Mia Marlowe Page 3

  “These are my sisters, Misses Aileen and Mary MacOwen, sir.” Lucinda’s voice was pleasingly low and musical, but Alexander steeled himself against the growing attraction he felt for her.

  He didn’t have time for this sort of complication.

  “Well, ladies, I’m sure you must have simply boatloads of trunks and portmanteaus that will need to be transported to Dalkeith Palace,” Clarindon said. “Shall we hail a cab and see about collecting your effects?”

  “Leith isna London, Sir Bertram. We can walk to our great-aunt’s home from here quite handily. ’Tis on the next street but one,” Miss MacOwen said, nodding in the direction they should proceed. Then she slanted a gaze at Alexander. Her green eyes were quite lovely and her nose had an appealing upward tilt. “I hope Aunt Hester will give ye a fair welcome, my lord.”

  “My lord? Why stand on such ceremony, Miss MacOwen?” Clarindon grinned hugely as he offered his arms to both the younger MacOwen sisters. “As his betrothed, you ought to call him Alexander, I should think. At least until you find a suitable sobriquet for him. I understand Lady Wattleston refers to her husband as ‘His Muchness’ and he calls her his ‘soft little rabbit.’ Isn’t that too precious for words?”

  “A few come to mind,” Alexander said darkly. But none that bear repeating in feminine company.

  He narrowed his eyes at his friend and Clarindon wisely decided that discretion was the better part of valor. As they walked on, Bertram confined himself to observations on the weather and the coming Christmastide festivities.

  Her slender hand resting lightly on his forearm, Lucinda MacOwen was still blushing to the roots of her red hair. Alexander wondered if it was “His Muchness” or “soft little rabbit” that brought out the flaming color. In any case, she didn’t say another thing until they reached a venerable gray stone house that listed only slightly toward its easterly neighbor.

  “This is the home of my great-aunt, Hester MacGibbon.” Miss MacOwen’s mouth tightened in a half-apologetic grimace. “She’ll no’ be expecting to learn ye’re English.”

  She made English sound as if it were the culmination of the Seven Deadlies.

  “Or that ye’re a MacGregor, come to that.” She looked askance at his plaid.

  MacGregor fared only slightly better than English as she spat the word out.

  “This?” He ran a hand over the plaid draped on his shoulder. “My mother’s maiden name was MacGregor. That’s all.”

  Most of the men at court had scrambled to fetch up some sort of Scottish connection so they could indulge in King George’s kilted pageantry. Alexander would have been happy to loan them his. And the connection that came with it.

  “It seems I’m both English and Scottish,” he said. “If either of those attributes are an impediment to our betrothal, we can—”

  “No, no.” Her eyes flared in alarm. “I’m sure Aunt Hester will come round.” She ushered him through the faded green door. “Eventually.”

  As the party crowded into the MacGibbon home’s small vestibule, Alexander noticed no servant appeared to welcome them, or even to inquire after their business. If they’d been a gang of ruffians bursting into the house with mayhem on their minds, there was no one to say them nay.

  “Weel, did ye see the English envoys?” A voice like the scrape of a fingernail on slate called from an adjacent parlor. “Their leader is a fat, wee toad of a man, is he no’? Told ye, I did. Got it from Lady Kilgore who met Lord Rankin herself once in Londontown when she was a slip of a girl and he a spotty-faced boy from Eton. People dinna change that much o’er the years. Might’ve saved yerselves a drenching, but ye wouldna listen.”

  Miss MacOwen cast Alexander a self-deprecating grimace and turned to her sisters. “Hie yourselves upstairs to pack. I’ll introduce Lord Bonniebroch and Sir Bertram to Aunt Hester and be with ye directly.”

  Aileen and Mary disappeared up the stairs with a rustle of petticoats and flurry of skirts.

  “Dinna stand there dripping on the threshold, ye wee ninnies,” the scraping voice came again, more strident this time. “Catch yer death, ye will and ye’ll no’ see me shed a tear. Nary a one, because I told ye so and ye wouldna heed me. Now, trundle yerselves in here.”

  On second thought, perhaps not having servants for security was no hardship, Alex decided. Knowledgeable ruffians undoubtedly gave Hester MacGibbon a wide berth.

  Alexander followed Miss MacOwen into the dimly lit parlor. Heavily swathed in a lap rug and shawl, an old woman was cocooned in a cushioned chair near the smoky peat fire. Her face was the color of candle wax and seemed to have melted like one as well. Heavy jowls dripped onto her neck and the skin beneath them was crumpled as a crepe funeral wreath. She turned her head toward them, that slight movement the only indication that the wrinkled flesh bundled in wool was still alive. Pale eyes that might once have been blue narrowed in speculation when her gaze fell on Alexander and Clarindon.

  “Ye’ll never guess who we met at the ship, Auntie,” Miss MacOwen said, forced cheerfulness making her voice tight.

  “Ye silly girl, ye met these two eejits, o’ course. I may be old, but I’m no’ blind, ye know.”

  “She’s really quite precious once ye get to know her,” Miss MacOwen whispered.

  “And I’m no’ deaf either,” Aunt Hester said, threading the tasseled ends of the shawl through her gnarled fingers. “May the devil come to claim me on the day I count myself ‘precious.’ Now tell me why ye’ve darkened me door with the likes of yon MacGregor. Ye know I’ve no truck with such.”

  “He’s no’ a MacGregor. Weel, he’s no’ only a MacGregor,” Miss MacOwen said, bending to straighten the lap rug over the old woman’s knees. “He’s also laird of Bonniebroch.” She looked at him with such a winsome smile, Alexander’s chest constricted. “My betrothed.”

  “About that,” Alexander said. He’d as soon whip a pup with a newspaper as dash a lady’s hopes, but the quicker he put paid to this ridiculous notion of a betrothal the better. “I fear there’s been a terrible mistake.”

  “Oh, aye?” Aunt Hester’s brows wriggled like a pair of wooly caterpillars meeting over her bulbous nose.

  “Aye—I mean yes.” It irritated him how quickly Scottish-isms sprang to his lips. He’d always tried to distance himself from his Gaelic side, but it poked out its head with disturbing frequency. “You see, I have only just become Lord Bonniebroch. I won the title from the previous owner, Sir Darren MacMartin, in a fair game of chance. As I was not informed of this . . . arrangement, doubtless the original Bonniebroch intends to honor his agreement,” Alexander explained. “Surely MacMartin is the one to whom Miss MacOwen is betrothed.”

  In the silence that followed, Alexander was aware of the loud tick of the long case clock in the hall, the hissing gasses escaping from the peat fire, and the sharp intake of breath from Miss MacOwen.

  “Weel, we’ll just see about that, shall we?” The old woman’s features contorted into an alarming expression Alexander feared might be an attempt at a smile. “Lucinda, trot ye back to the kitchen and fetch some refreshments for the gentlemen. Tea and bannocks, I’m thinkin’ and a tot of rum for me. Rheumatism, ye know.”

  She held out her twisted fingers for Alexander’s inspection, but he suspected she’d have the rum regardless of his opinion of her need for it.

  “But before ye go, lamb,” Aunt Hester said to Lucinda, “be a dear and take the key from me neck. Do ye unlock the desk and bring me the copy of the marriage contract. We’ll sort this out, aye?”

  Alexander had stood before a French brigade without cowering. He’d slipped behind enemy lines and liberated battle plans from a general’s own tent while the man slept on his cot. Once he’d planned and executed a successful jailbreak in time to save one of the king’s cousins from an ignominious hanging in France.

  No one doubted his courage.

  But the way in which Hester MacGibbon said “marriage contract” made Alexander’s balls tighten and try to climb
back up into his body for protection.

  Oh, God, he doesna want me. Lucinda’s belly coiled in knots as she fled the simmering turmoil in the parlor for the homey safety of the kitchen.

  Aunt Hester had let all her servants go on holiday when Lucy and her sisters arrived in Edinburgh. The old skinflint thought to save a little money by putting her great-nieces to work instead. For once, Lucinda was grateful there was no one else in the kitchen. It meant there was no one to whom she’d have to explain her glistening eyes and high color. She lit a fire in the cast-iron stove and filled the kettle at the sink, working the pump handle with ferocity.

  Once she set the kettle to boil, Lucinda reached into her pocket and pulled out the book she’d picked up in a shop off Leicester Square when she’d visited London with her father. It was a silly extravagance. Books were so very dear, but she couldn’t resist using the last of her pin money for this one. She ran her fingertips over the title.

  The Knowledgeable Ladies’ Guide to Eligible Gentlemen.

  She flipped immediately to the “M’s” and located the information about Alexander Mallory.

  “Lord Alexander Mallory, b. 1794. Second son of the Marquis of Maldren,” she read silently.

  He’ll have more than two coins to rub together, I’ll be bound.

  Lucinda shook her head. No good could come from imagining more about the fellow. Hadn’t he already made it apparent that he didn’t want her?

  There was no point to reading on, but she couldn’t help herself.

  “Near the top of every marriage-minded mama’s short list of eligibles, Lord Alexander’s name occupies a well-deserved spot. He is courtly, quick of wit, and has an excellent seat on a horse. The excellent seat of his trousers is not to be lightly dismissed either.”

  Lucinda’s cheeks heated. She hadn’t encountered listings of such an earthy bent before this when she leafed through the guidebook. But the creeping blush didn’t make her stop reading.

  “When Lord Alexander sets himself to charm, any woman in his path will be hard-pressed not to be swept along by his dangerous allure.”

  Lucinda could testify to that. The man had quite taken her breath away. Thank heaven his less remarkable friend was there, too. Sir Bertram Clarindon was a comfortable sort.

  Still, her gaze was drawn back to the guide for more information about the decidedly uncomfortable Lord Alexander.

  “However, the young Mallory has never, to this observer’s certain knowledge, debauched a virgin or ruined an otherwise reputable widow. That in itself is hearty commendation for someone so closely attached to the dissolute court of King George IV.”

  Not having debauched a virgin or ruined a widow is setting the bar for good behavior rather low. Seems they’re damning him with faint praise.

  But it didn’t stop her from reading on.

  “Well-informed readers will recall the unpleasantness about his mother years ago, but in truth, the least said about that, the better. Neither of the marquis’s sons has shown any propensity for madness. Lord Alexander may be safely regarded a thorough catch by one and all.”

  Madness in the family is no impediment, eh? I wonder what it would take for The Ladies’ Guide to Eligible Gentlemen to disqualify someone.

  Then Lucinda’s gaze fell on the last line of the entry.

  “However, Lord Alexander shows no signs of allowing himself to be caught.”

  “That he doesna.” She closed the book with a snap. “No’ even when he’s presented with a legal betrothal.”

  Her chest had swelled with bewildered happiness when she learned the fine lad she’d admired turned out to be her betrothed. A small candle of hope flickered in her heart. Now that he claimed the betrothal was a mistake, that flame was completely guttered. She leaned against the sink, bracing herself with both arms to keep from collapsing to the stone floor.

  “No’ just a mistake. A terrible mistake, he says.” A small sob escaped her throat as she swiped away an angry tear.

  “Now, now, lassie, ye ought no’ to cry. No’ over the likes of a MacGregor,” Brodie MacIver said, hovering comfortably above the plate rail that ringed the small room near the ceiling.

  “What makes you think I’m crying over him?” she hissed.

  “Are ye forgettin’ how well I ken yer mind?”

  “’Tis apparent I’ve sought your counsel too often over the years, but I’ll no’ be needin’ it the now. I’ll thank ye to tend to your own business, Brodie.”

  “Fine. Have it yer way, lass. I’ll just nip back into the parlor and scare the living lights out of the lad. He’ll no’ be makin’ ye cry again if I have anythin’ to say about it.”

  “Ye’ll do no such thing.”

  “Ye wish me to tend to me own business.” Brodie sank down from his reclining position near the ceiling, coming to rest with the soles of his booted feet almost, but not quite, touching the flagstones. His belted plaid billowed in a nonexistent breeze. “Seein’ to yer protection is the only business I have.”

  Lucinda turned from him to arrange fresh bannocks on a plate, lest he see what his support meant to her. Brodie had made no secret of the fact that he wanted her match to fail, but his devotion to her was a balm to her bruised spirit in any case. She’d have hugged him if such a thing were possible with a ghost.

  However, for her family’s sake, Lu had to find a way to go forward with the marriage. Her father desperately needed the financial settlement specified in the contract. Lucinda’s elevation to “her ladyship” would increase her sisters’ chances for good matches. And most especially, Dougal might be saved from a hemp necktie by virtue of this union. The marriage must proceed, whether she had a willing bridegroom or not.

  Whether her ghostly protector approved or not.

  “Hear me well, Brodie MacIver,” she said softly. It wouldn’t do for anyone to catch her talking to herself in the kitchen. A body could get a reputation for being touched in the head in short order. “Ye’ll no’ show yourself to Lord Bonniebroch. Ye’ll no’ set his boots afire nor send your cold breath down the back of his neck. If I hear ye’ve played even one of your fox’s tricks on him, I’ll . . . I’ll—”

  “Ye’ll what?” Brodie swirled around her, his bearded face gleaming with smugness. “No’ much ye can threaten a ghost with, is there? I’m already deid, ye ken.”

  “If ye haunt Lord Bonniebroch,” she said evenly, “I’ll never speak to ye again.”

  Brodie stopped circling and paled whiter than his usual spectral self.

  “Ye wouldna.”

  “Try me.”

  Brodie pressed his lips tightly together and steam spewed out his ears. To someone who didn’t know him well, it would have seemed a horrendous sight. Lucinda merely arched a bored brow.

  “Dinna think to scare me with a tantrum,” Lucinda said tartly as she poured up a bit of rum for her aunt. “If ye wish my good opinion of ye to continue, help me instead. What am I to do to make Lord Bonniebroch take a liking to me?”

  Brodie grumbled under his breath about ungrateful wenches and their persnickety ways as he floated back up to the ceiling again and made a slow circuit of the room.

  “’Tis no’ that there’s anything wrong with ye, ye ken. Ye’re a right fetching lassie. Even yon dunderheid in the parlor canna keep his eyes off ye.”

  She looked up at him in surprise.

  “Oh, aye, a lass might take no’ notice, but a man can tell when another fellow fancies a girl.”

  Lord Bonniebroch didn’t fancy her. He’d all but rejected her entirely. “Ye’re no’ a man, Brodie. No’ any more. Ye dinna ken what ye’re talking about.”

  “But I was a man. And some things dinna die with the rest. I tell ye, yon Lord Bonniebroch may be fightin’ on the hook but the way he looks at ye when ye dinna see . . .”

  “What about it?”

  “Let’s just say ’tis a look filled with imagination.”

  “Imagination?”

  “Aye. Ofttimes a woman’s best asset
is a man’s imagination and yon laddie is imagining ye fit to burst.”

  Lucinda considered this astounding idea as she fetched some clotted cream for the bannocks and milk for the tea from the cool larder. “Imagining me doing what?”

  “Doin’ most anything long as ye’re bare as an egg whilst ye’re doin’ it.”

  “Brodie MacIver! I’ll thank ye to keep a civil tongue in your head. I’m sure Lord Bonniebroch thinks of no such thing.”

  The ghost made a derisive sound. If he’d been alive, Lucinda would have been hard-pressed to guess which end of him it issued from.

  “If he doesna fancy seein’ ye parade around in naught but yer skin, then he’s no’ much of a man. Answer me honest, lass. Can ye tell me truly ye havena wondered what he looks like beneath his blasted MacGregor plaid?”

  Heat crept up her neck and flamed her cheeks. What was hidden under Alexander Mallory’s plaid-swathed jacket and tight-fitting trousers had tickled her imagination even before she learned he was her intended. She turned her attention back to the tray and furiously rearranged the napkins.

  “If, as ye claim, he’s doing this imagining about me, why is he trying to cry off on our betrothal?”

  “That I dinna ken, but ’tis no’ because he doesna like ye. Part of him likes ye fine.”

  Lucinda sighed. She knew she ought not to hope for anything more in an arranged match, but mere liking seemed such a pale imitation of what she really craved.

  Love. Ungovernable. Overturning. All-else-be-damned love.

  Finding it in a union with Lord Bonniebroch seemed as unlikely a prospect as sprouting a pair of wings.

  “How do I make certain he sticks to his word and honors the contract?”

  “Have no fear. Yer aunt will see to that.” Brodie shivered, his diaphanous form shimmering in the air. “No man can stand before that auld dragon.”

  “That’s no good.” She’d steeled herself to bear a loveless marriage, but one with an unwilling bridegroom was beyond her comprehension. “I’ll no’ force the man to the altar.”

  “A lass doesna have to force a man to marry her. She only has to torment him into it.”