Kathryn Caskie - [Royle Sisters 02] (4 page)

D
amn you, Apsley!
Laird’s head began to spin like a wagered guinea on the table.

Color trickled from the countess’s face, along with all trace of readable expression. “I b-beg your pardon, Apsley. Did you say my son’s betrothed?
Laird’s?
”

“I did.” Apsley’s mouth spread into a satisfied grin as he gestured to Laird with the very nose that the earl fully intended to smash. “Tell her. Go on,” he prodded.

His mother shook her head slowly, as if she hadn’t quite decided on the truth of Apsley’s inane claim. “No, no, no. This is utter folly. I am sure of it,” she finally said, though not quite convincingly enough.

The countess lifted her quizzing glass and
studied the pale young woman standing before her. She held her words for several breaths before speaking again. “I must say, this is rather difficult to believe. Especially after—” Mindful of the crowd inside the room and hovering in the passage beyond, however, she stifled her remark—a tiny blessing for which Laird was truly grateful.

“This cannot be true.” The lack of sureness in her statement was undeniable now. The countess shifted her gaze to rest upon Laird. The edges of her lips twitched mischievously. “But son, you have changed so much this past year…can this be true? Can it? I know you have always been one for games, but please, Laird, I must know.”

He couldn’t meet his mother’s gaze.
Damn it all
. Not while the miss was looking over her shoulder at him, her golden eyes pleading with him for help.

Sod it
. Just what was he to do now? Lie to his mother? Laugh at Apsley’s poorly dealt joke and ruin the miss forever in the process?

Hell, his mind was as blank as the Monday morning gambling slate at White’s.

Laird blinked and opened his mouth, but then snapped it shut again. His mind was too mud
dled with drink. The words would not come. There was no right answer.

“Well, then, what say
you
, miss?” The formidable countess released Laird from her assessing gaze and turned to the trembling young woman. She stepped threateningly closer to her.

Somehow, though, the miss kept her footing firm. And though it was hard to know, given Laird’s less-than-choice vantage behind her, judging from the surprised expression on his mother’s face, the miss must have raised her startling gold eyes and pierced the older woman’s gaze.

The countess dropped her quizzing glass, sending it sliding down its chain to dangle at her bosom. Her patience was at an end. “Well, gel? Have you a tongue?”

Laird hurried forward toward the young woman.

She did not reply immediately, but as Laird neared, he saw that her gaze frantically searched the crowd at the door before fixing upon a portly gentleman. A silent stream of words seemed to pass between them. Then the man nodded to her from amid the rapidly growing crowd of onlookers, and she nodded ever so slightly in response.

And then it happened.

The lass honored his mother by dropping a deep curtsy. When she rose again, a transformation had occurred, for her tone was level and sure. Gone was the quivering, fearful miss of only a moment ago, and in her place stood a strong, confident young woman.

“I assure you, I am quite capable of speaking, Lady MacLaren.” She smiled brightly. “I am Miss Anne Royle, late of Cornwall, now residing in Berkeley Square with my great-aunt and sister.”

Laird did not miss the quick glance Miss Royle gave him, as if making sure he had heard her name.

“Are you my son’s intended, Miss Royle?” the countess demanded to know. “Answer me, child. Now is not the time for folly.”

“Yes, Lady MacLaren.” She squared her shoulders then, and straightened her back. “
I am his betrothed
. He asked me for a moment alone, and we came in here for but an instant—and then he asked for my hand. How fortuitous for us both that you, Lady MacLaren, have arrived to share our joyous moment.”

“Oh yes, quite fortuitous,” Apsley chimed in
as he waggled his eyebrows mockingly at Laird.

“Joyous, are you, gel?” The countess lifted her chin and peered up into Miss Royle’s face. “Then why did you scream?”

Miss Royle angled her head downward and looked at the much shorter countess, and then she raised her head and surveyed her audience. She laughed softly. “Oh my. I daresay, is that what drove the party up the staircase?”

“Yes, Miss Royle,” Apsley said, “though it took a few minutes to ascertain from which chamber the cry had originated.” He brought a foot forward and leaned close. “Why
did
you scream?”

“Why, from excitement, of course.” She turned, spread her arms wide, and addressed the crowd beyond. “The Earl of MacLaren is going to marry
me
—Anne Royle—a simple miss from Cornwall. Is there any lady amongst your numbers who would not have cried out with…um…
exhilaration
?”

Mamas looked questioningly at their daughters, husbands at their wives. And as if cued, they all shook their heads.

“And you, Lady MacLaren. Certainly you of all gentle people would understand what a great honor your son has bestowed by offering for me.”

Within a breath, his mother’s countenance transmogrified from pinched and angry to accepting, and finally to beaming brightly with happiness.

Blast!
Laird could not believe what he was witnessing. Was Miss Royle in league with Apsley in some grand scheme to win their wager? No, this mad string of events was beyond even Apsley’s ability.

Damn it all.

This is not happening.

Ominous black specks ringed Laird’s head like a murder of ravens.

He had been wrong earlier. The night could have gotten worse. Much, much worse.

And by God, it had.

The next hour was a complete blur to Anne. Though that was certainly for the best.

Had she any time to contemplate the consequences of claiming to be the Earl of MacLaren’s betrothed—an act worthy of plopping her straight into Bedlam—she might have instead flung open the sash and leapt slippers-first from the bedchamber window.

Yes, had she thought about it,
really
thought
about it, she would have infinitely preferred risking a few snapped bones to subjecting herself to the paste smiles and leering judgmental looks the
ton
would eventually bequeath her—when they learned the truth of her lie.

But she had had no choice. None at all.

Thank heavens she had an ally. For the moment, anyway.

Not the earl, her rakish, inebriated, unwitting partner in this night’s horribly botched crime.

No, her ardent supporter, as unlikely as it was, was none other than the esteemed Lady MacLaren herself.

For it had been only an instant after Anne uttered her great untruth that the countess had whirled about and faced the gathering. “Please, please,” she had called out, reducing the excited chatter in the room to a few whispers. “Let us all retire to the drawing room—to celebrate!” she sang out happily.

A mite too happily.

The countess’s hawkish gaze flitted upon each individual in the crowd, almost as though she were taking mental note of the lucky few who had managed to make their way inside the bed
chamber to witness the spectacularly scandalous goings-on.

“Come, now, I believe a toast is in order,” she twittered as she excitedly waved her gloved hands, shooing the hovering group back into the short passage. There they merged with a growing wave of curious members of the
ton
, and then, after an impervious nod from the countess, were swept back down the staircase by an army of stern liveried footmen.

Anne, realizing her opportunity for escape lay in this moment, had made for the staircase and attempted to plunge into the ebbing tide of confused guests. But her effort was futile. Lady MacLaren had nabbed her in an instant.

“Not
you
, my dear Miss Royle.” The Lady MacLaren’s surprisingly strong hand gripped Anne’s upper arm. “You must come with me to my bedchamber. We have much to discuss.”

Before Anne had realized what was happening, she was sitting before a petite dressing table, and the countess’s own French lady’s maid was busily coiling and repinning her hair, lightly powdering her face, and rouging her cheeks.

“I do not how this engagement truly came about, Miss Royle, but it doesn’t matter to me in
the least anymore. In fact, the less I know about the horrid details, so much the better.” Lady MacLaren snapped her fingers at her lady’s maid. “Pull her hair up tighter, and smooth down that waviness. I need her to appear elegant and polished. Do you understand?”

“Oui
, madame,” the maid muttered.

“You and my son were caught alone in the darkness of his bedchamber. I do not know why you were there or for how long, but that is of no consequence. This delicate situation must be addressed carefully and quickly if we are to stop tongues from wagging and soiling your name—and ours.”

Anne had no clue what the countess was meaning to do, but at least the woman was aware that there was no true engagement. “Oh, I am so glad you understand. I was concerned you were not aware that this talk of our betrothal is naught but—”

“Miss Royle”—the countess raised her hand and stopped Anne’s words—“it matters not. Do not force me to repeat my words. Our course is set now, for I vow, I will not be disgraced again. Not
again
, do you understand me, Miss Royle?”

Anne furrowed her brow. “A-actually no, I don’t understand, Lady MacLaren.”

But the countess paid her comment no heed. Instead she turned her droopily lidded eyes upon Anne. “Your bone structure shows breeding, and your height—why, one might say you have almost a regal bearing.”

“Th-thank you, Lady MacLaren.” Anne resisted the urge to slump her shoulders in defeat and sat up straight and tall upon the tufted stool.

Suddenly the countess jerked Anne to her feet. “Stand up, gel, so Solange can see to your lacings.

“Yes, you are quite a lovely woman. That is something at least.” The countess sighed loudly. “I must admit, from the first I saw you, dear, your countenance reminded me somewhat of my own in younger years. You are quite fetching. I can see why my Laird would show you favor.” The mounts of the countess’s plump cheeks rose up as she grimaced, pressing her eyes to thin slits. “Oh, he knows just how to vex me. Always has.”

Anne stared at the countess as the shorter woman began to pace the bedchamber. It did not
seem to Anne that the countess was addressing her, so much as she was indulging herself in a bombastic rant.

The older woman’s hand chopped the air as if she were lopping off heads. “If only he would have considered a proper engagement this time. But there is no help for it now, is there? It is done and we must all live with the consequences. The fact remains that society expects a wedding, and a wedding we shall have.”

“A wedding?
” Surely the countess could not expect her and the earl to marry just so that the grand Lady MacLaren could avoid embarrassment! He was a rake, a cad of the worst sort. His reputation was as black as boot polish! “You are not serious, Lady MacLaren. I cannot—”

Solange pressed Anne’s shoulder and sat her down on the stool once more. “
Parfum
,” the lady’s maid whispered as she opened a vial of scent.

“I am always serious, Miss Royle, and the sooner you realize that this is no trifling matter, so much the better.” The countess came to stand behind her and spoke to Anne’s reflection in the mirror. “It’s high time Laird took a wife and assumed his position in this family seriously. Told
him so, thrice this very day. So, although yours was not the proper, well-planned betrothal announcement I had hoped for my son, a quick wedding is the best solution for us all.”

“I cannot do this. I will not have my reputation sullied by a connection with him!” Anne turned, gingerly caught the countess’s hand, and peered up into the older woman’s surprised eyes. She held her gaze firmly. “I
will
not.”

Lady MacLaren stared down at Anne and gave a haughty laugh. “My dear, you have no choice in this. This is the only way to save your status. If you do not marry my son, your reputation will be irreparably damaged.”

Heat sprang into Anne’s eyes. “You do not understand. I will not marry the earl. I have heard of him, of course, but I do not even know him.”

“No, Miss Royle. It is quite evident to me that
you
do not understand. You—
and
the sister you mentioned to me—will be ruined. Completely ruined. No family will wish a connection with the Royle sisters. Think of her, if you will not consider yourself.”

Anne released her grip, pulling her hand away from Lady MacLaren’s. She turned around and stared blankly into the hazy vanity mirror.

She would not go through with this. She had not come all the way from Cornwall to prove her noble heritage, only to be connected with the most despicable rake in the realm. She could not. No, there had to be another way.

It was then that she noticed that the countess had become uncharacteristically silent.

Anne looked up. Lud, the older woman was studying her again in the mirror’s silver reflection. No part of Anne’s body seemed to escape her scrutiny.

“Good hips,” the countess murmured to herself. “Birthing an heir should be no problem.”

Bitterly, Anne realized she felt like a calf at a Cornwall livestock market. Heat shot into her cheeks. How dare the countess assess her person in such a way! This was humiliating.

What next? Would Lady MacLaren ask her to open her mouth and show her teeth?

Then Anne saw that Lady MacLaren’s expression was not critical at all, which was queer to say the least, given the fact that Anne had been exposed in her son’s bedchamber only minutes ago.

Anne leaned closer to the mirror and looked hard at Lady MacLaren’s visage. Why, the count
ess was nodding her head approvingly. La, she almost appeared
appreciative
.

Anne lurched back on the plump stool and turned her body completely around to look at her.