Mia Marlowe (13 page)

She turned back to Lord Rankin. “Wake the vicar.”

Lucinda was surprised her aunt allowed her a moment to run a brush through her hair, much less change into the gown and veil she’d planned to wear for her wedding. But Great-Aunt Hester insisted that though everything must be done with all speed, there was no reason why it couldn’t be done correctly at the same time.

“It’ll be a mercy to have this wedding over with, so I’ll only have two eejits to watch over instead of three,” Hester had added as she huffed her way up the stairs behind Lucinda and her sisters.

Aileen and Mary fluttered about Lucy, excited as a pair of butterflies flitting around a lily that had just unfurled its petals. Once Lucinda was stripped out of her ball gown and decently laced into the fine pink confection with seed pearls at the bodice and a discreet flounce of lace at the hem, Brodie appeared in her small chamber to wish her well.

Of course, she was the only one who could see and hear him.

“Ye look pretty as a speckled pup, ”
the ghost said as he appeared in the mirror behind her reflection.

Everyone else was busy fluffing out the lace on Lucinda’s veil on the other side of the room, so she pulled a face at him.

“Thank ye verra much,” she whispered furiously. “What lass doesna wish to be compared to a dog before she marches down the aisle.”

He sniffed, swiped his nose with an embroidered handkerchief edged with French knots, and blinked rapidly. If Lucinda didn’t know better, she’d say the spirit was trying to hold back tears.

“Brodie,” she said softly. “Dinna take on so. I’ll always be yer little girl.”

The ghost smiled, his pale face a wreath of satisfied wrinkles.

“Lucinda,” Aunt Hester said sharply, “what are ye natterin’ on about? Folk will think ye’re nipped in the noggin if they hear ye mumbling to yerself like that.”

“I’ll be watching o’er ye in the chapel, just to make sure the knot’s tied good and tight,”
Brodie said and then winked into nothingness. Only a faint wisp of white remained in the place where he’d been, hovering next to her reflection like the last breath of a snuffed-out candle.

Aileen and Mary came skittering across the chamber, their mother’s long veil billowing behind them. They settled it on Lucinda’s head and pinned the lacy concoction into place.

“Just think, Lu,” Mary said with uncharacteristic breathlessness. “This verra night, ye’ll share a bed with a man. It’ll be so strange, I’d think. If Lord Bonniebroch snores like Father does, I doubt ye’ll get a wink of sleep.”

“I should hope she doesna.” Aileen rolled her eyes. “Ye’re such a wee ninny, Mary. Do ye no’ ken that when ye share a bed with a man the last thing ye’ll be doin’ is trying to sleep?”

Aunt Hester made a low growl in the back of her throat. “Dinna let me hear the pair of ye talkin’ like that again or we’ll pack up and head back for Edinburgh first thing in the morning. I’ve a notion to do me spring cleaning early and though I doubt ye’d be much help, I’ll find plenty to occupy yer idle hands till yer father comes to collect ye in a few weeks.”

The sisters protested that they had exhausted both their knowledge and interest about how one shares a bed with a man and their aunt would never hear a peep more about it from them if only they’d be allowed to remain at Dalkeith for the Christmas festivities that would stretch into Twelfth Night.

“Verra well,” the old lady said. “Now get ye gone to the chapel and wait for us in the nave there. I’ll be havin’ a privy word with the bride, if ye please.”

Lucinda swallowed hard. So far, Great-Aunt Hester hadn’t berated her for the compromised state in which she and Alex had been found. That was about to change. Once Mary closed the door behind her and Aileen, Lu braced herself for the onslaught.

“Now, I ken as ye were far too young when yer mother died for her to have done the needful by ye on the matter of what passes between a man and his wife,” Great-Aunt Hester began.

Lucinda blanched as white as her veil. This was worse than a dressing down. Aunt Hester was going to explain just how one
did
share a bed with a man.

“Auntie, I’m farm raised, remember,” she said, trying to head Hester off before she mortally embarrassed them both. “I think I’ve an idea of what to expect.”

“Judging from what passed in the study, ye’ve more than idea.”

Lucinda sighed. Back to the dressing down. She supposed it was the lesser of two evils.

But to her surprise, her aunt palmed both of her cheeks, pulled her head down, and pressed her dry, papery lips on Lucinda’s forehead in an awkward sort of benediction.

“I must swear ye to absolute secrecy,” her aunt said solemnly. “If ye breathe a word of what I’m about to tell ye, I’ll deny it with me dyin’ breath. And I’ll change me last will and testament so ye’ll no’ be getting the bequest of me mother’s brooch when the time comes. T’was old when my grandmother’s grandmother was a girl, all amber stones and silverwork, so it’s worth a pretty price, ye ken.”

Lucinda had no idea she was even in her aunt’s will. Nor had she seen this valuable brooch. “I’ll no’ tell a soul.”

Her aunt’s face lifted in a ghost of a smile that made her almost pleasant-looking. “I just wanted ye to know ye’re no’ the first bride in the family to anticipate her wedding vows a wee bit,” Aunt Hester said. “Mr. MacGibbon and I fairly led me poor parents a merry chase ’round several haystacks before they hauled us into the kirk to make matters legal. And nary a moment too soon.”

“Thank ye, auntie.” Lucinda threw her arms around the old woman. “Ye really are sweet, are ye no’?”

“Bah! Sweet is for tea and crumpets.” She disentangled herself from Lucinda’s arms with a self-conscious shudder. “Old women should be annoying. We’ve certainly earned the right. Now, let’s get ye marrit to that strapping young man of yours.”

 

 

The chapel must have been ancient at the time of the Flood. In stark contrast to the pale sandstone of Dalkeith Palace, the stone that marked this sacred spot might have started out light gray, but it had darkened over the years, black with soot from countless fires and damp with mold and candlelit sanctity.

Alex thought the depressing space fit the occasion.

“You can’t say I didn’t warn you.” Clarindon straightened Alexander’s cravat with disgusting cheerfulness as they waited in the transept. “It’s a matter of physical science. Playing with the business end of a dirk will make you bleed. Playing with a loaded derringer will lead to a gunshot. Playing with one’s fiancée accelerates the velocity at which a man is catapulted toward the altar.”

“You’re not helping,” Alex said glumly.

“Sorry, old son, but you’re beyond help now,” Clarindon said. “If it were only Lord Arbuthnott and Lord Rankin, you might have had a prayer. Once Hester MacGibbon joined the fray, the hill of your bachelorhood was irreparably lost. You may as well smile and make the best of it.”

“How can I do that?” Alex asked through clenched teeth. “You know what we do, the places we go, the risks we take. There’s no room in that life for hearth and home.”

Not to mention that at times, he’d had to seduce information from the wives and mistresses of well-placed foreign dignitaries. While Alexander’s wife might be resigned to a husband who faced danger in performance of his duties for King and Crown, he imagined Lucinda wouldn’t be amenable to his using his bed skills to complete his assigned work. The times he’d been forced to take that route weren’t his proudest moments, but there was no limit to what he’d do for his country.

It didn’t help matters that those amatory exploits were the only ones his father seemed to catch wind of. For example, the marquis wasn’t aware he’d broken into a Barbary pirate’s stronghold and extricated the king’s cousin, saving the Crown a small fortune in ransom money. It was the nature of Alexander’s business that he couldn’t share the scope or details of his covert activities with anyone. As far as the world knew, he and Clarindon were part of King George’s entourage of courtiers. Merely two more among the many sycophants and posers.

Just once he wished he could tell his father, “There, you see, sir. The incident with the King’s brother in Cornwall where disaster was averted. The recovery of the Duke of Cambridge’s stolen signet ring before it could be used to alter military dispatches. Uncovering the plot to murder the Russian ambassador and use his death as a pretext for war. That was me. I did those things.”

But he couldn’t. As far as the marquis knew, his second son was a wastrel who spent his days gaming and drinking and chasing every available skirt. And his father despised him for it.

It wasn’t anything Alex could admit, not even to Clarindon, but the trust of Lord Liverpool began to make up for that lack of fatherly approval. Not that he’d had much chance to serve the prime minister’s interests since he set foot in Scotland.

It was as if Fate had conspired to snatch the only thing in his life that made him feel worthwhile and replaced it with Bonniebroch and all the complications connected with his new Scottish estate and title. Not the least of which was about to corner him at the altar.

“You sound as if you wish to continue working for Lord Liverpool forever,” Clarindon said, smoothing back his own hair. “I certainly don’t.”

Alexander’s gaze snapped toward his friend at that. He’d always thought Clarindon was as addicted to the excitement, the challenge of covert action as he. “Never say your heart’s been snagged by one of those Scottish maidens you were dancing with this evening.”

“No. But my heart is certainly intrigued by the
idea
of being snagged by one.” Clarindon clapped a hand on his shoulder and steered him to his place before the altar. “Face the facts, my friend. This is your last service to the Home Office. Your traveling days in Lord Liverpool’s service are done unless you mean to make your wife a widow to your career.”

“Not necessarily,” Alex whispered from the side of his mouth. Now that they were beneath the spot where the highest arch vaulted over the cross-shaped design of the chapel, his voice carried further.

“What do you mean?” Clarindon turned to watch the MacOwen sisters precede the bride down the central aisle.

“Simply that annulments can be arranged,” Alex said.

“Yes, but in order to be granted one, you’d need to prove that a true marriage never took place. Rather hard to do since you’re only here now because you were within an ace of shagging the lass on a bearskin rug.”

“You think I can’t control myself?” Alex glared at Clarindon as the vicar ambled sleepily from the door that led to the sacristy. “I have a will of iron.”

“Which does you no good once another thing of iron rises as well.”

The vicar shot the men a black frown that suggested if it were up to him, he’d happily cast the pair of them into the fiery pit. Never mind the scandal of a rushed wedding. The real crime was interrupting the vicar’s sleep.

Alex turned and faced the rear of the chapel. The only witnesses in the pews were Lord Arbuthnott and Rankin on the bridegroom’s side of the chapel, Great-Aunt Hester on the other. The old woman skewered him with an evil glare. Aileen and Mary MacOwen reached the choir, their faces surprisingly fresh considering the lateness—or the earliness, depending on one’s point of view—of the hour, and veered off to their places to wait for the bride’s arrival.

Lucinda appeared, framed in the doorway at the rear of the chapel. She hesitated for a couple heartbeats, then began to walk steadily toward him. The silk of her gown draped her form like water, conforming to her curves and spilling to the floor in pale pink folds. As she walked, her slippered toes peeped from under her hem, shyly disappearing again with each step.

The veil effectively obscured her features.

For a moment, Alex wondered what she was thinking. Was she happy? Resigned? As confused by everything as he?

Guilt flogged him with long heavy stripes. She deserved so much more than to be leg-shackled to a man who had one foot out of the marriage before the vows were even said.

Lucinda stopped long enough for her sister to push back the veil to reveal her face. She leaned to kiss Aileen’s cheek, then turned and met Alex’s gaze.

The naked hope on her features rendered her vulnerable and soft and undeniably appealing. His chest ached. He wished someone would swoop in to snatch her up and carry her away. Someone should warn her not to face the world with such an open heart, not to risk herself on a man like him. He couldn’t love her as she deserved. He’d only bring her pain.

“About that iron will you were talking about,” Clarindon whispered. “Good luck, old son.”

The ceremony passed by in a blur. Lucinda supposed she gave the right responses at the right time, but she couldn’t swear to it. The warmth of Alexander’s hand when it closed over hers was glory enough for her to lose herself completely. She pretended everything was going to be all right.

After the vicar’s final pronouncement and the chaste brush of Alex’s lips on hers, she still felt as if she were sleepwalking through a dream. Even the procession to Alex’s room, which would be pressed into service as their bridal chamber, had a hazy sense of unreality to it.

But once the door closed and she was alone with Alex in his room, the enormity of what they’d just done came crashing down on her.

Lucinda expected to feel a surge of triumph. After all, she’d secured her family’s fortune with this match. Her sisters’ futures were ever so much rosier because of it and Dougal might yet escape the hangman with a half-English brother-in-law to ease his way toward a pardon.

And contrary to her sisters’ dire predictions, her new husband wasn’t a toothless, hairless dotard. Instead, Alex was so handsome, it hurt to look at him. He was like a lightning bolt at sea or the searing flash of sunlight on the River Tay. She knew it would strike her blind if she looked long enough, but the urge to do just that was beyond her will to resist.

She had every right to feel as if she’d just run a race and won the prize. But she didn’t.

Alex hadn’t said a word to her since they were marched from the study where they’d been caught together on the bearskin. He’d never wanted the match in the first place. He made no secret of it. How must he feel toward her now that his hand had been forced?

He stood looking out the window where the frost-rimed grounds of Dalkeith sparkled with a million pinpricks of diamonds in the moonlight. His back was ramrod straight, his hands clasped behind him. He was the sort to shake his fist at heaven and declare himself master of his fate.

But now his silence made her suspect Alexander felt like a prisoner who’d been escorted to his cell.

She wanted to ask him what was wrong, but was afraid he might tell her and it would be horrible. Once harsh words were spoken, they could never be recalled. They hovered forever in the air, unrelentingly given and received. They settled into the heart of the hearer to fester and burn. It was easier, no, it was safer, to pretend that this silence was normal for a man who’d just been wed.

“Where is your dressing screen?” she asked, her voice much smaller than she wished it to sound.

He didn’t turn around. “Don’t think I have one. Not much call for modesty in a bachelor. Go ahead and prepare for bed. I won’t trouble you.”

Something inside her crumpled. She wanted him to trouble her. She wanted him to trouble her to pieces.

Lucinda crossed over to the commode where an age-spotted mirror hung so she could see to remove her mother’s veil. It was so delicate, if she missed a hairpin, she might rip the lace.

An odd movement in her reflection made her blink hard. The room was dimly lit, but for a moment, she thought she saw a little old man’s thin bewhiskered face peering back at her from over her left shoulder. She jerked her head around to look behind her, but there was no one there. A sudden flare of light reflected from the fireplace. A log fell off the triangular stack and spit sparks up the chimney. When Lucinda looked back at the mirror, the man was gone.

Then she remembered Brodie’s warning about another ghostly presence in Dalkeith. If this spirit wanted to make contact with her on her wedding night, his timing was less than ideal.

It was a not-so-subtle reminder that she had several secrets she was keeping from her new husband.

Alex was still transfixed by the window. He had secrets of his own. He’d said several times that he had “important” things he’d ought to be doing.

What were they?

She plucked out the pins and removed the veil, trying to ignore the way her hands shook. Lucinda spread it out on the bed and folded it carefully. Aileen and Mary would want it for their weddings someday.

“May they wear it with more joy,” she murmured.

“What was that?” Alex asked.

“Nothing of import.” Lucinda began to undo the buttons that marched down her spine. There were five or six she couldn’t reach between her shoulder blades.

A bell pull dangled beside the commode, but it was the middle of the night. If she gave it a tug, she’d be rousting a poor lady’s maid out of her bed, just as they’d waked the surly vicar to perform the ceremony. Lucinda had been nothing but a bother to everyone this evening. She didn’t want to add to the roll.

“Alexander?” He was already first on the “Inconvenienced by Lucinda MacOwen” list she’d composed in her head. A little more discomfort could hardly make matters worse. “I need a bit of help here, if ye please.”

She turned her back to him so she didn’t have to see his face as he walked toward her, but she wondered what it would show. A hint of lust? She’d welcome that. Irritation? She didn’t think she could bear it. Or what if it was worse? What if he was indifferent to her?

His capable fingers made short work of the buttons and the back of her gown fell away, sliding off her shoulders. She held it up in front with both hands over her breasts.

“I’ll need ye to unlace me stays too, please.” Why, oh, why had she chosen a gown for her wedding that required help to get into and out of? She was a woman fully grown. She’d ought to be able to handle her own wardrobe without assistance.

He untied the knot at the base of her stays and worked the laces free. She hadn’t been cinched particularly tight, but she drew a deep breath in any case, enjoying the freedom of expanding her ribs fully. As he pulled the ribbon free, his fingertips brushed against her spine. Only the thin muslin of her chemise separated her from his touch.

Her skin didn’t seem to care that he hadn’t stroked it directly. It rioted in pleasure at any rate.

“Thank ye,” she said softly.

He didn’t move away from her.

“It’s no trouble.”

Hope flickered in her chest. Perhaps she could strike his name from the “Inconvenienced by Lucinda MacOwen” list, after all.

“ ’Tis plain ye know yer way around a woman’s garments,” she babbled to keep the silence at bay.

“Do you really want to know more about that part of my past?”

She shook her head. His breath flowed warmly over her nape and down her back. She barely resisted the urge to lean into him. Instead she slowly turned around to face him.

“Ye say ’tis no trouble, and yet, I’ve an inkling that ye think I’m trouble to you.” There. Maybe if she said it for him, he’d deny it.

“It’s not that.” His hands curled into fists as if he were ready for a fight, but she sensed it wasn’t with her. It was with himself. “You have no idea who I am or why I’m really here.”

“I would if ye took the time to tell me.” Lucinda wished she could reach for his hand, but if she did, her gown and stays would drift to the floor and she’d be standing before him in naught but her shift. “I’m a verra good listener.”

He looked at her so intently, she felt as exposed as if she were in only her shift. “That’s just it. We should have had that talk long before we said words in church. This is all backward.”

He strode over and plopped into the heavy-timbered Tudor chair near the dying fire.

“My parents didna ken each other at all before they were marrit.”

“I suppose you’ll tell me their marriage grew into a love match.”

“That I’m no’ privy to. Some things in a marriage should be only for the ones inside its circle, but ye can tell the kind of tree by its fruit, they say,” Lucinda said, standing straighter. If there was one thing she was certain of, it was her family. “Erskine and Katie MacOwen were blessed with seven children, so there must have been some liking for each other. They buried two bairns and raised five. And my father never sought another woman to warm his bed after he laid my mother in the arms of God. They may have started as strangers, but they didna stay so. They made a life together.”

We can too
danced on her tongue, but he looked away from her, staring at the flickering embers in the grate. She forced herself to stop talking. If she let silence reign, perhaps he’d be moved to fill it.

“It sounds as if your parents were happy, but it doesn’t always work out like that,” he finally said.

The cryptic entry about Alexander in
The Knowledgeable Ladies’ Guide to Eligible Gentlemen
flashed in Lucinda’s brain. She couldn’t recall the exact wording, but there was a mention of “unpleasantness” regarding his mother and the fact that neither he nor his brother exhibited signs of madness. If his mother had lost her wits, it stood to reason his parents’ marriage wasn’t the solid comfort Erskine and Katie had enjoyed. Alex hadn’t grown up in the protected center of a circle of love as she had.

No matter. The future was meant to knit up the ragged ends of the past. A darned stocking was often stronger and warmer than one that had never been mended. She could make things better for Alexander.

Lucinda decided to grasp her marriage with both hands. She let her gown and stays sink to the floor in a pool around her ankles with a soft rustle of silk. The gesture might have been more effective if Alex had glanced her way. He continued to stare stonily at the fire.

In for a penny,
she reasoned. Lucinda toed off her slippers. The floors were cold underfoot and the chill shot up her shins. Then she bent over and reached under the hem of her chemise to untie her garters and roll her stockings down. She stood upright and undid the drawstring at her waist that held up her pantalets. If Alex had looked her way, he’d have been treated to the sight of her bare calves since she had to hitch up the chemise.

He made no move toward her. She’d have to go to him.

Barefoot on the hardwood, she padded over in only her shift and knelt before him. “Ye asked me earlier this night to trust ye and so I did. Will ye no’ trust me now, Alexander? I’ll be a good and faithful wife to ye and do ye no hurt so long as I live.”

He still refused to look at her, but she was close enough to see that his features were taut, strained to the breaking point. His handsome face was at war with itself.

Lucinda took one of his hands and pressed it between her breasts so he could feel her heart hammering. “Do ye no’ see how fine I think ye are, husband?” When he still didn’t respond, a sob closed her throat, but she managed to whisper, “I know ye feel trapped by our wedding, but can ye no’ find it in ye to like me a little?”

“Oh, Lucinda.” He reached for her then, pulling her up onto his lap. Her heart soared as he claimed her mouth and slid a hand down the low neckline of her chemise.

 

 

Soft. Biddable. Willing. She was everything a man could wish. It had taken every ounce of his will not to look while she’d slithered off her gown, but his imagination had been running at full tilt. In his mind’s eye, he could see her alabaster arms bared in the firelight, the chemise a thin wisp of nothing, shadows of her curves wavering enticingly, the darker skin of her nipples plainly visible. When she’d bent to remove her stockings, the chemise would have fallen away and he’d have glimpsed the sweet hollow between her breasts.

Maybe he should have looked. He’d lost the battle in any case. But who could blame him when she knelt before him? The sweet cloud of her scent wafting around her, the beating of her heart under his palm like some wild young thing, terrified, but willing to trust—she wore down his resistance with gentle persistence, like a drip of water hollowing out solid rock.

He crushed her to him, palming one of the globes of her bum, his fingers brushing the crevice between them.

“We’ll do better,” she assured him as she kissed along his jaw.

“Better than what?” At the moment Alex couldn’t imagine anything better than this sweet armful of woman. Unless she were out of her chemise . . .

“Better than yer parents, o’ course.” She nibbled up to his ear and then latched onto the lobe to give it a quick suck. “I’m too thick-headed to run mad and ye show no sign of it.”

He pushed her away and held her at arm’s length. “What do you know of that?”

Her mouth formed a silent “oh,” then she hurried on. “No’ much. Only what I’ve read in a silly book full of gossip and questionable advice. Dinna worry. The writer said as yer mother’s madness was no impediment to ye bein’ considered quite the catch.”

The memories of that distant time were cloudy, as if someone had pulled down a scrim on his life and rendered it hazy, etched softly in shades of sepia and wheat. But the sounds came through loud and clear, if the words were somewhat garbled. There was interminable shouting. That was from his father. And endless weeping. Those keening sobs could only have come from his mother. Then they turned to shrieks when strange men pulled Alex from her arms and took her away. He toddled after them, tripping and scraping his knee on the pavers, but he couldn’t catch up.

That empty place in his chest ached afresh. It confirmed what he’d always believed. There was something broken inside him. Something elemental that made him what he was. Solitary. Driven. Unwilling to risk losing someone ever again. Like his mad mother, he was damaged. He was like a watch spring that had been sprung or a clasp that had been bent too far. Nothing could put it back to rights without breaking it completely.

“So I’m considered quite the catch,” he said woodenly.