“Frances!”
She turned about to see her father beckoning to her. “Yes, Papa?”
“Come here, child.”
She walked toward him, her expression wary, her head cocked to one side in silent question. He looked down at her, a gentle smile curving up the corners of his mouth. Suddenly he drew her into his arms and hugged her to him.
“I am very pleased, Frances. Now, do me proud.”
Confused, Frances said automatically, “Why, of course, Papa. Why ever shouldn’t I do you proud?”
“Go into the gun room.”
“You wish me to repair one of your guns?”
“No, no, I don’t. Do not shame me, Frances. Go now.” He gave her a gentle shove, and Frances, staring back at him, opened the door and slipped inside. Shame him? Why the devil would he say such a thing as that? She would kill for him, she would do anything for him.
“Good morning, Lady Frances.”
Frances jumped at the sound of the earl’s voice. This is most bizarre, she thought as she turned to face the Earl of Rothermere, her expression one of confusion.
“Does one of your guns need repair?” she asked. “Papa sent me in here. Is there some problem?”
“No,” said Hawk. Get it over with, he told himself, before you lose your nerve. His eyes moved from the top of her head downward. The gown she was wearing was frumpy, too big, outmoded, and too short for her. But, he realized, her body wasn’t all that bad. She was slender at least. He would be able to bring himself to bed her.
Frances stiffened at his ill-disguised scrutiny. She quickly fished in the pocket of her gown for her spectacles. She slipped them on and squinted at him. The lecherous man was looking at her. Her hands curled into fists at her sides.
She squinted all the harder. “What is it you want, my lord?”
“I have selected you, Lady Frances,” Hawk said.
She understood immediately, but could only gape at him. Was he blind? Utterly without taste? And he was looking at her as if her very presence gave him pain.
She said without thinking, her voice clipped and as cold as the loch in January, “Then unselect.”
Hawk blinked. He couldn’t have heard her aright, could he? He repeated himself, trying to keep the awful fatalism from his voice. “Lady Frances, I am ... choosing you as my wife.”
“Are you mad?” Frances asked, looking him squarely in the eye now, no longer squinting over the spectacles hanging precarously on the tip of her nose. “Why?”
Her clipped voice, her words, startled him. He’d expected her to accept him immediately, in all likelihood with gushing pleasure. After all, how often did the ugly sister win out over the other two? Perhaps, he thought, she didn’t believe he was truly serious. The poor girl probably couldn’t believe her good fortune. He smiled at her and said, “I do not believe I am mad. I believe we shall suit admirably. Now, your father and I have worked out the details of the marriage settlement; I am leaving for Glasgow. I will return on Friday for our wedding. As you know, my father is quite ill. We will leave immediately after the ceremony for England. Here, this is for you.”
He took three steps forward, clasped her hand, and shoved his grandmother’s exquisite emerald ring upon her finger.
She’s speechless, overcome with disbelief, he thought, but that was fine. If she never spoke, he would be pleased. He forced himself to lightly kiss her forehead and look down into her face. She’d shoved her spectacles back up and her eyes looked small and distorted behind the thick lenses. At least at night, in bed, he wouldn’t have to see her. He’d allow no lamps to be lit, otherwise it was a strong possibility that he wouldn’t be able to do his duty in the marriage bed.
“I shall see you on Friday, Lady Frances,” he said, and strode from the room. It didn’t occur to him that she should have said at least a brief yes to his approval, expressed some opinion after he’d given her his very clipped, detailed plans.
He closed the door of the gun room behind him and strode through the great hall to the drawing room, where Ruthven awaited him.
He thought he heard Frances say something, but the thick door muffled the sound. He kept going.
Frances stood still as a stone, her mind numb, disbelieving of what had just happened. Then she looked at the ring and shouted, “No! This is ridiculous! No!”
There had to be some mistake. Lord, all he had to do was but look at her. What about Viola? Clare? The man was mad, she was certain of it. Well, she would just have to put a stop to it now. She jerked the door open and marched into the great hall. Sophia was coming from the drawing room, an odd look on her face.
“Where is Papa?” Frances asked. “Where is that man?”
“Come with me, Frances,” said Sophia. “You’ve been well caught, my girl. Come.”
“No, I must speak to Papa,” Frances said, her voice thin and shrill. “It’s a mistake, Sophia. All a mistake.”
“I think so too,” said Sophia, “but the earl has made his decision and you, my girl, will abide by it.” She caught Frances’ arm as she tried to pass her.
“No, Sophia!” Panic rose to choke her. “No! This can’t happen!”
“You listen to me, Frances Kilbracken,” Sophia said in a fierce whisper, tightening her grip on her stepdaughter’s arm. “You thought you were being so very clever, didn’t you, appearing like a troll, a diffident little mouse? Well, for whatever reason, the earl has picked you, not Viola, not Clare. And you, you devious creature, will abide by it.”
“It makes no sense,” Frances said. “No sense at all.” She tried to pull away. “I must see Papa. I won’t do it, Sophia!”
“Oh yes you will! Look about you, you idiot. Yes, look at all the glory of Kilbracken! The castle is crumbling about us, Frances, and what will be left for your brother? Clumps of heather, that’s what, and an empty title! You heard what your father said before the earl arrived—the old marquess is turning over ten thousand pounds upon this marriage. Ten thousand pounds, Frances! The earl cannot be turned down!”
“But what about Viola? Clare?” Frances felt herself sinking into deep waters, felt herself being dragged down, suffocating.
Sophia looked at her, her eyes stern and commanding. “I wanted him to pick Viola, I will admit it to you. She is a lovely girl, and she deserves to be rich. She needs flattery and parties, and masculine attention. As for Clare, well, the same holds true for her. But it is not to be. You will wed the earl, my girl; then you will see to providing for your sisters.” She shook Frances’ arm. “Do you understand me?”
Frances stared down at her stepmother, her mouth working, but no sounds emerging.
“Well, no matter. Once you are the Countess of Rothermere, you will do all that is proper for your sisters. You will not fail me in that, Frances. Now, if you dare throw a tantrum in front of the earl, your father will never speak to you again. Have I made myself clear?”
Frances stumbled from the castle. It took her several minutes to realize that it was raining, a thick, muzzling rain that was as cold against her skin as she was inside. She ripped the spectacles off her nose and stuffed them in a pocket. The cap was the next to go. She watched it sink under the weight of the rain into a mud puddle. She started to shiver, and began running toward the stable. Once inside, she climbed up into the loft and flung herself down upon the rotting hay. There was a leak in the roof, she thought vaguely, smelling the moldy, sodden hay.
Why?
The one word kept careening through her mind. It made no sense, none at all.
Why?
Suddenly Frances sat up and wrapped her arms about her knees. She forced herself to think slowly and clearly. Why would an admittedly handsome bachelor select a dowdy mouse to wed when two quite lovely and amiable non-mice were available? Even if her father had told him that it was a disguise, what man would want a wife who obviously didn’t want him? Had he seen through her disguise himself? She shook her head, remembering his look when his eyes had roved over her. He’d
been disgusted, yet he had still selected her.
It made no sense, none at all. How could it be true, particularly after he’d heard her sing and play?
She could think of nothing until an offhanded remark of Viola’s flitted through her mind.
I daresay the earl is most popular with the ladies in London. He told Clare and me that he spends much of his time there. All the entertainments, I suppose. I’ll wager he has a mistress. I wonder what I shall do about that? Certainly he will have to give her up, and then we will be very happy together. Oh yes.
The Earl of Rothermere was a handsome man, Frances thought objectively. And it was quite true that he must have ladies fawning all over him. And mistresses. And the last thing a gentleman like that would want is a vivacious, charming, demanding wife.
“My God,” Frances said, expelling her breath in a long, disbelieving sigh. “He couldn’t. It is too vile, too outrageous a thought.” She heard a nicker from one of the horses in the stall below.
She refused to dismiss the idea. Could he have picked her because she wasn’t any of those things? Had he chosen a dowdy mouse so that he could continue in his carefree, likely profligate ways?
Frances had to know. She rose to her feet and shook her skirts free of the moldy hay. She paused in the doorway of the stable. It had stopped raining. To her consternation, she saw the earl’s man, Grunyon, climb into the carriage. The earl was driving, whipping up the horses now. She rushed out of the stable, waving and calling out.
But it was no use. Muddy water splashed up from the wheels. The horses snorted. The earl was paying no heed to anything except driving.
Frances watched the carriage disappear down the winding road. How long had she stayed in the stable loft? Long enough so that the bastard could escape.
She squared her shoulders and marched back to the castle.
5
Marriage has many plains, but celibacy has no pleasures.
—SAMUEL JOHNSON
“Put the ring back on, Frances.”
The heavy ring bounced and slid across the table. Frances made no move to retrieve it. Its weight was unconscionable on her finger.
“No,” she said. “I shan’t, Papa.”
Ruthven prepared to give her the full blast of his temper, when Viola and Clare burst into the gun room, Sophia trailing behind them, her face a study of conflicting emotions.
“I don’t believe this!” Viola stamped her feet. Oh, Viola, Frances wanted to yell at her sister, you are still such a little girl. The earl would make you utterly miserable.
“What did you do, Frances?” Clare demanded. “What did you promise him? Stepmama told us that the earl has offered for you, but that’s impossible! You look awful, you look—”
“That’s enough!” Ruthven shouted over the female din.
“I agree,” said Frances, eyeing her two very furious sisters. “Listen, you two, I don’t wish to marry the earl any more than he wishes to marry me.”
“Then why?” Clare asked. “He could barely bring himself to look at you, just as you planned.”
“I think I know why,” Frances said, keeping an eye firmly on her father’s face. “The earl selected me because I am a dowd, a miserable excuse for a female. He selected me because he didn’t think he would have to change his life. I imagine he plans to dump me somewhere, probably one of his moldering estates, and go about his business as if none of this had ever happened.”
Ruthven couldn’t help it. His eyes widened and his fingers clutched the table edge until the knuckles were white. How could she have guessed so quickly?
“So,” Frances said, expelling a deep breath, “it is true, isn’t it, Papa?”
Bluster and rage, thought Ruthven, but he said nothing.
“I don’t understand,” wailed Viola.
Frances turned to face her sister. “Then allow me to explain it,” she said. “You, Viola, and you, Clare, are exactly what the precious earl likes in ladies. You are both very pretty, charming, gay. However, the earl doesn’t want a wife. A wife, in his mind, would change everything, and he doesn’t want anything to change. Now do you understand?”
“He is a bounder, a cad,” said Clare.
“At the very least,” agreed Frances.
“I still want him,” said Viola. “I could change him, make him happy, content—”
“Don’t be a fool, Viola,” Frances interrupted. “He would eat you for breakfast and spit you out. The man is selfish, ruthless, and unworthy. But of course,” she added, giving her father a furious look, “he will provide money. Rather, his father will.”
“Frances, you will not condemn a man simply because he is endeavoring to ...”
“To what, Papa?” Frances asked furiously when her father faltered. “I am the one to be sacrificed.”
“Sacrificed, ha!” Viola yelled. “You will be a countess—rich, all the clothes you want—what does it matter if your husband goes his own way? You know nothing about how ladies and gentlemen conduct their marriages. It is a marriage of convenience, as is proper. You, Frances, should be shot, hanged—”
“That is quite enough,” said Sophia briskly. “The die is cast, as it were. Now that all the drama is over and everyone has vented his spleen, you will come with me, Frances. We have but three days to do something about a trousseau. The earl returns early on the morning of your wedding. There is much to be done.”
“You are sacrificing Frances,” Clare said clearly.
“Sacrificing!” Sophia yelled. “You are a silly ninny! And you, Frances, you should be jumping for joy at your success.”
“Papa ...” Frances said very quietly.
“One day, you will thank me, my girl,” Ruthven said.
“Both of us will be long dead before that day comes, Papa.” Frances turned, defeated. She followed Sophia out of the gun room, promising to meet her in her bedchamber within the hour.
Frances then stalked to her own bedchamber. It smelled like him, she thought, and she viciously ripped the sheets off the bed. She was standing in the middle of the room, the sheets in a white pool at her feet, when Adelaide slipped through the open doorway.
“Goodness, my love,” Adelaide said, “what an uproar you have caused.”
“I know.”
“This is for the best, Frances.”
“Yes, I imagine that it is. At least I am saving Viola and Clare from unhappiness.” It is difficult to be noble, she thought, so very difficult.
“A husband is a husband, my dear, and to my mind, the earl shows more promise than most. He was placed in a most awkward position. If he selected you for all the wrong reasons, well, he will soon see the error of his ways.”
Frances looked much struck. “I hadn’t thought of that, Adelaide. What shall I do?”
Adelaide patted her arm. “You will gather up these sheets, love, then I imagine you will give quite a bit of thought to your alternatives.”
Frances did give furious, endless thought to her very limited number of options. She spent many hours imagining the look on the earl’s face were she to appear lovely, charming, and gay and demand that he take her to London. That made her smile, but she wondered if he would beat her for her earlier deception. Men were such unpredictable creatures—she’d observed enough of them to be certain of that.
She didn’t come to her decision until the evening before her wedding. She was standing in front of her bedchamber window, staring out into the inpenetrable darkness.
“Frances?”
“Yes? Sophia, do come in.”
Her stepmother was wearing a silk dressing gown and her lovely hair was long and loose down her back. She looked younger.
“Is there a problem?” Frances asked. “Has Doris broken out into spots? Has Reverend MacLeod had another argument with Papa?”
To her surprise, Sophia didn’t meet her gaze directly, nor did she respond to Frances’ attempt at humor.
“Papa!” Frances exclaimed. “He is all right, is he not?”
> “Yes, yes,” Sophia said. “Sit down, Frances. There are things I must speak to you about.”
“Things?” Frances walked to her bed and climbed to the center to sit cross-legged.
“Your responsibility as a wife,” said Sophia.
“I assure you, Sophia,” Frances said, her voice a bit nasty, “that I shall be quite able to have the earl’s meals on the table when he wishes them.”
“No, Frances, I’m speaking of your intimate duties as a wife.”
“Oh!” Frances stared at her blankly, then cursed herself silently for eight kinds of a fool. She hadn’t realized, hadn’t thought that the earl, that stranger, would touch her and ... She swallowed.
“Yes,” said Sophia. “Do you understand what husbands and wives do together? In bed?”
Frances knew enough and she was horribly embarrassed. She kept her head lowered and merely nodded.
“Your father believes, as I do, that the earl will be sensitive to your feelings.” That wasn’t precisely the truth, but Sophia chose to severely edit her spouse’s remarks on the subject. Aye love, ‘tis a lusty man Hawk is. He’ll teach our Frances a thing or two!
Sensitive to my ... “What does that mean, Sophia?”
“It means that he won’t embarrass you, he’ll treat you with the respect due a wife. Of course, when he sees what you really look like, he will doubtless be quite pleased and more ... attentive, despite his ... well, I’m not certain exactly ...” Her voice trailed off.
Frances gulped. “I see,” she said.
Sophia felt a stab of concern for her stepdaughter despite all her husband’s assurances. She said very gently, “He will, of course, want an heir, Frances. That is your primary duty as his wife.”
“An heir,” Frances repeated.
Sophia sought for some reassuring words, and was surprised when Frances raised her face and said quite calmly, “Thank you for telling me, Sophia. I understand, I truly do. How stupid of me not to have realized ... Well, now I know.”
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