McAlistair's Fortune (24 page)

“He didn’t murder anyone—”

“That we know of.”

“From the sound of it, a man like that would have bragged. And that’s beside the point. You don’t suffer from
nerves.”
Kate accented the last with a roll of her eyes.

“Well, I might. I—” Evie gave up the fight and sat down heavily next to Kate on the bed. “Oh, all right. It’s McAlistair.”

“What about him?”

“I’m in love with him.” Oh, it hurt just to say.

Kate’s face expressed shock for a moment before it brightened. She gave one long, dramatic sigh. “Oh, that’s lovely.”

“It certainly is not.”

“Is so,” Kate countered in the silly way only sisters can manage. “I should dearly love to fall in love with someone.”

“You were in love with Lord Martin not three years ago,” Evie reminded her. “And look what that got you.”

“It got me my first kiss,” Kate countered. “And I rather doubt I was in love with him. In retrospect, I believe I merely had a long-standing
tendre
for him.”

Evie couldn’t think of anything else to say but, “You told me he kissed like a fish drowning on land.”

“He does, or did, which is why I no longer have a
tendre
for him.” She scooted a little closer. “Have you kissed McAlistair?”

And a great deal more. “Yes.”

“And?”

Sophie’s appearance at the door kept Evie from responding.

“What’s all this?” Sophie asked.

“Evie’s in love with McAlistair.”

“Kate!”

“Well, you are, and you would have told her.”

True and true. “You could have given me the opportunity to do so for myself.”

Completely unrepentant, Kate leaned over to deliver a kind pat to her knee. “I’ll leave it to you to tell Mirabelle.”

“Thank you so much.”

Sophie sat down on the other side of Evie with a dreamy sigh. “Hmm. McAlistair. He’s a fine one to look at, isn’t he? All that dark and broody…” She waved her hand about. “…what have you.”

That statement was met with wide-eyed silence. Sophie blinked at her friends. “What?”

“You’re married,” Kate said. “Happily married.”

Sophie studied the gold band on her finger. “Oddly enough, it hasn’t struck me blind as of yet.” When the other women only continued to stare—Kate in a fascinated sort of way, and Evie with a slightly suspicious scowl—Sophie laughed and dropped her hand. “A happily married woman can appreciate a handsome man without being attracted to him. I suppose you’ll discover that for yourself soon enough,” she added to Evie.

Though her scowl remained in place, suspicion was replaced by misery and frustration. “Not if things continue to progress as they have been,” she grumbled. “He told me…he told me I need
keeping.”

The pouring of outrage that followed went a very long way toward soothing Evie’s pride. She suspected some of the outrage was a direct result of—and perhaps targeted at—Whit and Alex’s own brand of keeping for the last two days, but a shared indignation only added to the sense of camaraderie.

The three spent the next hour sharing Evie’s tray of food and condemning all men for their monstrous arrogance.

It was most satisfying.

And it was most disappointing when Kate announced it was time for her to seek an early bed. Evie couldn’t imagine trying to sleep at present, and she certainly didn’t care for the idea of sitting up alone without the laughter of her friends to distract her from the ache in her heart.

But she couldn’t ask Kate to stay. Not when she’d ridden all this way only to learn she’d be turning around and riding all the way back the next day.

“I suppose you must be exhausted,” Evie commented to Sophie when Kate had gone.

“Rather. But I wished to discuss something with you before I find my own bed.” She cleared her throat and gave Evie a hard look. “I was downstairs in the parlor with Mrs. Summers just now, and she told me the single most unbelievably, outrageously, ridiculous thing.”

“Oh, dear.”

“Matchmaking, Evie?” Sophie huffed out a breath. “Honestly.”

“Well, it’s not as far-fetched as all that.”

“It’s more. However did you come up with such an implausible theory?”

“Implaus—” She gaped, simply gaped. “I heard them, with my own ears, discussing the death-bed promise to Rockeforte, the threatening letter they would send, my intended rescuer—”

“The promise?” Sophie started at little. “You know of it? All of it?”

“Yes…well, nearly all.”

“Oh.” She blinked rapidly for a moment. “And you heard them plotting to send you a letter like the one you received, and a gentleman to rescue—”

“Yes.”

“Oh,” Sophie repeated and turned narrowed eyes in the general direction of the parlor. “She neglected to mention that bit.”

It wasn’t a
bit;
it was the whole bloody thing. “What
did
she tell you?”

Sophie had the grace to wince. “Only that you’d taken it into your head that the whole affair was nothing more than a ruse to see you matched. She never quite got around to mentioning why.”

“You could have asked.”

“Yes, well.” Sophie fidgeted a little. “Questioning her doesn’t come naturally to me.”

“You’re a duchess,” Evie pointed out.

“But she was my governess. Also, she gets that look. You must know the one I mean. With the haughty brows and…” Sophie titled her chin up and stared down at Evie. “Not quite an accurate impression, I’ll grant you. I haven’t the nose for it. But—”

“I know the one you mean,” Evie admitted with a small laugh. “Lady Thurston has a similar expression.”

“Doesn’t she just? Though Kate seems to be less affected by it of late.” She dismissed that last thought with a shake of her head. “I
am
sorry for the hasty judgment, Evie.”

“No harm done.” She slipped an arm over Sophie’s shoulders for a brief hug. “Although, if you were to explain why a deathbed promise to Rockeforte required I make a trip to the altar, it would go a very long way to appeasing my indignation.”

Sophie laughed and scooted back on the bed to rest comfortably against the headboard. “It’s a simple enough, if ridiculous, matter. William Fletcher promised—or was tricked into promising, to hear him tell it—into seeing that each of you found love.”

“Each of—”

“Alex, Mirabelle, Whit, yourself, and Kate. The story goes, he considered all of you the children of his heart.”

“Did he?” With nothing else to occupy her hands, Evie found herself picking idly at the bedspread. “I barely knew the man.”

“Hardly follows that he shouldn’t have known you.”

“Yes, I suppose, but…it seems so odd, really. I…” She trailed off, uncertain what to say.

“You would have been a small girl when he died, correct? Only just come from your mother’s home?”

Evie nodded.

“I should think that a child’s perception is very different from an adult’s.” Sophie tilted her head. “Do you love Henry?”

“Your son? Of course, how can you ask—?”

“For the purpose of illustration. What if you were not to see him again for twenty years? Would you love him still?”

“With all my heart.”

“And yet he might have no idea who you are,” Sophie said softly.

“I…that’s true. Dreadfully maudlin but true.” She picked at the bedspread a moment longer. “He loved me.”

“Like a father.”

“A father.” It was a tremendous revelation that a man, a good man, had loved her as a daughter. Loved her well enough that he had thought of her, of her happiness, on his very deathbed. Suddenly, the matchmaking ruse seemed not at all silly. Rather, it seemed a priceless gift.

“Whit has told me he was the best of men,” she said quietly.

“Alex tells me he was the best of fathers.”

It would seem that he had been.

The return journey to Haldon might have been an enjoyable experience for Evie. The weather remained fine, she had a comfortable carriage from Charplins to ride in, and Kate, Sophie, and Mrs. Summers to keep her company. But despite these luxuries, Evie was hard-pressed to find any real pleasure in the journey.

She exchanged no more than a few words in passing with McAlistair for the entire trip. She asked after his wound. He assured her it didn’t trouble him. She offered a seat in the carriage should he tire, but he declined. He rode beside the carriage, was distantly polite during their stops, and took meals in his room at the inn.

It was maddening to have him so near but not be able to speak to him or touch him or shove him off his horse.

Bloody “keeping.”

She waited for him to apologize. Waited for him to admit he was wrong and make amends.

She waited for him to give her some sign that he respected her, that he trusted her, that he
loved
her.

But in the end, he simply left her on the front steps of Haldon, surrounded by her friends and family and staff.

He bowed just once. “If you need me, Whit knows where to find me.”

Then he remounted his horse and rode away.

S
he would come today.

Hands clasped behind his back, jaw set, and a line of worry etched across his brow, McAlistair stared out the front window of what might
loosely
be called his front parlor and told himself what he had been telling himself for the last four days.

Evie would come today.

He was certain of it. Why else would he have cleaned the cabin from top to bottom? Why else would he have furnished it with an actual bed and settee and dishes? She would want those things. She would need them while they lived in the cabin and waited for their new house to be built.

Wouldn’t she?

“Bloody hell.”

He spun away from the window, tired of looking out at the narrow drive and seeing only trees and dirt. He couldn’t stand the wait anymore. He couldn’t stand the
silence.

She had ruined that for him, he thought darkly. She had taken away the pleasure of solitude. It had been a refuge for him. It had been peaceful and restorative.

Now it seemed only empty.

He took up pacing the small room in a show of nerves that had recently become routine rather than exceptional.

He needed to hear her voice, damn it. He needed to see her smile, hear her laugh, taste her lips. He needed to touch her, to breathe her in…

It would be lemons and mint. He bit back a groan at that recurring thought. Now that she was back at Haldon with her own things, she would once again smell and taste of lemons and mint.

The idea of it was driving him mad. He’d woken up every damn night since returning, certain he could smell that intoxicating combination. And every damn time he had lain awake afterward wondering about her, worrying over her, missing her.

Was she safe? Was she happy? Did she miss him? Or had William and the others introduced her to some arrogant, pinched-faced dandy who played chess nightly and read poetry with an affected lisp?

“To hell with that.” He stormed over to the front door, yanked his overcoat off a hook on the wall, and strode outside. “To bloody hell with that.”

He
could play chess, damn it. Maybe not as well as Mr. Hunter, but he could play. He could read poetry too, if that’s what she needed. He could…well, no, he wasn’t going to fake a lisp. But he could damn well do everything else.

Anything
else, if it meant she’d come back to him…even find the words to admit he’d been wrong. That he’d acted out of fear. That he wanted her as his wife for every reason but the one he’d hurled at her. That he’d been a coward.

The ride to Haldon took no more than ten minutes, but that was long enough for McAlistair to lash down his temper and come up with a plan.

He would do things right this time. Nothing would be left to chance. Evie would have no reason to turn him away again…unless she no longer loved him.

Refusing to dwell on that fear, he left Rose in the stable and, desiring privacy for the first part of his plan, once again let himself in a side door of Haldon without being seen.

He wasn’t surprised to find Whit in his study, the door open, and his head bent over a stack of papers. When it came to running his estates, the man was as predictable as clockwork.

“I want to talk to you.”

Whit started in his chair. “Devil take it, man. Can’t you learn to knock?”

“Yes.”

Whit snorted and set down his pen. He gestured toward a chair in front of the desk. “You might as well have a seat. Care for a drink?”

“Yes. No.” Damn it, he’d never had trouble making up his mind before. “Yes.”

Whit eyed him speculatively—as well he might—but said nothing as he retrieved two glasses of brandy. He handed McAlistair one and resumed his seat. “Right then, what’s on your mind?”

“I’ve come to ask after Evie.” He’d come to ask
for
Evie, but he figured a man was allowed a bit of nerves in a moment such as this.

“Evie?” Whit set his drink down, a furrow appearing in his brow. “Chit’s been moping about the house for days.”

Pleasure warred with worry and guilt. “She happen to tell you why?”

“The girl won’t tell me anything other than that, as a member of the male species, I deserve to be slowly roasted on a thick spit over an open flame. I’d say that safely rules out any lingering distress from her trip to the coast. In fact, I’d venture to assume there’s a gentleman involved except, well, Evie’s
never
had a particularly high opinion of men. And she’s been with the lot of you for the last week.”

McAlistair steeled himself for the worst and met Whit’s eyes. “Yes. She has.”

Whit was too astute to miss what was
not
being said. His expression went from baffled to black in the space of a heartbeat. “Do I need to call you out?”

“Your choice. I want to take her as my wife.”

“That’s not what I asked you.” Whit rose from his chair. “Did you touch her?”

“Evie is a woman grown.”

“She is my cousin, unmarried, and under my care,” Whit snapped.

“And what was Mirabelle?”

Whit’s lips compressed into a thin line. McAlistair could practically hear the internal debate between defending his wife’s honor and retaining his own by telling the truth. It had to be hell on a man like Whit.

Apparently deciding that discretion really was the better part of valor, Whit sat back down, but his expression remained hard. “The fact that I may or may not be guilty of a similar transgression does not absolve you of—”

“I’m in love with her.”

It was a moment before Whit responded, and when he did, it was with a much softer and much more worried expression. “I see.”

“I’ve been in love with her for years.”

“You hardly knew her until just recently.”

“I know,” McAlistair replied with just a hint of wryness. “But I loved her.”

“I see,” Whit repeated. “And has she made her feelings known to you?”

“Yes. No.”
Damn
it. “In part.”

“That sounds something less than promising.”

“She said she loved me.”

Whit’s expression brightened. “Well, then—”

“Then referred to me as an arrogant, heartless arse.”

“Ah.” Whit’s lips curved up in a knowing smile. “Does create something of a problem. Any particular reason she’s put out with you?”

“I spoke of marriage.”

“Again, less than promising.”

“When I say ‘spoke,’ I mean ‘demanded.’”

“You demanded marriage?”

“More or less.” He shoved aside the urge to wince. “Mostly more.”

“Placing demands on Evie is the most likely way to ensure the least amount of cooperation. Demanding marriage from Evie is doubly—”

“I’m aware of it,” McAlistair cut in. “What I need to know is if I have leave to make things right with her.”

“Leave?”

The urge to wince now required a harder shove. “I am asking for permission to court your cousin.”

“But not to marry her?” Whit asked in a cool tone.

“I’d like to do things in the proper order this time.”

“Bit bloody late for that. The proper order now is marriage. And you’ll offer it, properly, as you put it, today.”

“She deserves a courtship—” He cut himself off as the meaning behind Whit’s words filtered through the rising temper. “You really want us to marry.”

“Have I left that in doubt?”

“I was uncertain you would agree to the match.”

“Why wouldn’t I? You love her and will treat her well, there seems to exist the possibility she loves you in return, and—” Whit’s expression caught somewhere between sympathetic and amused—“to be honest, I can’t make any promises where her treatment of you is concerned. I suspect she’ll drive you half mad at least once a week.”

A small bloom of hope settled in his chest. He tried not to let it grow. “You know what I’ve been.”

Whit nodded once. “Yes, and I know what you are now.”

“It could hurt your family, to have your cousin attached to the Hermit of Haldon Hall.”

“I don’t think so. You’re not the first man from a good family to become a hermit.”

“Name one,” McAlistair dared.

“Mr. John Harris.” Whit sat back in his chair. “He has spent the better part of the last century in a cave after his parents refused to allow him to marry the woman he loved. Brought his manservant along, if I’m not mistaken.”

“You made that up.”

Whit shook his head.

“His manservant.” The hope grew until it manifested in a smile. “Really?”

“Mr. Harris was good enough to give him his own cave.”

“I’ll be damned.”

“Not if you convince Evie to marry you,” Whit said darkly. “Otherwise, yes.”

Still smiling, McAlistair nodded and rose from his chair.

“You should speak to my mother about this,” Whit added. “She’s in the parlor.”

McAlistair felt a moment of raw panic. “Lady Thurston? You want me to confess all to Lady Thurston?”

Whit made a face. “I would consider it a personal favor if you were to refrain from confessing all to my mother. She’s not one for the vapors, but that conversation just might do it.” He picked up a pen from his desk and tapped it thoughtfully. “I think she would find it touching if you sought her approval of the match.”

“Of course.” He should have thought of that himself.

Whit stopped tapping the pen to give him a pointed look. “I think Evie would as well.”

“Yes, of—” He broke off, again, and for the first time in days, actually grinned. “That’s good. That’s brilliant.”

Because she was a woman, Lady Thurston’s agreement was not considered necessary. In fact, in the eyes of society, her opinion need not be sought at all. It was just the sort of inequality Evie despised. And knowing McAlistair had given Lady Thurston the respect afforded any senior male member of a family might be just the thing to soften Evie’s heart.

He would have paid that respect, anyway—at least, he would have once Whit pointed it out—but there was no reason not to enjoy the added benefit of impressing the woman he loved.

He turned to leave again, only to be stopped short of the door.

“McAlistair?”

“What?” He was in a hurry to leave.

“If you can’t convince Evie to have you, I won’t call you out.”

“Yes, fine.”

“But I will make your life a living hell.”

“I…fair enough.”

Though the idea of speaking to Lady Thurston was, in fact, brilliant, the execution of that idea was a trifle harder to appreciate. The conversation was distinctly uncomfortable. Fortunately, it was also decidedly brief. After a moment of well-hidden, but nonetheless perceivable surprise and pleasure, she settled into the business of finances and prospects. They were topics he had ready answers for. He had ample money saved from his days in the war department. Mr. Hunter had handled his investments successfully. He planned to take Evie to his cottage while he built a modest home not far from Haldon.

She adamantly refused to hear of Evie living in the hunting cabin, but relented on her position that the two of them reside at Haldon until their new home was built. She even smiled when they reached a compromise—McAlistair would let and build a house near Benton. But her smile dimmed a little when next she spoke.

“I shall be frank, Mr. McAlistair. You are not what I would have chosen for my niece.”

He kept his gaze steady and unapologetic. “Yes, I know.”

“I had someone a bit…softer in mind. An academic or a poet.”

“I understand.” He didn’t really. Bloody hell, a soft-spoken, nose-in-a-book, milquetoast for Evie? She’d run roughshod over him in a fortnight and leave both of them miserable. It seemed wiser, however, to say he understood than to say anything that began with “bloody hell.”

Lady Thurston sighed. “That choice, I think, would have been a mistake.”

It bloody well would have been.

She tilted her head at him. “Do you love her?”

“I’ve been in love with her for nearly eight years,” he admitted.

“Eight?”
Lady Thurston gaped at him. He wouldn’t have thought her the sort of woman who gaped, but there it was. “Eight years? And you are only now getting around to doing something about it?”

“Apparently.”

“Well, for heaven’s sake.” She rose from her chair. “I shall fetch her from her room immediately. Eight years,” she breathed again as she headed toward the door. “Honestly.”

He waited for Evie with something approximating patience for twenty minutes.

Twenty excruciatingly long minutes of pacing the parlor, eyeing the decanter of brandy, picking up and studying feminine little bits and pieces in which he hadn’t the slightest interest.

Would Evie want to fill their home with such things?

“Do you have a fondness for rosebud vases, Mr. McAlistair?”

He set the vase down and turned slowly.

There she was. And there was that sweet pang he felt every time he saw her.

She was so heart-wrenchingly beautiful…and she looked so terrifyingly resolved. He could see it in the stiff posture of her small frame and the way she kept her chocolate eyes shuttered—she’d given up on him.

“Have I come too late, Evie?”

Please, God, don’t let it be too late.

Only a slight widening of the eyes told him the question had taken her aback. “Too late for what?”

“For you.”

She twisted her lips and stepped into the room. “Is this another demand of marriage?”

“No.” He forced a breath into a chest gone tight. “It is a request to court.”

He had the small pleasure of seeing her stop in her tracks. “To court?”

“If you would allow it,” he answered with a nod. “I have obtained your cousin’s approval and your aunt’s.”

“Lady Thurston?” She sat down heavily on the settee. “You asked Lady Thurston’s permission to court me?”

“Yes. If you—” He swallowed hard. “If you could find it in yourself to forgive me for my earlier…stupidity.”

Very well, it wasn’t the most eloquent of speeches, but it was effective. Her expression softened—just a little about the eyes and mouth, but it was enough to give him hope.

“McAlistair—”

She cut off when he held up his hand to plead for silence. “Before you make a decision, any decision, you should be aware of who I am. Who I was.”