by Lauren Smith
She blew out the candle on her night table and settled into bed. But as sleep drifted near, her thoughts wandered back to the dark-haired Scotsman.
What if Portia were to successfully marry such a man? He would attend family dinners, father Portia’s children . . . For some reason, the thought made Lydia’s heart heavy. If anyone were to snare the attention of a handsome man like that, it would be her sister.
She was suddenly overcome with a foolish rush of tears, because she knew she would never have a chance to make a match with a man like that. She was too old, too uninspiring, and that knowledge crippled her with an unbearable loneliness that left her awake well past midnight.
3
Lydia had recovered some of her good spirits by the following morning when she sat down to breakfast. Her father was reading his paper, and her great-aunt was poring over a set of fashion plates. Portia made a late entrance, casting only a brief glance at Great-Aunt Cornelia, who arched a brow in return. It amused Lydia to know the two spent all their time antagonizing each other, while she was left quite alone.
“Ah, Portia, good morning,” Jackson greeted his younger daughter.
“Morning, Papa.” She kissed his cheek before she sashayed to her seat. She wore a gown of cerulean blue, and her hair was styled in the latest fashion, pulled back with artful curls framing her face. Lydia tried to ignore the sudden awareness of her own boring gown, a soft blue satin with fewer frills than her sister’s gown. Portia always looked so perfect, while Lydia simply focused on being serviceable. She felt silly if she tried to look nice, rather like trying to decorate a simple country cottage with golden garland—a waste of time, money, and effort.
You cannot have fancy gowns, she reminded herself. You’re not a young girl fresh in her first season.
“Morning, Portia,” Lydia greeted.
Her sister smiled warmly at her. “Oh, Lydia, I’m sorry for being so cross with you last night.”
“It’s all right. I only wished to watch out for you,” Lydia said.
Portia nodded as if to agree, then turned to their father. “Papa, I have found my future husband and should like very much for you to go and speak to him today.”
Lydia froze in the act of buttering a muffin. Lord, if only she could strangle her little sister for her silliness. Aunt Cornelia squawked and tossed her fashion plates to the table so hard that her teacup toppled over, spilling tea. A footman rushed to clean it up. Jackson ruffled his paper and gazed at Portia, and what little of his expression that they could see over the top of his paper was slightly perplexed.
“What’s all this?” Cornelia demanded. “You cannot have your father go speak to a man. That’s not how it’s done.” She huffed and seemed to expect that to be the end of the matter.
“Now just a minute, Cornelia,” their father said. “I may be willing to risk the scandal.” He looked toward Portia again. “Has the man proposed to you, child?” Jackson inquired with a discreet look toward Lydia.
“No, but I believe he’s too shy.”
“Shy?” Jackson chuckled. “I did not think you would choose a shy man to be your husband. Are you quite sure this is the right fellow for you?”
“I would wager my life upon it.” Portia’s deadly serious reply had everyone at the table staring at her.
Cornelia huffed. “No man is worth such a wager, you silly creature.” She leveled her hardest gaze at Portia. “Unless you’ve been up to things a young lady ought not to be.”
“Oh, come now, Cornelia,” Jackson said to his aunt. “My Portia is merely excited and in love, I daresay. She would not do anything to risk herself, would you, my child?” He looked to Portia, who shook her head, her eyes wide and guileless. Her expression was so innocent, she seemed a mere child rather than a young woman in that moment. Lydia rolled her eyes.
“There, you see?” Jackson folded his paper, and Lydia knew her father would turn a blind eye to this matter, despite her warning that Portia could not be trusted to behave. “Now, who is this fellow?”
“Mr. Brodie Kincade. He is staying with Mr. Rafe Lennox, only a few streets away. I have the address written down.”
“Is he, now? Well, I shall pay a call later this morning.”
“And how do you know where his lodging is?” Lydia asked quietly.
Cornelia pounced on the opening provided. “Yes, how do you know?”
“How do I know?” Portia still looked oh so innocent. “I overheard the two gentlemen conversing about it last evening.”
Lydia had no idea how her sister had actually discovered this information, but she was fairly certain Portia was lying.
Jackson turned his focus on Lydia. “And what about you? Have you decided whether you are to go to Brighton?”
“As much as I would like to, I believe it would be best to stay here. I am to meet a few friends today at the Pump Room after luncheon.”
“You’re quite sure? I’ve heard the bracing sea breezes of the Sussex coast can be a tonic for all ills.”
“Yes, Papa. I’m quite certain. Portia, would you like to go shopping on Milsom Street today after breakfast?”
“No. I’m afraid I have calls to make.”
Lydia let it go. The days of her younger sister wishing to spend time with her were at an end. There was no point forcing the issue. “If you change your mind, I’ll be leaving in an hour.”
Lydia finished her breakfast and left the table. She met her maid in the hall and informed her she was to leave for Milsom Street shortly. One of their young footmen, a man named Michael, met her as she put on her bonnet and collected her reticule.
“Ready to leave, Miss Hunt?” Michael asked.
“Yes, let’s be off.” She and the footman left the townhouse on Royal Crescent and headed toward the shops. Many women would have hired a sedan chair or hackney, but Lydia’s penchant for dancing left her well suited to long and vigorous walks.
When she reached Milsom Street, she visited a haberdashery, with Michael trailing dutifully at her heels. Once inside the shop, she was perusing a display of kid gloves in a dozen colors on a table near a window when two gentlemen paused outside the shop. At first, she only glanced up out of habit, but when she realized who they were, her heart jolted in her chest. She was staring at Rafe Lennox and Brodie Kincade, who were talking quietly just inches away from her, separated only by the glass panes of the window.
Acting foolishly and entirely on instinct, Lydia dropped out of sight. Her footman did the same, crouching defensively beside her.
“Miss? What are we doing?”
“Hush, Michael. We are hiding,” she whispered frantically, even though she knew the men outside could not hear her. She also knew that neither of them had seen her last night, which meant that hiding was absolutely pointless. But for some reason, she didn’t want him to see her—maybe because once he did, he wouldn’t even really notice her, and that would only hurt worse.
“Hiding? From whom, Miss?” Michael’s features hardened as he hovered close to her.
“Oh . . . It doesn’t matter. He’s likely to not even notice me.” She rose up from her hidden position and peeked out the window. The men were gone. She had acted like a ninny for no reason.
Then the haberdashery door opened, and in they walked. She was frozen for a moment before she hastily recovered herself. Turning away, she focused on a stand full of little ornaments and baubles as she tried to eavesdrop on the two men, who drifted nearer.
“What a night,” Rafe snickered. “You really are excellent at cards, Kincade. Remind me never to play opposite you when real money is on the line.”
“We certainly wore out our welcome last night. I dinna think they’ll let us come back.” Brodie grinned, and Lydia caught the full force of his smile in the reflection of the nearby mirror.
“They can’t afford to. You fairly cleaned out the pockets of every man in the room. What was your secret, by the way?” Rafe casually examined a collection of ladies’ gloves with mild interes
t.
“Every man has a tell,” Brodie explained. “The trick is to watch a man before he plays the game. You will notice what he does differently once the pressure of the game is upon him.”
“By Jove, you are a dangerous man, Kincade. I suppose that’s why I like you.” Rafe lifted up a pair of ivory silk gloves. “What do you think of these?”
“For you? A bit small.” Brodie delivered this with a straight face.
Rafe snorted. “For a mistress. I recently parted from mine, but I am certainly looking for a new one. It’s always nice to have a present on hand for when one finds a lady worth wooing.”
“They are pretty enough.” Brodie stared at the gloves. “Are all English ladies fixated on pretty bits of cloth? Or do they prefer jewels? I suppose I had better find out while I’m here.”
Lydia couldn’t help but wonder why that was. Was he also in the market for a mistress? Or did the charming Scot have marriage on his mind?
“Money, my dear fellow. That is what they like best. Lots of it.” The way Rafe said this, with an edge to his tone, made Lydia wonder what sort of women Rafe usually consorted with.
Trying not to be seen, Lydia carefully dodged the two men. But her footman, intending to follow her, knocked over a display of hats.
“Oh!” She rushed to help collect the scattered bonnets, blushing wildly as she dared not look in the direction of Mr. Lennox and Mr. Kincade.
Only when she had fixed the display did she glance at them. Both of them had amused looks on their faces, and they quickly went back to their whispered conversation, no longer paying her any heed.
Lydia fled the haberdashery, her footman racing behind her. Even after all the ruckus she had caused, neither man had spared her more than a glance. It was both a blessing and a curse to not be pretty enough to catch a man’s attention. Portia would have had them tripping over each other, trying to help.
Lydia shuddered at the thought that her father would likely be able to buy Mr. Kincade off as a husband for Portia, but he would no doubt acquire a mistress the moment he was in possession of Portia’s inheritance. As unpleasant as that thought was, it would serve Portia right for buying a man’s affections.
Perhaps it was time for Lydia to appeal to her great-aunt to help her search for a husband. There must be a few pleasant gentlemen in England who wouldn’t mind a plain woman for a wife. She was quite certain that if her sister married Mr. Kincade, she could not live under the same roof as him for holidays. Not when she felt a dreadful and irresistible attraction to him.
Yes, she would speak to Great-Aunt Cornelia this afternoon about suitable options for a husband. She needed to escape the tall, dark-haired Scotsman and any wicked dreams he gave her.
Brodie had only been home for half an hour when Rafe’s butler, Mr. Chase, informed him that he had a visitor.
“A visitor?” Brodie stood in his bedchamber, tugging on his cuffs, while his valet, a young man named Alan, adjusted his coat at the shoulders. Unused to having a man dress him, Brodie was still adjusting to the close relationship between a man and his valet.
After his older brother, Brock, had married Rafe’s sister, Joanna, she had brought a large income into the Kincade family and had insisted that Brodie and Aiden also benefit from the joyful union by having valets hired for them. Alan was quiet and pleasant enough . . . for an Englishman.
“Yes, Mr. Kincade. He says his name is Mr. Jackson Hunt.” The butler passed Brodie an elegant calling card.
“Hunt . . .” The name sounded familiar, but he couldn’t recall where he’d met the man. “I suppose I ought to see him.”
“Very good, sir. I shall have him shown to the drawing room.”
“Thank you, Chase,” Brodie called over his shoulder as he turned halfway to let Alan brush dust off his jacket. He had changed after his walk with Rafe. He wasn’t used to lounging about so much and had asked Rafe to show him more of the city. As a Scot, he loved the land and liked to be familiar with any terrain he was on, especially while in English territory.
“All done, sir,” Alan said. Brodie nodded his thanks, and then he proceeded to the drawing room.
His visitor, Jackson Hunt, was a tall man in his fifties. He stood by the fireplace and took in the measure of Brodie as he entered the room. Hunt offered a polite and hopeful smile that Brodie didn’t quite understand, given that he didn’t know the man and to the best of his knowledge he had no business with the fellow.
“Mr. Hunt?” Brodie nodded in greeting. “You’ll have to excuse me. I canna recall the circumstances of our meeting.”
“It’s quite all right, Mr. Kincade, as we have not met before today.” Hunt bowed to Brodie. “I apologize for the unannounced visit, given that we have no previous acquaintance, but I hope my business here today will be viewed favorably by you.”
“And what is that?” Brodie inquired.
“My daughter, Miss Hunt, met you last evening at the assembly rooms and speaks highly of you. I came here as a messenger on a mission. I am a wealthy man, you see, and while I know the peers have their own way of doing things, I hope I may speak frankly with you.”
“I wish you would.” Brodie wasn’t at all following what the man was saying.
“My daughter wishes to marry you. I am here on her behalf to inquire if you would like to court her with marriage in mind. I can promise her dowry would be an income of ten thousand a year.”
Hunt delivered this with a gentle excitement that astounded Brodie, as though throwing large sums of money and daughters at a man was an everyday occurrence.
“What?” Brodie stared at the other man. “I don’t even know your daughter, sir.”
“But you do—she met you last evening. She’s small, with flaxen hair and bright-blue eyes.” Jackson mimed how short the girl in question was.
Brodie’s half-drunk memory returned. The wee blonde who’d introduced herself and tried to exchange a vow of marriage for a kiss. He could barely recall her face.
“Ah . . . I ken who you speak of now. We met but briefly,” he informed Mr. Hunt.
“Yes, well, she was very taken with you, and I hope that you and I can come to some sort of arrangement. If you were to marry her, it would be quite a large sum of money I would be willing to part with to make my child happy.”
“I ken the bond of a father to his child, Mr. Hunt, but I barely know the lass, and I have no intention of marrying her or anyone at this time.”
“I can pay you handsomely,” Hunt insisted. “Name your price.”
Brodie sighed. “Mr. Hunt, a man bought like a stallion to stud isna a good man for your daughter. I dinna want to upset the lass, but I dinna ken her, or love her.”
“But she’s a clever, humorous creature,” Mr. Hunt insisted. “I’m sure you could learn to love her. She even caught the eye of the king himself in London two months ago.”
Brodie had no doubt of that. Based on the vague details he remembered from the previous evening, she was more than pretty, but looks were not all that mattered to a man. Still, Brodie had no intention of marrying anyone. He was not the eldest son, nor the sole heir in the line of succession to the earldom. If Brock were to die without an heir, Aiden could easily carry on the title without Brodie ever having to have any children. He would be more than happy to let the title skip him and go straight to Aiden.
Brodie had no desire to pass on any of himself in the world, not when he feared his father’s blood would be carried on as well. The last Earl of Kincade had been a heavy-handed, angry man whose greed had cost the lives of noble Scots more than a decade ago, and cost his father his soul. It was Brodie’s deepest fear that any child born to him would inherit that blackhearted greed. He would leave such matters to his brothers, who were far better men than he was—Brock with his steadiness and infinite control, and Aiden with his endless compassion, especially for the wee beasties from the forest. Brodie had no such qualities. He would always be the wildest of the Kincade brood.
“Is there n
othing I can offer you to change your mind, Mr. Kincade?” Mr. Hunt persisted.
“I’m sure your daughter is a fine lass, but I’m afraid there isna a thing you could offer, Mr. Hunt. It would be best to convince the lass to turn her heart elsewhere.”
Mr. Hunt’s look of dejection surprised Brodie. The man truly did hope to secure a marriage for his daughter, and he wasn’t just looking for a business transaction of some sort. It was obvious the man must dote upon her.
A fortunate lass, he thought.
Mr. Hunt soon recovered himself. “I am sorry to have troubled you, sir. I should take my leave.” He collected his hat and departed.
Brodie left the drawing room and watched as the footman showed Hunt to the door.
Rafe came down the stairs from the upper rooms. “Who was that?”
“Mr. Hunt,” Brodie replied.
“And who the bloody hell is that?” Rafe removed his jacket and waited for Brodie to follow him into the billiard room, where he set up a game.
“He’s the father of the wee lass who so boldly came up to us last night.”
“Oh?” Rafe laughed. “What did he want? Did she demand marriage?”
“As a matter of fact, she did.” Brodie chuckled as Rafe’s teasing turned into a stunned silence.
“The devil you say!” Rafe finally said. “All you did was speak with the chit.”
“Aye, but apparently she fancies me. Her father just tried to buy me.”
“Buy you?” Rafe’s blue eyes sparkled with amusement. “Well, how much does a handsome Scot go for these days?”
“Ten thousand pounds a year, apparently, with room for negotiation.” Brodie grinned and collected a pool cue from Rafe.
“Not bad, Scot, not bad at all.”
Portia was practically bouncing as she waited for her father to return that afternoon. When he did, the look on his face confirmed her worst fears. Jackson removed his hat and coat with a weary sigh before he took her hands, holding them clasped within his own.