror, Kendra looked worried.

  “I don’t know,” Caithren said. “Last month I would have thought so, but now…I’m only confused.”

  Kendra stepped around to face her. Familiar eyes, the same shape as Jason’s, but lighter, searched Cait’s. “We’re not evil,” she said. “The English.”

  “Not all of you, anyway.” Cait looked down and straightened her overskirt until Kendra, with one strong finger, lifted her chin.

  A gesture that smacked of Jason.

  “Not most of us,” she said. “And certainly not my brother.” She pulled Cait into a heartfelt embrace that took her by surprise. “Give him a chance,” she whispered in her ear. “He needs you.”

  FIFTY-NINE

  “YOU LOOK stunning, Cait,” Jason said as they walked catercorner through the square toward the Lincoln’s Inn Fields Theatre. “I expect you’ll be the talk of the ball.”

  Cait saw him shoot her a sidewise glance, perhaps the hundredth since she’d come down the stairs wearing Kendra’s clothes and cosmetics. When she finally met his gaze, his green eyes smoldered. “Though I must say,” he added, “I think I prefer you barefoot with your hair loose and a daisy chain about your neck.”

  She nearly tripped, even though Kendra’s gown was an inch too short, and she’d thought she was becoming rather competent walking in the absurd English high heels.

  He took her arm to escort her across the busy street. “You’re quiet,” he said, his gaze safely fastened on the traffic. “If it’s because I deceived you, I’m very sorry. But I had my reasons. Though hang it if I can remember what they were.”

  “My head is awhirl,” she admitted as they dodged a sedan chair. “I never thought to find myself in London at all, let alone attending a play and a ball. I mean to enjoy it. Though I fully intend to be angry with you tomorrow.”

  “I don’t doubt it,” he said dryly. He headed toward a flat-fronted brick building with tall, rectangular windows that looked similar to the ones on his house and most of the others around the square.

  “The windows are enormous.” Cait looked up in awe. “The building must hold a thousand people.”

  “About right,” he said, although she’d been fooling. A thousand people in one building. The concept was mind-boggling. “I don’t suppose you see Palladian windows in Scotland. As for the size of the theater, it used to be a tennis court.”

  “A tennis court, really?” A wooden sign leaned against the wall, advertising the day’s performance. Caithren read aloud. “’Sir William D’Avenant presents The Duke’s Company in Sir Martin Mar-All, or The Feign’d Innocence, by John Dryden, adapted from Molière’s L’étourdi, as translated by William Cavendish, Duke of Newcastle.’ Whew. I am suitably impressed.”

  “Nothing like London pretension.” Jason laughed as he ushered her toward the entrance. “Word is the play was conceived by Newcastle, but corrected by Dryden.” He counted out eight shillings and handed them to the doorkeeper. “A side box, if you please.”

  Inside, the large windows allowed plenty of afternoon light to illuminate both the stage and the patrons. “We must make haste.” Jason sought out their box. “The play will begin momentarily. They have to finish before dark.”

  A symphony played onstage, but Cait could barely hear the tune over the theater’s noisy assemblage. People in the middle gallery were seated for the most part, but those in the pit were milling around, talking and laughing, some of them even fighting. Orange girls circulated among the crowd, offering their sweet, juicy treats in a singsong chant.

  The upper tier had no seats—it was crammed with people leaning over the rails. Jason led her up a flight of stairs and into a quite-civilized private box that sat off to one side, equipped with four chairs. No one else had been seated there yet, so they took the two in front.

  “Never did I think to see so many people in one place,” Cait said as she adjusted her skirts. “And so many sorts of people as well. I imagined only the wealthy would attend the theater in London.”

  “For a shilling”—Jason gestured toward the top—“many can afford to be entertained. Footmen and coachmen are admitted free near the end.”

  “Who would want to come at the end?” she wondered. “You wouldn’t know what was happening.”

  He took her hand. “Most folk don’t seem to pay attention anyway.”

  He was right. Despite a lot of hush-hushing that rippled through the crowd when the curtains opened, no one seemed to quiet down much when the play began. The patrons in the pit scrambled to take seats on the backless benches, and Cait was distracted by more than one brawl before everyone was settled.

  The play was a piece of humor, a complete farce from one end to the other. Caithren found herself laughing not only at the actors, but also at the comments and suggestions shouted to them from the audience. “Look behind you!” someone yelled, and she dissolved in mirth when the performer did just that. The spectators’ robust criticism was entertaining as well.

  A few minutes into the performance, a couple entered their box and sat behind them. When Jason and Cait both turned around and smiled, Cait’s jaw dropped open at the sight of the haughty lady’s gown. Fashioned of screaming yellow satin, the gown’s train was so long it trailed into the corridor, and the neckline was so low, Cait half-expected the woman’s ample bosom to pop out. Jason saw the look on her face and began to laugh, but she squeezed his hand until he settled down.

  The stage was unlike any she’d ever seen. The first time the painted background moved, she gasped.

  “I take it there’s no moving scenery back home,” Jason whispered.

  “There’s no scenery at all. Traveling players come to Insch sometimes and perform in whatever place is handy. I’ve never been in a real theater.”

  She watched, fascinated, while stagehands manipulated the scene. The curtains weren’t closed for this, and actresses sang and danced at the front of the stage to entertain the audience during the change. Many people whistled and cheered, apparently en
joying the between-scenes acts more than the play itself.

  Though she laughed at all the buffoonery, Caithren’s attention wandered between the play and Jason’s hand in hers. After a while, he moved his chair closer, and his nearness was distracting. She could feel his warmth. When he draped his arm across the back of her chair, she laid her head on his shoulder and sighed, wondering if she’d ever see him again after tomorrow.

  Tomorrow she’d find Adam, and then it would be time to head back home. Adam might even attend tonight’s ball, in which case she could start for home immediately.

  A tiny part of her almost hoped he wouldn’t be there, after all.

  All too soon the play was over, and they rose to depart. “I’ve never laughed so much in all my life,” she told Jason. “I thank you for bringing me.”

  He flashed a smile that sent her pulse to racing. “Nothing could make me happier than seeing your enjoyment.”

  A throat cleared behind them. He swung her around and introduced her to their box companions, Lord and Lady Martindale, who said they were going to the ball as well. Lady Martindale leaned close, her sausagelike fingers reaching for Caithren’s amulet. “A lovely, large emerald,” she said with a sniff, “but my heavens, the mounting looks like it’s been around since the Crusades.”

  Cait snatched it from her hand and held it possessively. “It has.”

  The woman pulled back in surprise, her blond curls seeming to shudder along with her. “You’re young, so perhaps you don’t know that fashionable people have their jewels reset every few years.”

  “I’m not fashionable. I’m Scottish.”

  Jason stifled a laugh while Lord Martindale took his wife by the arm. “That will do, my dear,” he said, making Cait a small bow. Lady Martindale looked at her curiously as they said their good-byes and left.

  Jason took Cait’s hand again and drew her to the stairs. “Lady Martindale is wondering what you’re doing with a provincial Scot,” she commented.

  “Bosh.” He paused to let his gaze wander her fancy gown. “You look English tonight.”

  “Not when I open my mouth.”

  He grinned at that and kissed her smack on the lips.

  As she laughed and pulled him out of the theater, she couldn’t help thinking he was acting mighty strange this eve—as though he were determined to show her a good time even if it killed him.

  SIXTY

  “HMM.” AS A footman ushered them into Lady Carson’s home, Jason glanced around at the many curious faces. “I suspect Lady Martindale has arrived before us.”

  Before Cait could comment, their hostess rushed up to greet them. “Lord Cainewood? Why, I hardly recognized you without the mustache. You look like your brother.” She smoothed her lavender lace skirt. “Do come in. Your attendance is a delightful surprise. And this is Lady…?”

  When Jason blinked, Cait wondered if he felt put on the spot. “Lady Carson,” he said, “may I introduce—”

  “Caithren Leslie,” she piped up for herself. “Of Leslie Manor in Leslie by Insch, Scotland.” Though she’d made up the manor part, her father had been a baronet.

  “Lady Leslie,” Lady Carson gushed. “It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

  “Lady Caithren.” Jason corrected the name, but not, Cait noticed, the unwarranted title. “My guest is yet unmarried.”

  “Ah, I see.”

  Cait thought Lady Carson saw all too much. “I’m glad of your acquaintance,” she told her, her gaze wandering the crowded entrance hall. Many people were looking their way, the ladies rather obviously gossiping behind fancy upheld fans. She wondered if they were discussing Jason’s altered appearance, or her, his mysterious companion.

  She was certain she’d find Adam here. He must be in London by now, and he’d never miss a fussy occasion like this.

  “Lady Carson,” she ventured. “I am wondering if my brother is on your guest list. Adam Leslie?”

  “Adam Leslie? Not that I’m aware of. Though my balls are often attended by many uninvited.” Her tone said she was proud of that fact. And she seemed thrilled to have a new face at her party, because the next thing she said was, “Come, let me introduce you to some of my guests.”

  Cait could only gawk as the tall, elegant woman led them through an enormous entry hall and past a few other large, well-lit chambers, one set aside for card playing, another for the ladies to freshen up. In yet another room, long tables groaned with food and drink. If Cait had thought Jason’s house was impressive, she was positively bowled over by Lady Carson’s abode. It could only be described as a mansion.

  They were ushered into a chamber that Caithren thought looked out of a fairytale, where the ball was in full swing. Illuminated by hundreds of candles in chandeliers overhead, masses of glittering guests danced, ate, and conversed. The ballroom’s glass-paned doors opened onto a vast garden that Cait was shocked to find in the middle of crowded London.

  “Ah, Lady Haversham.” Lady Carson snagged a pale, elfin woman by the arm. “May I present a guest of Lord Cainewood’s, Lady Caithren. From Scotland,” she added in a conspiratorial voice, as though that fact alone should be of significant interest.

  “I’m glad of your acquaintance,” Cait said again with a little curtsy. “I’m wondering if you’ve seen my brother, Adam—”

  “If you’ll excuse us,” Jason interjected smoothly, “I’ve someone I need to see. Ladies.” He nodded politely, took Caithren’s arm, and dragged her all the way back to the entry hall, which was all but deserted now that the most-anticipated guests—Jason and Caithren, apparently—had arrived.

  Pulling her into the shadows behind a large column, he gathered her into his arms. Before she could voice a protest, his mouth came down on hers, and anything she might have said was smothered by his lips.

  Caithren’s heart raced as she kissed him back with wild abandon. He truly was a different person tonight, and she wasn’t sure she wanted to know why.

  She’d rather just enjoy it for now.

  When he finally drew back, she stared at him, dumbfounded. Her knees felt like pudding, but his strong arms held her up when she would have slumped against the tapestried wall. “I’ve been wanting to do that all evening,” he said.

  “Oh, aye?” She blinked at him, confused. “You had ample opportunity in your carriage on the way across town. The traffic was slower than Wat Gothard.”

  He grinned at the quip. “I had other things on my mind.” His fingers traced her jaw, then he tapped the little black heart on her cheek and leaned to kiss her forehead. “Come, let’s dance.”

  As quickly as he’d dragged her away from the ballroom, he pulled her back in. The musicians were playing a sedate tune, the melody accompanied by scrapes and taps of dancers’ shoes and the soft swish of ladies’ gowns as they traversed the polished-wood floor in an elegant configuration.

  Caithren licked her lips and cast a worried glance at Jason. “I-I cannot dance.”

  He smiled down at her, prodding her closer to the dance floor with a hand at her back. “I seem to remember you dancing with the Gypsies quite beautifully.”

  “But not like this!” she exclaimed, tripping over the blasted high heels.

  He caught her. “It’s a simple pattern. I’ll give you two minutes to watch. Two,” he warned with mock severity.

  The music was eight beats, and the dancers balanced on their toes. Short gliding steps, a change of balance, a pause every third and seventh beat. Cait thought she had it figured out—until suddenly the women ran around the men and they all did a little hop.

  “I cannot tell what they’re doing,” she complained. Just then the dancers bowed and curtsied. “Anyway, it’s over,” she said with more than a little relief.

  “Ah, but there will be another.”

  Following some discordant re-tuning, the musicians launched into a country dance, not so different from those Cait was used to at her village dances in Leslie. “This one I can do,” she declared and let Jason swirl
her into the crowd.

  All her reservations melted away. It was bliss being in his arms, and it didn’t even seem to bother him in front of all society.

  Though the dance was energetic, she couldn’t keep her eyes from his clean-shaven face. “You don’t look like Ford.”

  “Ford?” They crossed arms and switched sides. “You have the most disconcerting habit of starting a conversation midstream. Where did that come from?”

  “Lady Carson. She said you look like your brother.”

  “Ah.” He twirled her around. “She referred to my other brother, Colin. And yes, I expect with my hair cut and without my mustache, we do look somewhat alike. Green eyes and black hair. He’s always kept his shorter. Prefers convenience over fashion, in all things.”

  “I like him already.” The music came to a close, and she curtsied. “What other siblings are you hiding?”

  “Only a sister-in-law. Colin is married.” He led her from the dance floor. “Her name is Amethyst, but we call her Amy.”

  “The woman who gave you the watch.”

  “That’s right.” Another country dance followed the first, and he swept her back out and into the double line, leaving her with the women while he stood across from her with the men. “Amy used to be a jeweler. Or rather, she still is a jeweler, but without a shop. Colin is building her a workshop at Greystone, their home.”

  “Greystone,” she murmured, clapping her hands and then touching them to the women’s on either side of her. She remembered him chuckling at seeing that name on an inn. “Your brother married a commoner?”

  Coming closer, he smiled down at her. “We Chases don’t play by the rules.”

  “I’ve noticed.” The dance separated them for a moment before they came back together. “You certainly don’t play backgammon by the rules.”

  “I’m not a cheater. If I’m ahead five matches, that’s only proof of my skill.”

  “Ha!” Linking arms, they skipped in a circle. “You distracted me with your bare chest. That is hardly playing fair.”