Fascination -and- Charmed (8 page)

Quickly he shed the sagging woolen coat and breeches, the shirt of crude cotton, and the heavy boots that were “Niall’s” trappings. In moments he was once more dressed as Arran, Marquess of Stonehaven, with his hair secured at the nape by a black ribbon.

Darkness had fallen when he thundered, head bent over black Allegro’s neck, past the castle walls to the stables, where he left the horse for the stable-boy who would come as soon as he heard the door close behind Arran.

Sodden, raging within at the intrusion of necessity upon the privacy he craved, he stalked through the walled garden that was his sanctuary alone, to the entrance at the base of Revelation—the tower that housed all of his private rooms except the music gallery.

He gained his bedchamber, tore off his drenched cloak, and sprawled in a chair by the fire that was kept burning at all times.

Fate had trapped him. Father, in a whimsical tantrum, had trapped him ... and failed to set him free by dying, equally whimsically.

He had to marry. He had to produce an heir. Damn it all, he had to marry this conniving female Calum had found, because there was no time to do otherwise.

What manner of woman would choose to marry a man she’d never met? What manner of woman

would marry a man she thought to be “decrepit,” near to death?

Arran smiled bitterly. The questions didn’t need to be answered—or even asked.

What kind of man would marry a woman who had already shown such delight at the prospect of passing time in a “friendship” with a stranger whilst she awaited the demise of her husband?

A desperate, trapped, ruthless man.

They were well matched—almost.

Miss Grace Wren and Arran Rossmara deserved each other. He drew his bottom lip between his teeth and tasted the rain that was still on his skin. They deserved each other, but Miss Wren would be the one to learn that fact last ... and to learn most ... to learn the true price of bottomless greed.

Arran Rossmara would teach her.

“Mama, I really wish you wouldn’t.”

“Pishposh, I shall do as I please, Grace, and you will show me the respect I deserve.” Mama, resplendent in an aqua silk gown and elaborate white ruff which Grace had not previously seen, reclined upon a gold brocade chaise. “As soon as that sensible—and, might I add, charming—Mr. McWallop arrives, we shall begin treading the path upon which I intend us to remain firmly footed.”

Grace made up her mind. “We must discuss this, Mama. Whether you wish it or not. I am not at all sure—”

“Well, I am sure. For your own good we must make certain that your position in this household is immediately made clear. The condition ...” Mama picked up a dusty Vincennes vase in dark blue and gold, and wrinkled her nose. “It’s an outrage. It is deplorable. A clear case of servants quite out of hand. They have—have—mutinied!”

“Mama. We are not at sea.” Although from the

violent winds that battered the windows, they might as well be. Grace turned her eyes determinedly from the dark menace beyond the glass. “I have no position in this household. Which is exactly what I wish to discuss with you.”

“I should think so.”

This was not getting in the slightest bit easier. “I have made an error. A grave, grave error.” Wind had frightened her since she was a little girl, and nowhere had it ever sounded so furious as here.

“I’m glad you finally see things my way.”

“Coming here was a mistake.” There, she had finally said what had to be said.

“An error?” Mama sat more upright on the chaise and let her fan drop open. “What can you be saying?”

Grace trailed around the beautiful little drawing room on the floor below her bedchamber. Her mother was right in saying that, although the castle appeared in perfect repair, it was sadly in need of a very good cleaning. Beautiful things met the eye wherever one looked, and despite an oppressive abundance of armor and weapons and rather nasty stuffed animals in spots, Grace thought that for a castle—not that she’d ever been in a castle before—Kirkcaldy was remarkably tasteful.

“Grace, answer me at once.”

“I like this drawing room better than the old marquess’s, don’t you?”

“Yes. Stop avoiding my questions, my girl. And stop suggesting that you should have done other than accept Mr. Innes’s marvelous offer.” Mama closed the fan and pointed it at Grace. “You are twenty-four years old. Twenty-four. Had you been a son, the picture would have been entirely different. As a son you would have cared for me after my dear Ichabod died, and I should never have had a moment’s worry. Not a moment! But you are not a son

and you are on the verge of becoming an old maid. If I were to allow you to do so, what would become of us then, I ask you? What?”

“We should have to learn to live within our means,” Grace said quietly.

“Oh!” Mama fell back against the cushions. “Oh, I cannot believe I am hearing this. Our means? Our means, you say? What means, you little sapskull?”

“Papa left—”

“Your sainted papa left enough to keep me in a modest manner for the rest of my life—should that be very short—and to provide for you until marriage—a very early marriage. Need I remind you that you have caused my dearest Ichabod’s plans to be completely inadequate.”

Grace shook her head. Mama was wrong to berate her for not being a son, but it was true that keeping two on what should have supported one for the past few years must have put a great strain on Mama’s inheritance.

“I’m glad you see the error of your thinking, Grace Charlotte. Kindly cause me no more frights like that.”

“I did not intend to frighten you.”

“Well, you did. And it is your duty to make sure that my wishes are met in this great wreck of a place.”

“It is not a wreck,” Grace mumbled. “And I am not in a position to order the servants about.”

“You soon will be,” Mama declared. “Where is Mr. McWallop? I sent for him ten minutes since. Really, the tea things have not been removed, and it is already well past the dinner hour. I feel quite faint from hunger.”

Grace did not say that she thought it possible the maid Mama had sent—with a good tongue whipping—to bring Mr. McWallop had never delivered the message.

“Ring the bell.”

“Very well. But—” A fresh and mighty blast of wind slammed the building and whined its way upward between towers and turrets. Grace flinched, and flinched again.

“Oh, do get over that silliness, Grace,” Mama said, then tutted. “You think me very harsh, and perhaps I am. But I have suffered a great deal, and I’m not as well as I once was. Ring the bell and come here to me, child.”

Grace did as she was told and allowed her mother to pull her down to sit beside her.

“You are my sweet lamb,” Mama said, patting Grace’s hands. “Kiss me and promise you’ll allow yourself to be guided by one much older and wiser.”

Again Grace did as she was told and breathed in the rose-scented warmth of a rare embrace. She did love Mama. And she did want to be the one to provide for her and make her proud.

“Ye called, Mrs. Wren?”

At Mr. McWallop’s firm, deep voice, Grace sat up. Mama opened her fan. “Indeed. And you came almost before Grace finished ringing.”

“Florence brought me your message a while since. I’d retired to my quarters for the evenin’. It’s usual for guests to call on Shanks or Mrs. Moggach. Or it would be if we ever had guests. I answer to his lordship.”

Grace held her breath and dared not look at her parent.

“In that case I am deeply appreciative of your making a special effort to give us some time.”

There appeared to be no false note in Mama’s voice.

“The tone of your request suggested we’d as well take the measure of one another smartly.”

“I always admire a man with sound judgment and

foresight. Did I not tell you that Mr. McWallop was just such a man, Grace?”

“Mm.” Grace looked at the man’s face and decided he was handsome in a ruddy, exceedingly physical sort of way. “Mama said as much.”

There was a slight relaxing of Mr. McWallop’s rigid, square-shouldered stance. “Verra generous of ye, ma’am.” He actually smiled—directly at Mama—crinkling the corners of dark brown eyes in a quite pleasing manner.

“Don’t mention it, Mr. McWallop. Grace wanted to speak with you about certain household matters.”

Grace turned sharply to Mama.

“Yes. She is—as you will discover—industrious and very, very observant. And she is a stickler where matters of household efficiency and appropriate management are concerned:”

Mr. McWallop looked at Grace.

Grace stared hard at her mother.

“Every room in this establishment requires a thorough cleaning,” Mama said.

Mr. McWallop’s impressive red brows drew together. “Is that a fact?”

“It is indeed. Ask Grace. And meals are served at totally erratic hours, and they are of indifferent quality. Also there needs to be attention to fires—they are frequently allowed to burn low, and the servants in general appear a surly, untidy group badly in need of discipline and a good bath!”

“Mama!”

“Isn’t that so, Grace?”

Really, Mama could go too far. “You have said that Kirkcaldy rarely has visitors. I have no doubt that our sudden appearance has caused unexpected stress on the staff,” Grace temporized.

“Aye.” McWallop did not appear mollified.

“Grace—”

“My mother and I are still recovering from our long and arduous journey. Forgive us if we seem less than gracious.”

“Grace Charlotte!”

“I should particularly like to commend the choice of Mairi as my maid. She is industrious and intelligent, and I am delighted with her.”

“Thank ye, miss.”

“Really,” Mama said darkly. “You must take the reins at once, Grace.”

“That is not possible, Mama.”

“As the marquess’s wife, it is your duty to do so.”

“I am not the marquess’s wife.”

“You will be very soon.”

Grace tried to avoid Mr. McWallop’s eyes. “This is an inappropriate moment to discuss—”

The door sweeping wide open to reveal Mr. Innes stopped Grace in midsentence. He entered the room and stood before them. Once more his smile failed to reach his dark eyes. “You sent for me, Mrs. Wren? One of the maids found me, and she seemed exceedingly distressed.”

Grace’s limbs felt unaccountably weak.

“My daughter sent for you,” Mama announced, letting Grace know that yet again her parent was manipulating events. “She wishes to know exactly what is the marquess’s current condition.”

“I see.” Mr. Innes clasped his hands behind his back. “I think the best way to describe the marquess at this time would be as, hm, changeable.”

There was a moment’s silence before Mama narrowed her eyes and said, “You mean he is in varying degrees of ... debility?”

“Very varying.”

“As in he could become dangerously debilitated at any moment?”

The nostrils of Mr. Innes’s straight nose drew in. He tipped his face toward the delicate plasterwork ceiling. “I would say his lordship’s condition could most accurately be stated as dangerous, yes.”

“In that case, there must be no delay. Not one moment.” Mama rose majestically to her feet and settled her skirts. “We wish to see the marquess at once. He has asked Grace to marry him, and she is here to do so.”

Grace opened her mouth to speak and promptly closed it. Another man had arrived in the open doorway, this one tall and dark and slender. His curly hair had been disheveled by the storm, and he was in the act of unfastening his cloak whilst Shanks scurried in his wake.

“Good God!” Mr. Innes’s exclamation made Grace jump.

“I’m glad you approve of my arrival, Calum,” the newcomer said cheerfully. “Always nice to get a warm welcome to Kirkcaldy.”

“Your—”

“Good to see you, too, Archie,” the man cut Mr. McWallop off. “What’s this I hear about a wedding?”

“Not right now, man,” Mr. Innes said. “The marquess will want to see you. We’d best go immediately to Revelation.”

Revelation? “What is this about the marquess and Revelation?” Grace said. “Is that his lordship’s preferred biblical reading?”

“Revelation is a tower,” Mr. Innes said curtly. “To be precise, it is the tower that houses his lordship’s rooms.”

“Did I not hear the lady say that there was to be a marriage?” the newcomer asked, clearly uninterested in any other subject.

“You did indeed, sir,” Mama said, settling her elbows at her waist. “The marquess is to marry my daughter.” She indicated Grace.

“He is?” The cloak hit the floor, and Grace’s hand was enfolded in a crushing grip. “Praise be to God. That’s the best news I’ve heard in years. Haven’t I always told you the Lord provides, Calum? I’ve arrived just in time.”

Mr. Innes made a strange sound, like a word inhaled, and said, “You always were an irritating bastard ... Ahem. Miss Wren, allow me to present your future brother-in-law, Father Struan Rossmara.”

The trouble with women was that they were necessary.

God, were they necessary.

Arran cocked his head at a fresh onslaught of wind and rain against the windows and checked his watch. The hour of his proposed meeting with Miss Wren was long passed and she had not appeared.

Damnation. He ought to be glad. If Calum had not come—with Struan, for God’s sake—to inform him that his
fiancée
was impatient for her marriage, he might take her failure to keep their appointment as evidence that she had some sensibilities he’d failed to discern. He might wonder if she had regretted her forwardness of the previous night and decided to give her future husband the loyal consideration he deserved!

Arran smiled darkly. He’d been tempted to reveal their first meeting to Calum, and might have done so had dear brother Struan not been present.
Father
Struan—pious priest—had a way of rousing some spurious shreds of conscience in Arran. Struan made one feel vaguely sinful at all times.

Vaguely? Hah!

Damn the girl. He had better things to do with his precious night hours than await her pleasure.

Pleasure. Ah yes. As soon as the business of the marriage was attended to, he would consider resuming his affair with Mrs. Foster. Mrs. Foster asked no questions, made no demands in excess of his considerable consideration of her—and she knew a great deal about
pleasure.
No, perhaps he didn’t have better things to do, but he’d do them anyway. The latest piece—for piano and violin—did not yet please him.