A fine enough example to prove his point, and they’d been wed more than five years already. But the previous year had brought an epidemic of marriage into the MacKintosh clan widespread enough to demonstrate the fact further. Like a disease, it had taken his younger brothers Sean and Colin as well as their eldest brother, Francis, the current Earl of Glenrothes, the previous spring. A man James would have sworn would never fall to Cupid’s bow, felled by a single glance from his elegant Eve.
His brother Vincent had also fallen to the marital plague a few months before. Even Haddington, a long-time friend of the family, had caught the virus, bringing a hasty demise to his womanizing ways when he had wed Francis’s sister-in-law, Kitty, the previous fall.
Domesticity took them one by one, leaving them fawning over their women like lovelorn subjects.
James could hardly fathom the change among them. As he had told Vin—before he, too, fell stricken by Cupid’s arrow, naturally—“Never seen so many men brought low by a woman, but that’s what marriage will serve you when it’s not dishing out other troubles.”
For years he watched his eldest brother’s lovely but viperous first wife, Vanessa, play Francis for a fool. She’d offered her favors to all and sundry, including Francis’s own brothers Vin, Richard, and even James, who had been barely a man at the time. James took another drink forcing the memory aside with a shudder.
That catastrophe had molded his early opinions of the institution. He’d looked upon it with nothing more than revulsion, hardly remembering a time when he’d seen a better example.
Love could fell a man just as handily. He’d seen it happen. Knew it could drag a man into his grave.
Deep down, James feared for his brothers, expecting heartbreak for them all. For himself, he’d never wanted any part of it.
But of late…
With a shake of his head, James upended the glass once more. The liquid burned down his throat, hitting his gut like a fireball, radiating hot tendrils through his limbs that chased at the heels of those that had just begun to fade away. His flesh warmed then dulled to the tingle of intoxication.
Of late, his opinion of marriage had taken a rather unexpected turn. The thought of panting after a woman like a cock-led fool should have been as sickening as ever. As nauseating as the churn of dancers just inside the terrace doors.
At least that’s what he kept telling himself.
Trying to convince himself, more like.
The simple fact was, Fate hadn’t dealt Francis or any of his brothers the calamitous hand James had been expecting. Indeed, to the last, they were all confoundedly happy. Of late, he’d begun to recall more and more the relationship his parents had shared before they died. Disgust ceased its slow burn of his gut, but something else took its place. Something just as unpleasant.
One of his younger brothers, Colin, spun past the terrace doors, continuing the unremitting performance of bliss with his wife, Ilona, gazing up at him as if he were some legendary god set upon the earth just for her. Colin appeared neither smug nor self-satisfied by her worship. Nay, he gave the impression that he was—and had vocally proclaimed himself, repeatedly, to be—the luckiest man in the whole of Britain. As Ilona was truly one of the sweetest, merriest, and kindest women James had ever met, perhaps, he was.
They all were. The five MacKintosh brothers who had thus far found their perfect match.
The thought roused a persistent pinch of envy. A pinch that was a tad late in coming as James presently lacked even a woman of his own to waltz around the room.
The glass touched his lips and he let the spirits fill his mouth for a moment before swallowing them down. Further abuse of the pricey Scotch, but James considered inebriation the quickest path to revive his earlier confidence that he’d made the right choice.
Bloody hell but his bonny Mrs. Ross had simply expected too much! They’d had an excellent arrangement to James’s mind. His mistress—no, that wasn’t fair. Larena Ross was a wealthy widow not in want or need of funds but only of company. As was he. They’d keep that company discreetly his for nearly two years now. They met frequently, satisfying one another as friends and lovers without strings or commitment. She’d known that James had no interest in marriage. She’d seemed as satisfied as he with the arrangement.
Until recently, when she’d become increasingly dissatisfied altogether. Wanting to be less of a lover and more of a wife.
For a woman who hadn’t so much as requested fidelity from him, his Mrs. Ross had abruptly and irrationally begun demanding so much more.
Their clandestine relationship, secret for so long, suddenly became scandalously public. He was certain Larena herself ignited the rumor of their liaisons to press him into a more permanent bargain.
He’d held firm in his resolve to remain a bachelor, and his adamant denial had sent Larena into a fever pitch. She began flirting outrageously with other men only to knock on James’s door by midnight seeking his bed. She’d be a temptress then an icy paragon trying to force his hand, but to no avail.
Finally, she had come to James and coolly told him that she had been offered marriage to a nobleman who could give her everything that he was unwilling to: a commitment, a family, and a future. She wanted James, but if he wouldn’t marry her, she’d leave him for someone who would.
Certain she’d been bluffing, James told Larena to wed the—he’d been sure at the time—fictional noble and wished her well. Confident that once she understood how steadfast his convictions were, they would resume their usual relations.
Much to his surprise, Larena had become Lady Polwarth just that morning. There was no denying Larena with her lovely body, spirit, and mind was lost to him forever. His Mrs. Ross was his no longer.
For a man who never thought to experience anything for a woman beyond lust, the realization was surprisingly poignant.
Tilting back his head, James gulped the remaining contents of the glass until his eyes burned with the effort. It was the alcohol bringing tears to his eyes. Nothing else.
It wasn’t envy he was feeling at all. Just an inkling of regret that his favorite partner on the dance floor and between the sheets wasn’t present to occupy his thoughts.
Well, he’d better get used to it.
James turned up the glass once again but was as disappointed by the result of the action as he was by his handling of the entire situation when no more than a lingering drop of whisky met his tongue.
His self-flagellating solitude was interrupted when another of his older brothers, Vincent, led his new bride, Moira, onto the terrace. James assumed they came out for a breath of fresh air but shifted uncomfortably when they paused a dozen paces from where he stood at the rail. Vin cupped Moira’s face tenderly between his hands and bent his head to kiss her softly.
James looked down at his empty glass and then through the glass doors into the ballroom. This was exactly what he had come out here trying to avoid. He abhorred being subjected to such displays of affection every waking moment of his life.
The newlyweds whispered softly to one another, their words muted by distance, and James sighed with some relief as the awkward moment passed. But then the pair laughed aloud and Vin swept his luscious bride into his arms for a deeper kiss. One that certainly wasn’t meant for display beyond the bedchamber, though James had nearly become inured to such demonstrations over the past year.
The kiss went on, and before anything more might occur that would embarrass them all, James spoke. “All the love in this house is making me ill.”
The couple broke apart with none of the mortification James would’ve expected. Instead, they chuckled warmly.
“You should try it, Jamie.” Vin’s arm was snug around his wife’s waist. “It’s not as bad as you might think.”
James couldn’t help but snort at that. “Ha! Causes more problems than it’s worth, I say!”
Moira and Vin shared an amused look. “Women trouble, brother?” Vin winked, slanting a grin at his wife.
> “I don’t have problems with women in general,” James corrected. No, he’d never had difficulties of any sort with women before.
“Ah, so there is one in particular you have in mind?”
James turned and looked over the gardens behind the townhouse, the full moon shining above…anywhere to avoid Vin guessing the truth of it all.
“Aye, one aggravating woman.”
He instantly regretted verbalizing any sort of discontent, and with an inward scoff, James berated himself soundly.
Bugger it all, James knew he’d made the right choice. He was considered one of the staunchest bachelors in Edinburgh. Everyone knew it. Larena Ross knew it. And James knew what he wanted from life and marriage to his sweet Mrs. Ross was not it. No matter how much he liked her.
But for a moment—a fleeting, insane moment—James almost wished he’d accommodated Larena’s wishes. His brothers somehow managed to make marriage seem desirable. So easy. The close bond, a lady to hold his hand and heart in care and warmth, had started to look appealing, enticing even.
Seeing it every day. Everywhere…had become blatant reminders of what was lacking in his own life.
No, the female in question wasn’t the problem. It was James himself.
His flash of introspection was cut short when his young sister, Fiona, came storming out of the gardens.
At eighteen, Fiona recently blossomed from mischievous sprite into young woman. A fact all ten of her older brothers conveniently chose to ignore. In moments like this, however, when her color was heightened and her green eyes snapped with fury while she hiked her skirt high to run past them into the house, there was no denying that the wee lass the MacKintosh men raised had recently become a fair lady.
A lady with a temper.
If Larena had ever laid into James with a fierce Scottish temper like Fiona’s and simply set down her terms ready for battle, things might’ve been different for them, he thought.
He wouldn’t be left to wallow in the melancholy of having no partner of his own to dance with.
Gads, but he was an utterly moribund chump when the only company he had was his own.
However, he hadn’t more than a moment to rebuke himself further when Fiona paused at the door and whipped around, yelling into the night, “You’ll be sorry, Harry Brudenall! You’ve had your chance. I’m done with you now!”
Blinking in surprise, James turned back to the gardens as the Marquis of Aylesbury emerged from the densely planted gardens with a look of irritation and a stark white handprint marring his red face. He appeared to be as fed up with the feminine population as James was.
“Harry!” Moira exclaimed. “Did you…?”
“No,” Aylesbury growled. “She did!”
“Ha!” James laughed without humor and the marquis turned to meet his gaze, seeing something he could apparently relate to, just as James could.
They nodded in unison. “Women!”
“Men!” Moira retorted and ran after Fiona. Vin merely shrugged and followed behind the ladies at a more leisurely pace.
Turning back to the marquis, James shook his head in sympathy and held up his empty glass. “I could use another drink and I imagine you could as well. Care to join me?”
“Don’t you want to know what happened between your sister and myself?” Aylesbury asked warily.
James vehemently shook his head. “Good God, no. There’s not even a wee part of me that wants to know what happened. I know my sister well enough to figure it out.”
“Very well then. I will join you but make mine a double.”
James snorted at that. “Mine will be a triple.”
Chapter 1
It is so easy to love.
The only hard thing is to be loved.
~ Vincent Van Gogh
The residence of Mrs. Margaret Preston
The Upper 700s of 5th Ave.
Manhattan, New York
Early December 1895
“James, dear! There you are. I feared we were going to be late.”
“Mrs. Preston.” James bowed politely enough, but her pleasant expression fell into a scowl and he relented with a sigh. “Maggie.”
A satisfied smile curved her lips then as she met him at the bottom of the stairs. With a cluck of her tongue, she set about straightening his tie.
Not that it needed the attention. Though he hadn’t had a valet in years, he’d long ago mastered the art of tying it by touch alone. Too often in the dark.
“You look dashing tonight. All the ladies will swoon at the sight of you.”
The thought soured his already grim view of the evening ahead. Swooning ladies—and he’d come across more than a few in the past couple of years—were not at all his cup of tea.
“I don’t know what you expect to come of this.”
Her brow cocked. “Of course, you do.”
Conceived over three bottles of Scotch and hours of slurred conversation with Harry Brudenall—who was now his brother-in-law since his marriage to Fiona, bloody hell!—the idea had been a simple one.
Just get away from it all.
Get away from his moony-eyed brothers, away from the constant cooing of adults and the increasing number of children that were resulting from said moony-eyed cooing.
Away from any reminder he might not have done quite the right thing in letting his Mrs. Ross slip away. Perhaps set his mind to being a wee bit moony-eyed himself.
It had taken but a moment for the idea to evolve from inkling to action. All he’d needed to do was acknowledge marriage might not be as horrific an institution as he’d previously believed.
And prepare to be gobsmacked at any moment by a lovely lady. One who would lead him into the sweet oblivion his brothers all currently resided in.
But in the two intervening years, he’d met with no great success.
Having already waded through the available ladies of Edinburgh, he took in the Season that spring in London, covertly searching for a wife. Bearing the gibes and teasing of those few who guessed his purpose and knew well his previous disinclination for marriage with ill humor, he’d been stalwart in his mission, determined not to return home without a wife on his arm. A loving wife, that was.
His endeavor had proven more difficult than he’d anticipated. The crop of debutantes that spring were the same as they’d always been. A flock of pasty, pasteled pigeons unable to rouse even the faintest iota of interest in a man searching for a woman of spirit and passion.
So James left Britain, left his family behind without any hint of his intentions. Certain a land that had produced such extraordinary ladies as his American sister-in-law, Eve, and her sister, Kitty, would have more of the same to offer, he’d extended his quest to the Americas. He’d expected to encounter an ample number of fascinating, eligible ladies capable of providing him with a charming dance partner for life.
Their mother, Maggie Preston, had, in an unlikely twist, become both confidante and matchmaker in his brash plan to find the woman of his heart with fairytale-like speed.
Privy to his objective, Maggie took it as her duty to help him gain footing in the fickle societies of Newport and Manhattan, and had found him sponsors for membership to the Racquet and Union club.
She’d introduced him to the lavish society of Mrs. Caroline Astor’s 400, families overly proud of their long New York heritage, though none dated back as far as his family’s ancient earldom. She’d also introduced him to their daughters.
He might as well never have left Britain. His link to a title guaranteed him a barrage of ambitious mothers towing their eligible daughters behind them. Ogilvies, Vanderbilts, and Ogdens. Old money or new, not one of them provided the tiniest potential for the spark James sought.
What had roused his interest was the ambitions of the ladies’ fathers, uncles, and cousins and their ever-expanding investments. Finding nothing more alluring to lavish his attention on, James watched and learned. Trading one ambition for what was looking like a more realistic possibil
ity of success, he’d immersed himself in the task of making his own fortune.
Through favors he’d undertaken on the part of the Earl of Haddington, he’d met J.P. Morgan, a financier and banker who’d made a fortune in industrial consolidation. Haddington’s investments with Morgan had cleared him of a mountain of debt, as well as made him a tidy fortune through the merger of Edison General Electric and Thomson-Houston Electric into the new General Electric company. That success paired with James’s immediate liking of the blustering businessman had prompted James to begin his own investments in Morgan’s endeavors.
It might have helped him along the way that he was a bachelor and Morgan had two unmarried daughters then. However, by the time Morgan’s daughter Juliet had wed in 1894, he’d established himself as a business partner rather than a potential son-in-law.
Likewise, he’d gained other colleagues in the oil fields of Pennsylvania where Rockefeller, also father of several unmarried daughters, was making billions.
Through Maggie’s family ties, he’d befriended Jack Astor, her distant cousin who was about his age. Already knee-deep in real estate, Jack had been happy to drag James in with him. Through Astor, he’d also met and partnered with Robert Goelet—whose daughter was, quite thankfully, too young to be presented. It was their real estate endeavors which commanded his attention of late.
Despite her glad assistance in introducing him to businessmen and friends of her late husband, Maggie hadn’t swayed from her purpose. Two years of failure notwithstanding, she was determined to see him wed whether he liked it or not.
And at this point, James leaned definitively toward the not.
“You act as if I’ve only two choices in the world,” he said. “A wife or misery.”
“The wrong choice of one could easily lead to the other,” she countered.
“Or, as I’ve mentioned a dozen times, I could choose neither.”
A dismissive chuckle was her only response. Finished straightening his tie, she patted his chest and stepped back to assess her efforts.
All You Could Ask For Page 152