Scandalous Lords and Courtship Page 21

  When they reached the stream, she wondered if he would hoist her across and take her even deeper into the woods, though there was no need. They hadn’t come overly far, yet all traces of humanity seemed ages behind them. Down in the dip of the shallow valley, moss thick beneath their feet, they were utterly, heart-poundingly alone.

  Trying to master her nerves, Charlotte yanked her arm free and turned to face him. She angled her chin up and set her jaw. If he meant to send her away, he truly would have to do her in to achieve that goal. “Well?”

  He stared down at her, the dappled sunlight illuminating bright streaks in his hair. He pushed a hand through it, as if aware of her scrutiny, tumbling the locks. “Marian told me of your offer.”

  “I should have guessed she would.” Charlotte wondered if aught would have come of asking Marian not to, but it was too late for that. “It’s her decision, and mine. Do not try to stop us. If you weren’t so pigheaded, you’d see it’s the best way for everyone.”

  He raised his eyebrows. “I see no such thing.” He reached into his coat and pulled free a folded page. “Here.”

  Jaw clenched, Charlotte accepted the paper, most likely a bribe. She resisted the urge to tear it up, to spite him, and unfolded the sheet to read the careful script. She read it three times before the meaning could penetrate her disbelief. “Your marriage is dissolved.”

  “It is.”

  She raised her gaze to his, her breath too shallow and rapid to catch. “Why?”

  His expression softened. “Because it is my intention to offer marriage to you, Missus Fairhaven, and then, if you wish it, we shall raise my grandchildren together.”

  “Because you love me?” she stammered, for that was what she read in his eyes, his tone.

  “Because I love you.”

  “And the babies?”

  “Will be raised in a home full of light and joy, with a mother I trust to never leave them.” He skimmed warm fingers down her cheek. “Or me.”

  Charlotte raised a trembling hand to her lips.

  He captured that hand, warming it. “Say yes, Charlotte. Say you love me, that you’ll never leave.”

  “I love you, Edward, and I will never leave.”

  He crushed her to him. Their lips met and she clung to his coat against the weakness in her knees. He shrugged off his sling and wrapped his other arm about her, holding her up.

  Charlotte pulled back. “Your shoulder.”

  “Is more than up to the task,” he murmured, and lifted her into his arms.

  Epilogue

  “Rivington, there you are.”

  At that jovial greeting, Samuel looked up from his untouched scotch to find Sir Stirling James standing across the table from him. “Stirling. I’m afraid I’m not the best company, at the moment.”

  Stirling nodded and pulled out a chair. “I rather suspected that might be the case. It’s what I’ve come to speak with you about.”

  “What’s there to say?” Samuel muttered as the duke seated himself, not protesting. While no one’s society brought him pleasure these days, at least Stirling’s wasn’t outright aggravating.

  Stirling frowned at him for a long moment. “Missus Fairhaven has been gone for nearly a year,” he finally said.

  “I’m aware,” Samuel drawled. Ten months and eleven days, if one were inclined to count.

  “I think it’s time you moved on,” Stirling said with all earnestness.

  Samuel pushed a hand through unruly dark hair. He considered his possible responses. A forced laugh. Denial of how he still longed for the only woman he’d ever loved. Making the claim that he no longer thought of her every moment of every day. That his heart didn’t cry out for the sound of her laugh. That his mind couldn’t conjure an image of her smooth skin and tumbled rose-copper locks aglow by candlelight. He turned the crystal tumbler in his hand. “I wish I knew how.”

  Stirling leaned forward in his chair. “You could start by leaving Edinburgh.”

  Leave this city, ripe with memories of Charlotte? Bittersweet as those apparitions were, Samuel was loath to give them up. They were all he had left of what they’d shared. Besides which, her townhome was there. She’d kept her staff on. Eventually, she would return. He shrugged, trying to appear unconcerned. “This place is as good as any other. I see no reason to go.”

  “Rivington,” Stirling’s voice was low, anxious, “I’ve seen her. She’s married.”

  Air whooshed from Samuel’s lungs. On the heels of his breath’s departure, his body stilled. Not even his heart dared flicker with life. For one long moment, there was nothing. Darkness swam at the edges of his vision.

  How ironic that he, who’d broken the hearts of countless women, should die when his gave out. Heaven curse that blighted emotion men called love.

  His heart gave a stumbling, shuddering beat. Then another. He drew in a long, slow breath. A bizarre giddiness filled him. The urge to laugh, madly, until he could laugh no more. He lifted his glass and knocked back a hearty swig of scotch.

  Stirling watched with worried eyes.

  Samuel slammed the crystal tumbler back to the table. Liquid leapt within. “She married.”

  A single nod.

  “Who?” The word came out harsh. Samuel took another pull of scotch.

  “Does it matter?” Stirling’s question was quiet.

  Only because Samuel would murder the blighter with his own two hands.

  “She didn’t simply marry.” Stirling’s voice was calm, soothing, but concern lurked in his gaze. “She’s in love, and there are children. Twin babes.”

  Again, that suffocating feeling. “I thought…” He couldn’t finish the question. As hurt as he was, he couldn’t pass on her whispered words, told to him in confidence. He could, and did, picture the pain in those beautiful blue eyes as she told him that he needn’t worry about consequences with her. She was barren. He cleared his throat. “Twin babes?”

  Stirling nodded. “And two stepdaughters.”

  Something Samuel couldn’t offer her, then. A family. He hadn’t even any siblings, or parents. Hell, he didn’t even have any friends. He’d driven them all away in his misery over losing Charlotte, those few he hadn’t already alienated by sleeping his way through London, and then Edinburgh, with a complete lack of regard for whose aunt, cousin, mother or sister he lay with.

  But they had their revenge now, didn’t they? Here he was, Samuel Rivington, expert rake, moments away from crying into his scotch. He cleared his throat. “Charlotte has twin babes?”

  “Yes.”

  Hope flared to life, nearly as painful as despair. “When? Perhaps, that is, how can she be sure they aren’t mine?” If she was mistaken about being barren… Why, they’d taken no precautions.

  Amusement and pity warred in the other man’s face, equally aggravating. Stirling shook his head. “I can assure you, the children are not yours.”

  “You cannot kno—”

  “I can and I do.” Stirling’s tone had lost all sympathy. “I’m here to help, Rivington. Don’t make me change my mind.”

  Samuel latched onto that inconsistency, far safer than thinking on Charlotte married, happy, and with a family. He leaned back in his chair, frowning. “Yes, why is that? You’ve always been amiable enough, but helpful?” He knew about Stirling’s stringent morals. “I’m not really up to your standards, am I?”

  Stirling leaned back in his chair as well. He shrugged. “In over twenty years as a bounder, you’ve not once deflowered an innocent, nor sired a bastard.”

  “That’s all it takes to earn your regard?” Samuel’s chuckle was brittle.

  “That’s what it takes not to lose it.”

  Samuel swallowed. He studied the remnants of his scotch, a single sip in the bottom of the glass. There was nothing Stirling could do to help him. No one could. Yet… “I suppose taking your advice can’t hurt. Where would you have me go?”

  “Return to London, Rivington. That’s where you belong.”

&n
bsp; Samuel grimaced. London. Well, it had been a few years. Most of his former lovers would have moved on by now. Cuckold husbands would have forgotten, or at least reconciled themselves to the sort of women they’d married. Perhaps he could return and live a life not punctuated by wailing castoff lovers, outraged menfolk and early morning duels. He drained his final sip of scotch. “You win, Stirling. London it is.”

  “Perfect.” Stirling stood.

  “That’s it, then?” Samuel lifted his empty glass. “Stay. I’ll call for a round.”

  Stirling shook his head. He fished a card from his coat. “Some other time, Rivington.” He slapped the card onto the table. “When you get to London, you’ll need this.” He nodded, turned on his heels, and strode away.

  Bemused, Samuel picked up the card. Printed on the smooth, thick paper were four words: London Lonely Hearts Club. He turned it over. On the other side, two lines. An address on the most prestigious street in town.

  Samuel shook his head. London Lonely Hearts Club, indeed. That was one bit of advice from Stirling he wouldn’t be taking. He stuffed the card in his pocket and called for another scotch.

  ###

  The Widow’s Treasure

  The Marriage Maker

  Book Nineteen

  The Marriage Maker and the Widows

  Mary Lancaster

  Chapter One

  Sir Stirling James paused behind the servant who had escorted him through the house and peered past the man’s shoulder as the servant announced him.

  Robert Ogilvy of Lochgarron sat behind his desk, scowling at a letter held between his rough fingers. He wore no coat or necktie, and his too long, rumpled hair fell forward over his unshaven, wildly handsome face.

  “What Duke?” he demanded without looking up.

  “This one,” Stirling murmured before the servant could answer. “Roxburgh. At your service.”

  Ogilvy did glance up at that, even half-rose from his seat to offer his free hand before waving the letter at the chair on the other side of the desk and growling at the servant to bring refreshment.

  Stirling sat, casting his observant eye over the papers which almost entirely covered the desk—architectural plans, by the look of them.

  “Forgive me,” Ogilvy said in his abrupt way. “Not used to formal visitors. What can I do for you?”

  “Oh, this isn’t a remotely formal visit,” Stirling assured him. “I was just passing and remembered my wife wished me to nag you on her behalf.”

  “Chastity?” Ogilvy’s frown deepened. “What have I done to annoy her now?”

  “Oh, I don’t believe you’ve annoyed her, precisely. Merely she—and her sisters—are anxious to know that you will come to our ball next week.”

  “Lord, no,” Ogilvy said, so naturally that it didn’t even sound rude. “I don’t go to balls, you know. No idea why people still invite me.”

  Stirling’s lip twitched. “Neither have I.”

  Ogilvy gave him a quick grin that lightened his somewhat grim expression. “Please thank the Duchess for her invitation,” he said more properly, “and convey my apologies.”

  “She’ll be disappointed,” Stirling observed. “Come over some other day, then, when we’re quieter.”

  Ogilvy’s brows shot up in surprise. “Aye, perhaps I will. Thank you.”

  “My wife never forgets old friends,” Stirling remarked. He waved one hand over the chaotic desk. “But I can see you are busy. What are you working on?”

  “Thinking of extending the house. It’s a bit cramped and with so much money coming in from the shipping ventures, thanks to you…” He broke off, his eyes straying once more to the letter before he flung it down with impatience.

  “You are thinking of marriage, perhaps?” Stirling ventured.

  Ogilvy shrugged. “One day. I’m the last Ogilvy of Lochgarron. I’d like the name to mean something again before I pass it on.”

  The servant appeared with a slightly grubby tray on which he’d set a decanter and two glasses. Ogilvy grunted his thanks as the tray was set among the papers, and reached for the decanter. He paused. “Unless you’d rather brandy? Or tea? Or wine? Angus could throw together a meal if you’re hungry.”

  “A glass of whisky is just the thing,” Stirling assured him, watching as he poured generous measures into each glass. “You seem troubled, my friend.”

  Ogilvy pushed one glass across the desk and, as Stirling picked it up, clinked glasses. “Family,” he said with loathing, and drank.

  Stirling sipped. “Chastity tells me you have a sister in England.”

  “She made a good marriage, thanks largely to her godmother. As you know, my family has been persona non grata since the rising of ’45. But Euphemia married an English baron.”

  “Then I don’t see your problem.”

  Ogilvy sighed. “She has a stepson. Her husband’s heir, in fact. They’d arranged a match for him with some wealthy, well-connected heiress. Now they’re afraid he’s going to ruin it all by his pursuit of some tempting widow.”

  Stirling regarded him over the rim of the glass. “Forgive me, Lochgarron, but I’m surprised you care.”

  Ogilvy gave a short laugh. “You’re right. I don’t, whether or not I should. I’d put this damned letter in a drawer and forget about it except that the fool has followed his siren to Scotland—or is about to, it’s hard to tell—and my sister expects me to do something about it.”

  “What?”

  “Separate young George from the widow, somehow, and scare him back to England to do his duty with the heiress.”

  “I can see it’s not a task you relish.”

  “Not sure it’s even one I’m prepared to do. None of my damned business, is it? Sorry,” he added, finishing his whiskey. “None of yours either. Perhaps I’ll just shove the letter in the drawer after all.” He suited the action to the words and gazed at Stirling with apparent satisfaction.

  “That’s the spirt,” Stirling approved. “Although…where exactly in Scotland is your—er—stepnephew to be found?”

  “Who knows? My sister has become so English that she seems to regard Scotland as a village where I’m bound to know everyone who comes and goes.”

  “Well, for what it’s worth, my reach is long and my eyes many,” Stirling said mildly. “What is your nephew’s name?”

  “Beddow. The Honorable George Beddow.”

  Stirling did not yet allow himself to smile. “And the widow?”

  “God knows.” Ogilvy yanked open the desk drawer and snatched up the letter once more. “Lady something or other. Euphemia’s writing is pretty much indecipherable at any time and she insists on writing across what she’s already inscribed…It looks like Lady Devil to me, but I don’t suppose it can be that.”

  Stirling permitted the smile at last. “Lady Derwent, perhaps?”

  “Could be,” Ogilvy allowed. He glanced up, frowning. “You know her?”

  “And young Mr. Beddow. You’ll be able to meet them both at our ball next Wednesday.”

  Ogilvy’s scowl deepened. “Damn.”

  “Cheer up. It’s a masked affair. Wear what you like, hide it under a domino cloak and scare the wits out of your nephew. You can even flee before the unmasking, so no one will ever suspect you’ve broken the habit of a lifetime and attended a ball. And Beddow need never know it was his stepmother interfering.”

  Ogilvy stared at him. “It’s all a bit unsavory, isn’t it?”

  “Look on the bright side,” Stirling drawled. “It will surely be a good deed. And Chastity will be delighted to see you, so you’ll be doing me a great service into the bargain.”

  ***

  Etta—otherwise Lady Derwent, or “the divine Henrietta” to the more poetic of her admirers—peeked out her bedchamber window at the arriving guests. Horses and carriages pulled up the torchlit driveaway to the front terrace, where ladies and gentleman alighted. Exotic and mysterious in their brightly colored cloaks and masks, they made Etta smile.

&nb
sp; She’d never attended a masked ball before. Well, not a respectable one. In her constant battle with ennui, she’d been to much more vulgar events in Vauxhall and Ranelagh Gardens, remaining incognito, of course. But this, in a Duke’s house, was quite a novelty for her. It seemed everyone of note for miles around had come, many of them, like herself, staying the night, for the distances were too great and the roads through the glens and moors too rough to travel home afterwards. For that reason, Etta nearly hadn’t come, but she was very glad now she’d accepted the Duchess’s kind invitation to stay. The masked ball inspired her with almost childish excitement. Besides which, she had business to attend to, and this event seemed the best way to meet those who might wish to buy Ardbeag.

  The briefest of knocks at her bedchamber door heralded Mrs. Ross, who was the downside of life at Ardbeag. Although she called herself the housekeeper, and her husband certainly managed the Ardbeag estate in the absence of its owners, she seemed to regard herself as Etta’s peer. Which Etta didn’t mind, except that Mrs. Ross had also taken upon herself the role of chaperone and had insisted on accompanying her to the Duke and Duchess’s ball.

  The Duke and Duchess themselves hadn’t batted an eyelid, so perhaps Etta was in the wrong. Perhaps Mrs. Ross really had been invited. Certainly, she wore a voluminous cloak of eye-watering puce, and carried a mask of the same color with her reticule.

  “Are you not ready, yet?” Mrs. Ross exclaimed.

  “Almost, but feel free to go down without me,” Etta said. After all, she was hardly in need of a wretched chaperone! Already two years widowed, she’d been protecting herself since she was seventeen years old and was an expert in deflecting unwanted attentions. And attracting those she did want.

  “I will not,” Mrs. Ross said stoutly. She cast a critical eye over Etta and frowned. “You look beautiful.”

  Etta, wearing a pale blue gown of embroidered silk, glanced in the mirror. Sapphires and diamonds winked at her ears and her throat and glittered in her hair. “Thank you. Although you needn’t make it sound quite so much of an insult.” She picked up her royal blue domino and swung it around her shoulders before reaching for the diamond-studded mask on the dressing table.