by Lauren Smith
“We were looking for you.”
“We weren’t gone all that long,” Moira defended.
“I didn’t expect you to disappear down one of the walks either,” he glared at Lord Ainsely.
“I promise, I did not compromise him,” Moira insisted. It wouldn’t do to have Nyle suddenly decide that she must marry the viscount. He may kiss wonderfully, but she had made a promise when they first stepped onto the walk and she’d not renege on it now.
“Nor, I her,” Ainsely quickly offered.
“Then why disappear?” Nyle demanded in a quiet hiss.
“Because I was tired of everyone staring at me and Lord Ainsely was kind enough to escort me from view,” Moira retorted. “It’s bad enough others are making bets, but to be stared at because of my appearance is quite disconcerting and uncomfortable.”
Her brother blew out a breath. “For that, I am sorry, but Mother insisted.”
“Mother insists on many things, but as head of the family, you should at least take me into consideration, as well.”
Moira wasn’t certain where her anger came from suddenly. That her mother was constantly trying to change her? Because Nyle did not intervene more often? Or, that Ainsely kissed divinely, but had no desire to continue? Or, that Ainsely didn’t live in Scotland?
Oh, she had had such hopes for an enjoyable Season and so far, she’d suffered nothing but embarrassment and discomfort.
“I’m sorry,” Nyle offered. “I promise to take better care of you.”
“What would be better is if you sent her to the country and took over my guardianship,” Moira offered hopefully, not caring that Ainsely was listening to what should be a private family discussion.
“How about if I threaten to do so if she doesn’t cease trying different concoctions and other means to change your appearance.”
“I doubt that it would help, but I do thank you for the assistance.” Moira wasn’t certain that her mother would ever stop trying to change her. Perhaps when she married, but then she’d still be an interference as she was in the lives of all her siblings and the very reason she must marry a Scotsman.
Chapter 11
Mr. Fiske bets Lord Alston fifty pounds that Lord Struthers,
who does not have an estate near Bath or in Oxfordshire,
will present himself to Lady Moira Kirkwood
to be compromised by the 1st of May, 1813 ~ April 24, 1813
“Bloody hell.” Gideon rubbed a hand over his face. Lady Moira had dismissed Garson a mere two hours earlier. Did Fiske and Alston have spies at every corner, hiding in bushes and behind potted palms?
Well, it was another wasted bet, given that Struthers lived on a barren estate in Shropshire.
Gideon made his way to a back, empty table and took a seat. Why had he come here? He should have just gone home and then he would not know about the bet or feel the need to go tell Hearne or Lady Moira. He signaled a footman, who delivered a brandy and set it before Gideon.
He wasn’t home because he needed to think, and the silence in the townhouse would be deafening, which meant that he’d get no peace as he continued to think about Lady Moira, the words she’d spoken to her brother out of frustration and anger, or her kiss.
If he were truthful, Gideon would have remained focused on her kiss and the way she’d felt in his arms—near perfection, as if that was where she was meant to be, fashioned specifically for him. It would have been so easy to have compromised her, or allowed Lady Moira to compromise him, and then all bets would be off, and Lady Moira would be betrothed.
Could it be that simple? He picked up the glass and sipped the fiery liquid. Lady Moira was a lovely lady. More so, actually, when her face wasn’t broken out in hives and blotches. And she wanted to live in Scotland. Not once had Lady Moira prattled on about nonsense, and she’d revealed a depth of compassion and caring when it came to her family. Further, he was quite certain that he’d never grow bored in her presence, even if they were stuck in the manor due to swollen rivers. In fact, he might not ever feel the need to leave his home again.
Disturbing, however, was that she didn’t expect a love match. Was that because she didn’t feel she was worthy of such, or did she wish to be so removed from her mother that Lady Moira would sacrifice her heart? And what had happened to her breasts? Had she previously added stuffing to her corset somehow? Not possible! The creamy display, barely contained by her gown at the Davenport ball, was not brought on by cotton. But why?
Laughter burst from a table not far away, and Gideon glanced in that direction. Now there was an odd gathering. It wasn’t a surprise to see Viscount Heathfield and Damien Lockwell together; they had always been friends. But, where had John Phillip Trent and Wesley Cavendish come from? He hadn’t seen either gentleman in at least two or three years. If he recalled, Cavendish had moved to the Continent after his father had smeared his name from one end of England to another. Trent had simply disappeared.
“I am as surprised as you.”
Gideon turned as Jordan Trent settled at his table.
“Who would have thought such four perfect rakes would fall so low as to be gleefully married and in love with their wives?” Jordan took a deep drink. “It is rather nauseating.”
“Your brother and Cavendish married?” Gideon wasn’t surprised he did not know. He didn’t keep up with gossip. At least not like a proper member of the ton should.
Jordan chuckled. “They—” he pointed to the table “—each married one of the Duke of Danby’s granddaughters.”
Gideon sat back. Those were very high connections, though he wasn’t so certain he wanted that particular duke as an in-law. Rather frightening actually. The only person who carried more power than Danby was the king, and even that was questionable.
“They all married within weeks, even days, of each other, right around Christmas.”
“Arranged?”
Jordan barked out laughter. “One way or another.”
Despite Jordan’s insistence that he would never marry or give up his freedom, there was a bit of longing in his eyes. Perhaps Jordan was rethinking bachelorhood.
Gideon had never been against marriage, only against arranged marriages. He needed someone he would get along well with. Someone with similar interests, or at least an entertaining companion. Someone such as Lady Moira.
He didn’t know her nearly well enough to make such a rash decision, which was why he didn’t tell her that his home lay in a remote area outside of Selkirk, Scotland. Yet, of the few ladies he’d encountered in London thus far, only she held any interest.
“What is wrong with Oxfordshire?”
Gideon refocused on Jordan and shrugged. He had promised the lady not to reveal her secret, and Gideon was a man of his word.
Moira balled her hands into fists to keep from clawing at her face. Nothing had ever itched so badly in her life. Not even the Stinging Nettles she’d encountered as a child.
“I’ve brought this for you, Lady Moira.” Beatrice handed her a cool, damp cloth. Moira lay back on her bed and pressed it against her face.
“It is a shame your mother insisted you go out this evening.”
Moira peeked from beneath the cloth. “You’ve been with me since I was ten, Beatrice. I am not sure either of us will ever understand.” Moira adjusted the cloth so that it covered her face, but not her mouth. “She wants to rid me of my freckles to be more attractive to gentlemen, yet insists I be out, despite being covered in this horrid rash, all because I hadn’t been seen in four days.”
Beatrice tsked. “Cook suggested some laudanum in your tea to help you sleep.”
Moira grimaced. She hated the taste, but if she didn’t do something, this infernal itching would keep her awake all night. “Very well. Please prepare a cup,” Moira mumbled and pulled the cloth to cover the rest of her face.
The only time in this long night her face had not bothered her was when she was distracted in the presence of Lord Ainsely. What was it about him
and why did she trust him so? Nobody, above Patience, Pippa, Alice and Alvina, knew of her desire to live in Scotland and she knew none of them would ever breathe a word of her secret. Yet she’d told Ainsely for some reason. What had she been thinking?
Moira removed the cloth from her face and sat up. Swinging her legs over the side of the bed, she stood. What if he did tell someone, especially Nyle? Would her brother keep her from meeting any Scottish gentleman, or deny her hand in marriage to any Scot who asked? What if her brother forbade her to be so far away from the family? As long as she was unmarried, he had the power to do just that.
She wheeled around and stalked to the opposite side of the room before turning and retracing her steps.
Nyle mustn’t ever learn of her plan, and she must speak with Ainsely soon, to make him promise once again not to tell anyone her secret.
She stopped in front of the fire. Perhaps he may even be of assistance. Moira sank down onto the rug and stared into the flames. He had introduced her to the last two gentlemen, and he had been to Scotland. Maybe he knew the perfect candidate for her husband. If the gentleman were a friend of Ainsely’s, all the better. She could do far worse in a lifelong companion.
Oh, if only it were Ainsely. Everything would then be perfect. Not only would she have a husband who she enjoyed spending time with, but even better, someone she enjoyed kissing.
Moira sighed as she relived the moments at Vauxhall. She never dreamed that kissing could be so wonderful, or that it could cause the strangest stirrings in one’s body. It was as if she couldn’t get close enough to him and Moira had nearly crawled onto his lap. Her body had heated from within and it had nearly become impossible to breathe. Of course, that could have been due to the binding of her breasts, but it wasn’t until Lord Ainsely had been kissing her that the bindings had become desperately uncomfortable and tight.
But, he didn’t have a Scottish accent or brogue, neither was his title Scottish, nor did his last name have a Scottish ring. If it were McBaxter or MacBaxter, or McAnything, it would be different. Such a shame too because Moira could see herself with Ainsely for the rest of her life.
Though on second thought, she could easily fall in love with him. So it was best he wasn’t a Scot. After all, her mother warned that love led to emptiness. If one’s heart remained protected, it couldn’t be disappointed. Though her mother was wrong about most things, Moira could not dismiss this warning. Not when it was something she would have to live with for the rest of her life.
Chapter 12
If he were wise, Gideon would have gone to Hearne. Instead, he found himself on the stoop outside the Hearne home. Oddly, this was the family residence, so why didn’t the earl live here?
It was none of his concern, of course, and Gideon lifted his cane and knocked on the door. A stodgy butler opened and peered down at him. Rather intimidating, given Gideon was not a small man. He handed his card over to the servant. “Is Lady Moira receiving callers today?”
The man took the card, squinted to read the writing, and opened the door further. Gideon stepped inside the quiet, empty foyer.
“One moment please.”
Gideon was left standing while the butler disappeared down the hall. He returned but a moment later. “Lady Moira will see you.” He turned. “If you will follow me.”
Gideon did as he was bade, clutching the cane in his hand so tightly his knuckles turned white. Why such nervousness? This wasn’t the first lady he’d ever called upon in his life, though it may be the last.
He stopped the thought before it could form any further and followed the butler into a blue salon as his name was announced.
Lady Moira rose from the settee and nodded a greeting. “Lord Ainsely. This is a lovely surprise.”
If anyone were surprised, it should be he. What had she done to her once lovely hair?
“Calico.”
“Pardon?” He shook his head to clear his thoughts.
“Calico.”
He looked around and then down toward his ankles for a cat.
“My hair,” Lady Moira clarified. “I am certain that it will soon be all the rage.”
Gideon’s face burned with embarrassment, which had never happened to him before. He should have never shown a reaction to her appearance, but how could he not when faced with such a shocking display? Gone were the sunrise tresses, replaced by patches of blond, red, and brown. And Lady Moira was correct. Her hair did resemble the calico kitten he once owned as a child.
He cleared his throat. “I do not doubt it for a moment.” What was he to say? Was she serious? Why had she done such a horrible thing to her hair and had it been intentional?
Lady Moira giggled. “You are far too polite, Lord Ainsely.”
He resisted the urge to loosen his cravat.
“Thankfully the coloring is temporary,” she continued. “I’ve vowed to wash my hair no less than five times a day until my natural color is restored.
Thank goodness.
A maid entered, followed by a footman who set a tea service on the table. While the footman retreated, the other servant settled into a chair at the back of the room and picked up her sewing.
“Please, do sit.” Lady Moira’s smile was radiant as she settled and reached for the teapot. Gideon took the seat across from her.
“Milk, sugar?”
“Neither, please.”
She poured and handed him a cup before preparing her own, to which she added two sugars and after a quick glance at the maid, she added a third.
Her position across from him gave Gideon an ample view of her breasts, or what he could see of them. Since they were no longer as abundant as they were a few days ago, her dress gapped when she leaned forward, yet he couldn’t see what was real and what may have been enhanced at one time. Why did Lady Moira feel the need to change her appearance so drastically and so often?
He glanced back up at her face before she caught him looking where he should not. Though a few remnants of her rash remained, her face didn’t appear to be in the painful state it had been last night. “You are looking, um, better.”
She graced him with another smile. “That is one remedy I will not try again.”
“Remedy?” He took a sip of his tea.
“To rid myself of the freckles.”
He choked on the tea and sputtered.
Lady Moira handed him a napkin. “Are you quite all right, Lord Ainsely?”
He dabbed at his mouth and set the cup and saucer back on the table. “Why would you wish to make your freckles disappear?”
“The same reason my red hair needs to go, and why my bre...mother has assured me that gentlemen don't wish their wives to have such endow...blemishes and coloring.”
Gideon straightened. He had never heard such rubbish before in his life. Where was Hearne, and why wasn’t he taking the situation in hand?
Then he recalled the conversation from the night before, when Lady Moira had implored her brother to interfere with her mother’s plans.
“Please, Lady Moira, do not change a thing about your appearance and let everything return to its natural state because you are quite a bonny lass.”
Moira paused with the teacup halfway to her lips. Did he just refer to her as a bonny lass? Her eyes narrowed and she placed the cup back in the saucer. “Lord Ainsely, where is your estate?” Had she assumed, incorrectly, that he was not Scottish?
“I, um, well—”
“Do you not know where you live?” she interrupted. Her heartbeat increased. Was it possible he was from Scotland?
“Yorkshire,” he blurted out. “There is an estate in Yorkshire.”
Moira’s heart sank. “Englishmen do not usually refer to ladies as bonny lasses; only Scots. At least I’ve never heard an Englishman say such a thing.”
“Well, you, um see… I must have picked up a few of the phrases from my time in the country and we were discussing Scotland last evening.”
“I suppose,” she sighed.
Ainsely glanced over his shoulder to Beatrice, who by all appearances was engrossed in her stitching. Moira knew better. Her maid had a knack for listening to and observing everything around her when others were convinced she’d not been paying attention.
He turned back to Moira and leaned forward. She shifted toward the table and waited.
“I have some rather disturbing news.”
“Oh dear, what now?”
“There has been another bet,” he whispered.
Moira straightened and grimaced. “About me?”
“Yes. Lord Struthers.”
“Go on,” Moira encouraged.
“His estate is in Shropshire.”
Her shoulders fell with the exhaling of her breath. “We are a week past Easter, and my name has already been in that blasted book three times.”
Ainsely raised his eyebrows at her language.
“Apologies. I don’t always mind my tongue.”
The left side of his mouth quirked in half a smile. At least he didn’t appear overly scandalized by her language.
“It is quite all right.”
“I wonder if there is a record for how many times a lady’s name appears in the book in one Season.”
He grimaced. “I am not certain that is a goal you should aim for. Most ladies are not listed for flattering reasons.”
“I know.” Moira settled her hands on the settee and pushed to stand. She could have been more graceful, she supposed, but she was almost as comfortable around Ainsely as she was Pippa, Alice and Patience. He was turning into a grand friend and he hadn’t needed to come to her this morning and tell her of the bet. He could have gone to Nyle instead, and her brother would have delivered the news. “I am still no closer to my goal, however.”
Ainsely stood as well, as any polite gentleman would. “Please, you can be seated. I tend to pace when anxious, and it can be quite uncomfortable for any gentleman in the room.”
He sank back down and watched as she wore a path in the carpet between the settee and the table.