Fascination -and- Charmed (27 page)

“Why—?” Grace stopped. A movement had caught her eye.

Another, taller figure loomed behind Sir Mortimer. “What a pretty little domestic scene. Come, my dear, allow me to escort you in to dinner.”

Stonehaven, magnificent in austerely cut black evening dress, brushed his cousin aside and took Grace’s arm. He swept her into the middle of the room and on to the dining room without a sideways glance at any of his guests.

Grace glanced. The gathered company stood and sat in utter unmoving silence.

“You decided to put off your departure?” Stonehaven said, very low. “Your renouncement of me was quite convincing. What can have made you change your mind?”

“We have nothing to discuss.”

“We have a great deal to discuss. I shall look forward to dealing with much of it later—when we are alone.”

“We shall not be alone until I decide it is appropriate.”

“When we’re married, you mean? How very provincial of you.”

“You are unkind, sir. You enjoy tormenting me.”

“Nonsense,” he said. “That gown is charming. Gray is unusual for one so young, but it becomes you.”

“Thank you, my lord.” The others were coming, but for the moment she remained alone with him.

“A ruby and diamond girdle would be a dazzling addition, don’t you think? To the gray gown?”

She would not let him goad her further.

“Should I have a servant bring it to you?”

“I want
nothing
from you,” she said under her breath.

Stonehaven laughed softly.
“
Au contraire.
You want
everything
from me.” His narrowed green eyes sent a thrill down her spine. “And you shall soon get exactly that.”

The girl had spirit.

Arran watched her covertly, this complicated creature who would become his wife. The gown was demure, and the more enticing because a pelerine of palest lavender silk covered Grace all the way from her charming neck to the neckline of her bodice.

Not beautiful, but the most unforgettable, the most distracting, woman he’d ever met. Tonight her hair was pulled smoothly back from her finely boned face and wound into a simple, braided chignon. A deceptively demure facade.
Fascinating.

Grace spoke intimately with Mortimer, who sat on her other side and appeared captivated by her every word—none of which were audible to Arran.

Mortimer had been captivated by her throughout dinner, although he had managed to devour duck pâté with lemon jelly, salmon with lobster sauce, pigeon
en cro
û
te,
chicken fricassee and sweetbreads, Florentine rabbits, and was now about to demolish a last mouthful of venison and black olives. The man had scarcely paused to allow servants to remove or place a dish throughout the meal.

Blanche Wren, who had met her introduction to Arran with avid delight, was clearly impressed by Theodora’s pompous largess. Theodora pronounced such gems as “One must be ever vigilant in the management of servants,” whilst Blanche’s brow puckered in concentration as if she were committing a timeless teaching to memory.

McWallop, in the company of Shanks, stood by, observing the conduct of the understeward, under-butler, and the minions who bore up admirably under the weight of great platters covered with gleaming silver.

He had not, Arran thought idly, missed such events as this piece of nonsense. Five years had passed since he’d last presided over his own table to entertain guests. The next few months would probably necessitate similar annoyances, but he would tolerate them whilst he must and set them aside as soon as possible.

“The venison is heavenly, my lord.”

Unwillingly he turned his attention to Melony Pincham, who sat at his left. “I’m glad you approve.”

“Is it from your own estates?”

“One hopes so.” Where else would it come from?

She leaned forward and pressed his arm. “Silly me. Of course it does.” She dropped her voice. “You must think me a hopeless widgeon, but I am always looking for ways to improve myself. Should you feel inclined to instruct me in matters of importance to you, I assure you I take instruction well.”

A coy, downward flutter of her lashes, the discreet slipping of her fingers behind his wrist to his palm, alerted him. The comely widow was engaged in the first step of the most ancient game of all: prelude to seduction.

“I shall remember that.” Mrs. Pincham was the embodiment of all he detested most in women, but she could prove diverting if the need for diversion arose. And she might have other minor uses also. A moment might arise when he’d be glad of a means to reinforce the fact that his heart had no part in his arrangement with Grace.

The double doors at the end of the dining room were thrown open, and Struan, dressed in his abominably shabby cleric’s garb, strode in. “Evening, all.” He favored the entire company with his damnable benevolent smile and nodded at Arran. “Forgive me, dear brother. Sorry to be late, but there was a small professional matter I needed to attend to.”

“Do tell,” Mrs. Pincham caroled. “Something frightfully wicked? I’m sure you have to listen to some quite dreadful things, Father. When people want to be forgiven, I mean.”

“A man thought he was dying,” Struan said simply. “One of the villagers. Heard I was here and wanted reassurance. Tends to be the good who feel they’ve something to confess. The wicked are too busy convincing themselves they’re just. Actually, he wasn’t dying, just in his cups and wishing he were already dead.”

Blanche Wren giggled—stupid bitch. Theodora’s sharp nose rose and turned disdainfully away from Struan. The rest of the company appeared uncomfortable—with the exception of Mortimer, damn his grasping hide. Mortimer was still assessing Grace as one might a piece of fruit ripened to perfection.

The evil bastard was almost drooling.

Time enough to deal with Mortimer. As far as the marriage was concerned, everything would be done with perfect decorum. No unseemly rush. Arran had overheard Mortimer’s plea that Grace should delay the wedding. For an instant there’d been an impulse to rush her off to the nearest minister who could be
persuaded
to perform a ceremony without the usual waiting period.

Mortimer would be looking for any means to question the validity of the match and its issue.

There would be no such means.

Before Shanks could close the doors behind Struan, Calum arrived, looking calm and unruffled—and elegant. “Evening, all. In time for the festivities, am I?”

“Upstart,” Mortimer said, just loud enough for his closest neighbors to hear.

Arran fixed his cousin with an icy stare that didn’t waver until the other man looked at his plate. “Sit down, Struan, and you, Calum. Eat something. We have business to accomplish here, and I don’t have all night.” He ignored his brother’s reproachful frown, and Calum’s knowing little smile. “This is an important occasion. But I’m sure everyone present knows that.”

He was rewarded with the complete attention of all assembled—including Mortimer, whose high color took on a purplish tinge.

“Shanks, serve the champagne. I’m anxious to say what I came to say. Thank you all for coming, by the way.”

A mumbled chorus rose and instantly faded.

Vultures.

Arran snapped his fingers, and McWallop came instantly to his side. “Here you are, your lordship.” A shabby black velvet bag was placed at his right hand.

He waited until champagne glasses were filled before raising his own. “Shall we toast the future of the lords of Stonehaven?”

The slightest of pauses followed before Mortimer swept up his glass, said, “Here, here,” and downed most of its contents. The rest offered a smattering of “Stonehaven,” and “The future,” and drank.

Arran spared a level look for Grace. She stared back, unblinking, her pretty mouth set. Spirited she might be, but he saw through her. She remained at Kirkcaldy because she expected to get everything she wanted from him,
everything.
Behind that intelligent, engaging face she was already scheming, plotting how she would turn him into her slave. He would not forget what she’d come to Kirkcaldy to gain: a title, vast wealth, and widow’s weeds ... and then the passionate enslavement of a man who could satisfy her considerable sensual requirements.

Grace now knew widow’s weeds were unlikely to come readily to hand. But he was no fool; the girl found pleasure with him, and he had no doubt that she’d decided he could be brought to heel—her heel.

In their high-backed Jacobean chairs on either side of him at the highly polished table, Arran’s guests waited expectantly.

Let them wait.

Switching his attention to flickering candles in lofty golden candelabra, he drank of his own champagne.

“Now.” He set down his glass and reached into the velvet bag to withdraw a green silk pouch. From inside he took a brooch. “I thought you might enjoy this, Mrs. Wren. I understand you have quite an affection for such things.”

He gave the gold dragon with one eye of sapphire and one of ruby to McWallop, who carried it in two hands to Blanche Wren and placed it beside her plate.

Arran tried to shut out the squeals and shrieks and exclamations that followed. He smiled benevolently, all the while aware that Grace watched, not her mother, but him. Eventually, while the company still exclaimed over Blanche’s treasure, he met Grace’s eyes.

Puzzled?

Accusing?

Perhaps ...
fearful?

Arran bowed discreetly and made certain his smile held mockery. If only these tiresome games were not necessary.

“You are too kind, my lord,” Blanche cried.

“Think nothing of it.” This eternal, bloody smile would shortly crack his face. “Only appropriate.”

The neat fingernails of Grace’s left hand drummed the table.

Arran rested his own right hand beside his plate.

“Isn’t that Great-Aunt Maud’s brooch?” Mortimer said, peering down the table.

“It
was
Great-Aunt Maud’s.” Arran’s mother and Mortimer’s had been sisters. An aunt, Maud Fenwick, had raised the two girls.

“Mother always admired that dragon. She’d hoped Auntie Maud would leave it to her.”

Arran shifted his fingers closer to Grace’s. “How disappointing for your mother.”

Mortimer pursed his lips. “When your mother died, she felt she had reason to hope again.”

Grace had stopped drumming.

“Life can be fraught with little disappointments.”

“After all, your mother didn’t have a daughter.”

Another small shift and Arran’s small finger came very close to Grace’s. “Neither did yours, as I remember. Seems to me you were an only chick. My mother had two sons. She chose to leave the dragon to me. And now I choose to give it to my future mother-in-law,” he said, growing bored and disgusted with his cousin’s avarice.

“My mama’s disappointment at not receivin’ that dragon has known no bounds.”

“Your dear mama’s been dead for years.”

His finger and Grace’s touched. Arran waited, but she did not pull away.

“Not the point,” Mortimer said, all petulant annoyance. “Some things should remain in a family. Theodora would have enjoyed that brooch, wouldn’t you, my love?”

“For
God
’
s
sake, Mortie!” Theodora’s plummy voice rang out. “I don’t give a damn about the wretched dragon. Do stop being a perfect ass, there’s a good boy.”

By pure strength of will, Arran managed not to howl at the outrage and shock on Mortimer’s face. Others were not as successful in hiding their mirth. Not for the first time, Theodora had shown herself to have some spirit and common sense.

“Dash it,” Mortimer muttered. “Worth a pretty penny, I can tell you.”

Arran’s fingers stole over Grace’s. He turned up her palm and held her hand. “Let’s dispense with the details.” He reached into the black velvet bag once more and produced a handful of jewelry that caught the candlelight and sent flashing prisms in every direction. “Second installment on our agreement,” he said, dumping a ruby and diamond collar, bracelet, earbobs, and tiara into Grace’s lap.

A collective “oh” went up.

Grace tried to withdraw her hand.

Arran held her tightly and extricated another fabulous bauble, this one from his pocket. “My future bride is fond of pretty things,” he said. “This should seal our bargain.” With that, he slid a ring onto her finger.

The light in Grace’s eyes was like heated ice. When Arran released her, she wiped her palm on a napkin, never glancing at the twelve-carat cinnamon-colored diamond that glowed warmly from her hand.

“A diamond that matches your eyes, my dear.”
And it is as hard as your heart.
“You are now officially my fiancée.”

“Was that Great-Auntie—?”

“No,” Arran told Mortimer shortly. “The ring was
not
Great-Aunt Maud’s. It is the Brown Beauty and it’s been in the Rossmara family for generations. An ancestor of mine took it in trade for sparing a life.”

“Whose life?” Mortimer demanded. “Probably paid too much for it.”

Arran favored his cousin with a disgusted glance. “It was taken in trade, I said.”

“I meant the poor bastard who owned it. His life probably wasn’t worth what that gem is. Thing’s as big as a duck’s egg. Must be worth—”

“It isn’t,” Arran said, beginning to lose his temper.

“Oh, yes,” Mortimer said, undaunted. “Worth at least—”

“It isn’t as big as a
duck
’
s
egg,” Arran said. “Try a hummingbird. Grace and I will be married on Saturday four weeks from tomorrow. The wedding will take place in the castle chapel.”

Blanche Wren scrambled from her chair like an excited girl and rushed to Grace’s side. “Oh, my darling child, such exquisite things.” She scooped rubies and diamonds from her daughter’s lap and held them aloft. “My little Grace. I always knew she was a gem worthy of gems.” The idiotic creature tittered at her own small joke.

“You cannot be serious, Arran!” Theodora’s voice pealed through the room. “You cannot
possibly
intend to marry in
four
weeks.”