Lady Louisa's Christmas Knight (32 page)

Watch for Grace Burrowes's new Scottish

Victorian series beginning with

Available December 2012

From Sourcebooks Casablanca

“It is a truth universally acknowledged that a single, reasonably good-looking earl not in possession of a fortune must be in want of a wealthy wife.”

Ian MacGregor repeated Aunt Eulalie's reasoning under his breath. The words had the ring of old-fashioned common sense, and yet they somehow made a mockery of such an earl as well.

Possibly of the wife too. As Ian surveyed the duo of tittering, simpering, blond females debarking from the train on the arm of their scowling escort, he sent up a silent prayer that his countess would be neither reluctant nor managing, but other than that, he could not afford—in the most literal sense—to be particular.

His wife could be homely, or she could be fair. She could be a recent graduate from the schoolroom, or a lady past the first blush of youth. She could be shy or boisterous, gorgeous or plain. It mattered not which, provided she was unequivocally, absolutely, and most assuredly
rich
.

And if Ian MacGregor's bride was to be well and truly rich, she was also going to be—God help him and all those who depended on him—
English
.

For the good of his family, his clan, and the lands they held, he'd consider marrying a well-dowered Englishwoman. If that meant his own preferences in a wife—pragmatism, loyalty, kindness, and a sense of humor—went begging, well such was the laird's lot.

In the privacy of his personal regrets, Ian admitted a lusty nature in a wife and a fondness for a tall, black-haired, green-eyed Scotsman as a husband wouldn't have gone amiss either. As he waited for his brothers Gilgallon and Connor to maneuver through the throng in the Ballater station yard, Ian tucked that regret away in the vast mental storeroom reserved for such dolorous thoughts.

“I'll take the tall blond,” Gil muttered with the air of man choosing which lame horse to ride into battle.

“I'm for the little blond, then,” Connor growled, sounding equally resigned.

Ian understood the strategy. His brothers would offer escort to Miss Eugenia Daniels and her younger sister, Hester Daniels, while Ian was to show himself to be the perfect gentleman. His task thus became to offer his arms to the two chaperones who stood quietly off to the side. One was dressed in subdued if fashionable mauve, the other in wrinkled gray with two shawls, one of beige with a black fringe, the other of gray.

Ian moved away from his brothers, pasting a fatuous smile on his face.

“My lord, my ladies,
fáilte
! Welcome to Aberdeenshire!”

An older man detached himself from the blond females. The fellow sported thick muttonchop whiskers, a prosperous paunch, and the latest fashion in daytime attire. “Willard Daniels, Baron of Altsax and Gribbony.”

The baron bowed slightly, acknowledging Ian's superior if somewhat tentative rank.

“Balfour, at your service.” Ian shook hands with as much hearty bonhomie as he could muster. “Welcome to you and your family, Baron. If you'll introduce me to your womenfolk and your son, I'll make my brothers known to them, and we can be on our way.”

The civilities were observed, while Ian tacitly appraised his prospective countess. The taller blond—Eugenia Daniels—was his marital quarry, and she blushed and stammered her greetings with empty-headed good manners. She did not
appear
reluctant, which meant he could well end up married to her, provided he could dredge up sufficient charm to woo her.

And he could. Not ten years after the worst famine known to the British Isles, a strong back and a store of charm were about all that was left to him, so by God, he would use both ruthlessly to his family's advantage.

Connor and Gil comported themselves with similarly counterfeit cheer, though on Con the exercise was not as convincing. Con was happy to go all day without speaking, much less smiling, though Ian knew he, too, understood the desperate nature of their charade.

Daniels made a vague gesture in the direction of the chaperones. “My sister-in-law, Mrs. Julia Redmond. My niece, Augusta Merrick.” He turned away as he said the last, his gaze on the men unloading a mountain of trunks from the train.

Thank God Ian had thought to bring the wagon in addition to the coach. The English did set store by their finery. The baron's son, Colonel Matthew Daniels, late of Her Majesty's cavalry, excused himself from the introductions to oversee the transfer of baggage to the wagon.

“Ladies.” Ian winged an arm at each of the older women. “I'll have you on your way in no time.”

“This is so kind of you,” the shorter woman said, taking his arm. Mrs. Redmond was a pretty thing, petite, with perfect skin, big brown eyes, and rich chestnut curls peeking out from under the brim of a lavender silk cottage bonnet. Ian placed her somewhere just a shade south of thirty. A lovely age on a woman. Con would call it a dally-able age.

Only as Ian offered his other arm to the second woman did he realize she was holding a closed hatbox in one hand and a reticule in the other.

Mrs. Redmond, held out a gloved hand for the hatbox. “Oh, Gus, do give me Ulysses.”

The hatbox emitted a disgruntled yowl.

Ian felt an abrupt yearning for a not-so-wee dram, for now he'd sunk to hosting not just the wealthy English, but their dyspeptic felines as well.

“I will carry my own pet,” the taller lady said—Miss Merrick. A man who was a host for hire had to be good with names. She hunched a little more tightly over her hatbox, as if she feared her cat might be torn from her clutches by force.

“Perhaps you'd allow me to carry your bag, so I might escort you to the coach?” Ian cocked his arm at her again, a slight gesture he'd meant to be gracious.

The lady twisted her head on her neck, not straightening entirely, and peered up at him out of a pair of violet-gentian eyes. That color was completely at variance with her bent posture, her pinched mouth, the unrelieved black of her hair, the wilted gray silk of her old-fashioned coal scuttle bonnet, and even with the expression of impatience in the eyes themselves.

The Almighty had tossed even this cranky besom a bone, but these beautiful eyes in the context of this woman were as much burden as benefit. They insulted the rest of her somehow, mocked her and threw her numerous shortcomings into higher relief.

The two shawls—worn in public, no less—half slipping off her shoulders.

The hem of her gown two inches farther away from the planks of the platform than was fashionable.

The cat yowling its discontent in the hatbox.

The finger poking surreptitiously from the tip of her right glove.

Gazing at those startling eyes, Ian realized that despite her bearing and her attire, Miss Merrick was probably younger than he was, at least chronologically.

“Come, Gussie,” Mrs. Redmond said, reaching around Ian for the reticule. “We'll hold up the coach, which will make Willard difficult, and I am most anxious to see Lord Balfour's home.”

“And I am anxious to show it off to you.” Ian offered an encouraging smile.

Continue the saga of the

Windham family with

Available February 2013

From Sourcebooks Casablanca

“What you seek to accomplish, my lord, is arguably impossible.”

Earnest Hooker shuffled files at his desk while he sat i
n judgment of the Marquis of Deene's aspirations. When the ensuing silence stretched more than a few moments, the solicitor readjusted his neck cloth, cleared his throat, and shifted his inkwell one inch closer to the edge of the blotter centered on his gargantuan desk.

Two of his minions watched the client—whom they no doubt expected to rant and throw things in the grand family tradition—from a careful distance.

Lucas Denning, newly minted Marquis of Deene, took out the gold watch Marie had given him when he'd come down from university. The thing had stopped for lack of timely winding, but Deene made it a point to stare at his timepiece before speaking.

“Impossible, Hooker? I'm curious as to the motivation for such hyperbole from a man of the law.”

One clerk glanced nervously at the other when Hooker stopped fussing with his files.

“My lord, you cannot mean to deprive a man of the company of his legitimate offspring.” Hooker's pudgy, lily-white hands continued to fiddle with the accoutrements of his trade. “We're discussing a girl child, true, but one in her father's possession in even the simplest sense. The courts do not exist to satisfy anybody's whims, and you can't expect them to pluck that child from her father's care and place her in… in
yours
. You have no children of your own, my lord, no wife, no experience raising children, and you've yet to see to your own succession. Even were the man demented, the courts would likely consider other possibilities before placing the girl in your care.”

Deene snapped the watch shut. “I heard her mother's dying wishes. That should count for something. Wellington wrote me up in the dispatches often enough.”

One of the other men came forward, a prissier, desiccated version of Hooker, with fewer chins and less hair.

“My lord, do you proceed on dying declarations alone, that will land you in Chancery, where you'll be lucky to have the case heard before the girl reaches her majority. And endorsements of a man's wartime abilities by the Iron Duke are all well and good, but consider that raising children, most especially young girl children, should not have much in common with battling the Corsican.”

An insult lurked in that soft reply, but truth as well. Every street sweeper in London knew the futility of resorting to the Court of Chancery. The clerk had not exaggerated about the delays and idiosyncrasies of that institution.

“I'm sorry, my lord.” Hooker rose, while Deene remained seated. “We look forward to serving the marquessate in all of its legal undertakings, but in this, I'm afraid, we cannot honestly advise you to proceed.”

Deene got to his feet, taking small satisfaction from being able to look down his nose, quite literally, at the useless ciphers whose families he kept housed and fed. “Draw up the pleadings anyway.”

He stalked out of the room, the urge to destroy something, to pitch Hooker's idiot files into the fire, to snatch up the fireplace poker and lay about with it, nigh overcoming his self-discipline.

“My lord?”

The third man had the temerity to follow Deene from the room, which was going to serve as a wonderful excuse for Deene's long-denied display of frustration—a marquis did
not
have tantrums—when Deene realized the man was carrying a pair of well-made leather gloves.

“My thanks.” Deene snatched the gloves from the man's hand, but to his consternation, the fellow held onto the gloves for a bit, making for a short tug-of-war.

“If your lordship has one more moment?”

The clerk let the gloves go. The exchange had been bizarre enough to penetrate Deene's ire, mostly because, between Hooker & Sons and the Marquis of Deene, obsequies were the order of the day and had been for generations.

“Speak.” Deene pulled on a glove. “You're obviously ready to burst with some crumb of legal wisdom your confreres were not inclined to share.”

“Not legal wisdom, my lord.” The man glanced over his shoulder at the closed door behind them. “Simple common sense. You'll not be able to wrest the girl from her father through litigious means, but there are other ways.”

Yes, there were. Most of them illegal, dangerous, and unethical—but tempting.

Deene yanked on the second glove. “If I provoke him to a duel, Dolan stands an even chance of putting out my lights, sir, a consummation my cousin and sole heir claims would serve him very ill. I doubt I'd enjoy it myself.”

This fellow was considerably younger than the other two, with an underfed, scholarly air about him and a pair of wire-rimmed glasses gracing his nose. The man drew himself up as if preparing for oral argument.

“I do not advocate murder, my lord, but every man, every person, has considerations motivating them. The girl's father is noted to be mindful of his social standing and his wealth.”

Vulgarly so.
“Your point?”

“If you offer him something he wants more than he wants to torment you over the girl, he might part with her. The problem isn't legal. The solution might not be legal either.”

If there was sense in what the young man was saying, Deene was too angry to parse it out.

“My thanks. I will consider the
not legal
alternatives, as you suggest. Good day.”

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