How to Seduce a Scot (25 page)

Alex coughed to cover a laugh, as Mary Elizabeth shot her brothers a look that promised death, or at the very least, a nasty bruise.

Her mother turned her blue gaze on Catherine, ignoring their hosts' antics. “And you are married already, Daughter, I suppose?”

“I am.” Alex crossed the room and brought her the cup of tea he had poured for her, with a splash of milk and two sugar lumps added in. She took his hand in hers. “We are.”

He smiled down at her. “I am sorry to be so hasty, madam, but your daughter is impetuous.”

Mrs. Middlebrook smiled. “I believe she inherited that trait from me.”

“I wanted to be a bridesmaid,” Margaret said, frowning.

Alex laughed, and Mrs. Middlebrook patted her hand. “Fear not, sweet. When I wed in one week's time, you will stand up with me.”

“Will I have a new dress?” Margaret's eyes lit up as with a sunrise.

“Indeed you shall. And a bouquet of flowers tied with ribbons.”

Mr. Pridemore stood then, setting his teacup down. He spoke loud enough that all could hear him, but it was Catherine and Margaret he faced. “Girls, I swear on my honor that I will never carry your mother away again without telling you.”

Catherine stood, setting aside her own half-finished tea. “Thank you for saving our land, sir. We can never repay you.”

He smiled, and she felt her heart lighten. “Mrs. Waters, I can tell you that keeping your mother company for the rest of my life is thanks enough.”

Mrs. Middlebrook turned pink with pleasure, but Catherine was not done with him yet.

“And you will care for Margaret, and guard her as if she were your own?”

“I so swear, in front of God and all these witnesses.”

Catherine held out her hand. “Pax, then,” she said.

He shook her hand as a man from Manchester might, a businessman who had just closed an auspicious deal. “Pax.”

“Well, thank God for that,” Robert said. “Your town house refurbishment continues, Catherine, under the eagle eye of your Mr. Giles. It seems my brother has caught you and trussed you up good, as Pridemore has caught your mother. Now we have only Miss Margaret to see to.”

His blue eyes lit with laughter, and Catherine wondered for a moment if Margaret would take offense, thinking that he was mocking her. Her sister simply tossed an expensive cushion at his head, which he caught deftly in one hand.

Robert sobered a bit. “In all honesty, I think we might need to leave Town. Mary Elizabeth drew a sword on Lord Grathton in Hyde Park this afternoon.”

“I thought he was stealing that woman's purse,” Mary Elizabeth answered, pouring herself a fresh cup of tea.

“Reticule,” Robert corrected her.

“Whatever the English call those little bags that their women keep their hartshorns in,” Mary Elizabeth rejoined.

Catherine almost choked on her own tea. She was grateful she had sat down again, for she had heard of Lord Grathton—a powerful man in the House of Lords, he was a Yorkshire man and not to be trifled with.

“What were you doing with a sword in Hyde Park?” Catherine managed to ask.

Mary Elizabeth addressed her as if it were a serious question. “I always keep my broadsword tucked under a blanket on the floor of the carriage whenever we leave the house. It is England, after all, Catherine. Brigands are everywhere.”

“Oh, how thrilling!” Mrs. Middlebrook exclaimed. “I am so sorry to have missed it!”

Robert smiled. “Hearing of the spectacle went a long way toward cheering up Miss Margaret, at least.”

“And did you rescue the bag?” Catherine asked, ignoring her husband's look that was telling her to drop the subject at once. Married only one day and she was already able to tell when he wished for her to hold her tongue.

Well, a man might keep on wishing.

Mary Elizabeth smiled at her, quite pleased that someone had picked up what was, in her opinion, the most salient point. “Indeed, I did. The Lady Cecelia was a bit embarrassed, I think, but pleased to have her bag back. Once I realized my mistake, I apologized to Lord Grathton. I had no idea he was the lady's fiancé.”

Alex drew a flask from his pocket, and drank straight from it without even pouring the whisky into a teacup. Catherine ignored him, as did everyone but Robert, who elbowed him in an effort to get him to share. The men passed the flask back and forth between them, and even Catherine's mother paid them no mind. For a moment, Catherine thought that Margaret might ask for a sip, but when none of the other ladies even acknowledged the presence of the flask, Margaret followed suit.

“The day was saved by a quiet mouse of a lady who stepped up and intervened before Grathton called me out,” Robert said.

“Don't be ridiculous, Robbie. If his lordship was going to take up arms against anyone, it would have been against me,” Mary Elizabeth said. This time, everyone, including Catherine, ignored her.

“The lady looked to be a bit down on her luck. I've asked her to come by and have a chat with our Mary here, to see if she might suit as a companion,” Robert said.

“A lady you say?” Alex asked, raising one eyebrow. There seemed to be some significance in his glance that the gentlemen and her mother understood, but which went over Catherine's head, as well as the heads of both the other girls.

“A true lady,” Robert said. “You'll meet Mrs. Prudence tomorrow and then you'll see what I mean. She's a widow of five years who still wears gray. She was even wearing a veil, for God's sake.”

“Language, Robert, if you please,” Mrs. Middlebrook said. “No taking the Lord's name in vain in this house.” No one seemed to notice that it was not her house, but the Duchess of Northumberland's.

Robert had the good grace to appear properly chastened. “Begging your pardon, ma'am.”

“I'll look her over tomorrow before we leave for Devon, and I will be the judge,” Alex said.

“I looked her over today, and I tell you she is a lady. She might just be the answer to our prayers.”

Mary Elizabeth looked at Robert with a narrow-eyed stare, but spoke pleasantly enough to Catherine. “She seems like a woman of sense.” She turned back to her brothers. “But I do not need a keeper.”

Before the moment could escalate into a full-scale Scottish riot, Catherine stepped in. “Mary, a companion might be a lovely addition to your household. I, for one, would welcome another woman's company once we return from Mama's wedding. And as you say, this house is large enough for an army.”

“True. I suppose we might invite her and see how we all get on.”

Catherine smiled. “Splendid. Another lady will be just the thing. Perhaps she'll even have a good influence on Robert there.”

It was the first time Catherine had ventured to tease her new brother-in-law, and she could tell that he did not know how to take it. A gentleman, he simply chose the safest course, and said nothing in reply.

“Indeed. A widow just might,” Robert said at last.

For no reason Catherine could fathom, Alex shot his brother a look that should have struck terror into his heart. But Robert did not even blink. He simply smiled at his brother as if accepting an unspoken challenge.

“May I play your pianoforte?” Margaret asked. Clearly she had grown bored with the talk of widows and claymores.

“Of course you may, child. Your playing delights us all,” Mrs. Middlebrook said.

Robert reached for the whisky flask, and Alex smiled as Margaret began to play a jaunty Scottish tune. It was a new one to Catherine's ears, and she would have stayed and listened had her husband not taken hold of her hand, and drawn her to her feet. He escorted her to a painting by the parlor door, as if to show her the merits of the art. He pitched his voice so quietly that she almost could not hear him over the deafening music.

“I think we should retire directly after dinner, wife.”

Catherine felt breathless, the heat of his body making her shiver as he stood close beside her, the family and the room around them all but forgotten. “Might we play one of the games you taught me, husband?” she asked, feeling her blush rise unbidden. It seemed now that when she blushed for her husband, she no longer hated the color in her cheeks.

“Kissing the quim, perhaps?” he whispered low, careful that no one else might hear them over the sound of Margaret's thundering pianoforte.

Catherine pressed her forehead against his shoulder, sure that her mother could read her thoughts from across the room. But Mrs. Middlebrook was happily chatting with her own fiancé, as Mary Elizabeth and Robert argued in undertones over Alex's silver flask.

“Yes, Alex.”

“I want you right now,” he said. He took her hand and drew her from the room. For one delicious, exciting moment, she thought he might drag her into a closet, and take her against a wall. Instead, he stopped in the entrance hall, the place where in her own home she had first kissed him.

His lips were on hers then, a promise of carnal bliss to come. But he was gentle, and did not enflame her senses, with both their families in the next room. He simply held her close, and she leaned against him, taking in the scent of bergamot on his skin.

“I will love you all my life, Alex.”

“And beyond,” he answered, an echo of his words the night before. “If the priests are right.”

She drew back so that she might see his chocolate eyes smiling down at her, their depths filled with the joys her future held. “And so they are.”

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How to Wed a Warrior

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How to Wed a Warrior

London, 1820

Lady Prudence was late for tea with Miss Harrington when she passed a young lady drawing a sword on the Earl of Grathton.

Prudence had deliberately chosen Hyde Park over the vulgar, newer part of London so that she might walk in quiet and remember better times. In only one day more, she would complete arrangements with the Harringtons of Bombay to become their daughter's companion, and the last remnant of her old life would be swept away. She never anticipated that as she strolled, her peaceful contemplation would be shattered by the glint of a long blade…or by the hulking form of an exasperated Scot.

“Mary Elizabeth, what in God's holy name are you doin'?”

The fine man stood beside the sword-wielding girl, glaring at her, his brogue thick and almost musical. Save for his height, which was almost six feet, and his broad shoulders, which were almost bursting from his dark blue coat, the Scot looked almost civilized. His curling, auburn hair was a bit longer than fashion dictated, touching the edge of his high collar and his simply tied cravat. But it was the gleam in his eyes that made her think of mayhem, and the steel in his furious gaze that made her certain that, if she did not intervene, he would murder the young lady standing with him in the middle of the Promenade Hour.

The slight, slender girl was still holding a large sword with what looked to be bizarre comfort and ease, aiming it in the direction of Lord Grathton's stomach, while Lady Cecelia Wellington cowered behind him.

Pru did not think of self-preservation. She did not think of her carefully constructed disguise of the past five years, or of the fact that, as her brother's best friend, the earl would be able to see right through it. She simply stepped between the girl's sword tip and Lord Grathton, certain that it would all come out right in the end.

As it must. Or so she always told herself. Surely, someday, at some point, things would come out all right.

She held tight to that belief yet again and cleared her throat. “Good day, my lord. It seems you are having some difficulty picking up your fiancée's reticule. Might I be of assistance?” For the young blonde girl with the blade had placed herself protectively over the small bag that Grathton's companion, Lady Cecelia Wellington, had dropped in the verge.

Upon hearing that the owner of the bag was Lord Grathton's companion, the lovely girl brandishing the overlarge sword blinked twice and lowered her weapon.

“I beg your pardon, sir. I thought you were a robber.” The girl's sword gleamed in the light of the late afternoon sun. She did not move to put it away, but stood staring at Lord Grathton as if expecting him to speak to her without an introduction after she had threatened his life.

The large Scot stepped forward to intervene at last. Pru placed herself discretely between him and the earl, hoping he would follow her lead, even though men rarely did. Still, a woman might live in hope.

“If you will excuse us, Lord Grathton,” Prudence said. “My companions and I are a bit confused at this late hour. Too much sun, and a desperate need for a cup of tea. I do beg your pardon.”

Grathton did not seem to be listening to her words, but to the sound of her voice. He stared into her face, trying to peer beyond her glasses, beyond the chasm of years that separated them. She had not seen him since the summer her brother had been lost at sea, taking her family's fortune with him—the year she had disappeared from polite society altogether. She prayed for a miracle, that Grathton might not remember her, but she saw the moment when the flint of memory sparked and caught fire.

“Pru?” Grathton asked, his voice filled with wonder and with something else she would rather not remember. Five years was not long enough, it seemed, for him to have forgotten. Pru would have sworn silently to herself had she not been the remnant of a lady.

“I beg your pardon, my lord. We must leave you and your lady in peace.”

The Lady Cecelia stared down her long nose at Pru, who was a head shorter than she was. The lady's cold, blue gaze took in her frumpy dress and the hideous bonnet perched over her curls. Pru felt color rise to her cheeks, and she was catapulted back to the time when the
ton
had turned their backs on her en masse, and had ceased to receive her family altogether.

Pru rallied, reminding herself to leave the past behind, and tapped the young blonde's arm. Without having to be told twice, the Scottish girl slipped away, making an oddly graceful curtsy, the hilt of the long sword still clutched in both fists.

“Good day,” the girl said to no one in particular, attracting the icy glare of Lady Cecelia as she slipped toward a carriage that waited by the side of the road. The girl did not seem to notice or care that she was the focus of so much censure. Pru was glad to have the lady's stare removed from her person, but could feel the heated gaze of both Grathton and the hulking Scot take its place. She swallowed the lump that had risen in her throat.

“Forgive the intrusion,” Prudence said to Grathton. “Good day.”

She thought to slip away and perhaps hide herself behind a convenient bush until she could find a way out of the park, but the Scotsman stepped up and took her arm, bowing to Lord Grathton. “Good day, my lord.”

Grathton did not speak. His fiancée, however, did. “My word,” Cecelia drawled, speaking to Grathton as if no one else were there. “What a bizarre episode. I cannot understand why foreigners are even allowed in the park, much less among civilized people. What is Town coming to?” Her acid tongue drew a flush to Prudence's skin as if the woman's vitriol was directed at her.

Lady Cecelia did not wait for Grathton to answer but glanced over her lover's shoulder to the path beyond to see who might be watching. She saw a boon companion driving by, and waved to her, dismissing Pru and the two Scots as if they had never existed.

Pru remembered the chill of that cold shoulder from the ladies who had once been her mother's bosom friends. Once the family money disappeared, society's interest in her family had vanished as well. Except for Grathton. When she had been cast out into utter darkness, he had tried to help, though to stand by her would have meant his own ruin. He looked as if he wanted to help again now, no matter what the cost to his reputation. She could not allow that.

She took the Scot's arm and propelled the man back toward his waiting coach. “Hoist me up,” she told him, and he obliged, lifting her above the tall wheels of the carriage. The young girl had hidden her sword away again, or perhaps had tossed it behind a tree, for now she sat as demure as you please, her skirt arranged around her neatly on the carriage seat and her gloved hands folded neatly in her lap.

“The claymore is under the seat,” the girl said, blithely answering Pru's unspoken question.

The Scot rose up beside them on the high seat. Pru did not address the girl beside her, but the man. “Drive.”

And he did.

* * *

Why on God's blessed green earth Robert Waters had chosen to listen to a single word the slip of a woman said, he did not know. Not only that, he found himself obeying her as she ordered him around as if he were her bootblack. Perhaps it was the blue of her eyes that did it, an indigo that was a sea for a man to drown in.

No, not that. Robbie didn't care a fig for a woman's eyes.

Perhaps it was her neat, curved figure, currently swathed in an abundance of sickly gray worsted wool and pale cream lace. He never noticed a woman's clothes, but these were just ugly enough to repulse him, had they not contained the soft breasts and rounded behind of a woman of quality. How he knew she was quality, he could not say. Perhaps it was the snap in her eyes that had joined the snap in her voice when she spoke to him.

Whatever the reason, he'd found himself standing back and allowing her to rescue his sister from herself in the middle of Hyde Park, in the middle of the fashionable hour.

When he found his tongue again, Robert did not ask the name of the impressive lady who now sat so primly beside him, for he was not at all sure that she would relinquish it. Instead, he used his reclaimed voice to browbeat his sister.

“Mary Elizabeth, for the love of God, the English are going to burn us out! You benighted fool, how could you draw a blade on an Englishman in the middle of a London park in broad daylight? And not just an Englishman, but one of their lairds? Christ wept, Mary, you'll get us all run out on a rail.”

“Don't be dramatic,” Mary Elizabeth answered, resting herself, as relaxed as you please, against the soft cushions of the fancy carriage seat. “The English won't burn us out. We're staying with the Duchess of Northumberland and they won't touch the house of one of their own.”

“They might kill us in the street the next time we chance to get your ices at Gunter's,” he groused.

“You might lower your voice a trifle, sir,” the lady said. “You seem to be attracting more unwanted attention.”

Robert did not give a tinker's dam for what the English thought of him, but he caught himself before he shouted again. He could smell the bossy, curvy woman beside him, and her perfume was making him even more irritable. She smelled of hyacinths and heather. He would swear, if he had not known better, that she smelled of home.

He cursed himself for a fool and focused his mind where it belonged. Not on some spinster virgin who was trying to hide her beauty for some mad reason, but on his sister, who was certain to drive him to drown himself before the week was through.

“What will Alex say when he hears you've drawn a sword in public?” Robert asked.

Mary Elizabeth shrugged one shoulder, looking out over the traffic and the houses as they passed them. People had stopped nodding to them ever since Mary Elizabeth had shown them her steel, and now simply stared as though they were apparitions or demons risen up from hell. Robert swore, out loud this time, and the bossy woman spoke.

“I would thank you to keep a civil tongue in your head, if you please, sir. Pull over here,” she said, for all the world as if she paid him five pounds per annum as a servant boy.

Robert looked at her, his eyebrow rising, but did as he was told. His mother had drummed into him the simple stricture: never hold a lady against her will. His gaze wandered along the front of the woman's hideous gown, sussing out the sweet curve of her breasts beneath. Now, if she were a widow woman, or a woman of ill repute, there might be some negotiating to be done.

Robert loved the company of women almost as much as he loved leaving them behind once they began to become tedious. But this one was tempting him to forget his good reason, and why he had come to London at all. No woman had ever tossed his bad manners back in his face before. He found that he liked it.

He thought of the money he had set aside, that he barely needed and almost never touched. It would be easy enough to dip into that money and set this little baggage up in her own parlor, with a quiet back stair that might lead to a bedroom he also paid for. He thought of the delights he and this little bit of fluff might find there, and he found himself smiling.

The
bit of fluff
seemed to read his thoughts and where they were tending. She met his eyes, and her blue gaze filled with the Wrath of God. Had he been a lesser man, he would have been singed where he sat. She was anything but fluffy, it seemed. He merely smiled once more. If he had ever seen a woman besides his mother face him down like that, he could not remember it.

“I would thank you to hand me down to the street, sir. I believe we have made our escape.”

“And now you hope to make yours,” he answered.

Mary Elizabeth frowned at him. “Don't mind my brother. He has the manners of an ape. Thank you for helping me. I'm afraid I stepped in it quite badly back there.”

The lady turned her eyes away from him, and as soon as she did, her face softened into a smile. “No thanks are necessary, miss. But I must warn you not to draw on Lord Grathton again. He is a crack shot. And while he would never call out a lady, he might call on your brother here.”

Mary Elizabeth laughed. “God help him. Robbie's a fury with his fists and with a sword. The laird might have his work cut out for him.”

For some mad reason, Robbie felt himself swell with pride at his sister's casual description of him. He was indeed a fury on the field of battle, wherever that field might lie, but he had not expected his sister to know it. He looked to the lady beside him, but she did not seem impressed. She did not even look his way, but sniffed.

“Well,” she said. “That's as may be. But please keep your weapon sheathed when out in polite company in future.”

Robbie thought of one or two choice things to say to that, but he held his tongue.

“I thought he was robbing her,” Mary Elizabeth said.

“At such a time, a lady must allow a gentleman to intervene,” she said.

If he or his brother Alex had offered such sage advice, Mary Elizabeth would have ignored them both. But she listened to the woman and nodded, as if by stating the obvious, she had revealed a deep mystery, and solved a puzzling riddle.

“Indeed,” Mary Elizabeth said. “I might consider that.”

Robert climbed down and offered his hand, wondering how he was going to get this woman's name, and learn where she lived. He needn't have worried. With her best friend Catherine now run off with their brother Alex, Mary Elizabeth was ripe for a new conquest.

“You must come and take tea with us tomorrow,” Mary Elizabeth said. “We live at the Duchess of Northumberland's house. I am Mary Elizabeth Waters, and this lout is Robert.”

Robert sketched a bow, and the lady raised one eyebrow. She did not curtsy back.

“Good day,” she said to him, before turning a much friendlier gaze on his sister. “And I am Mrs. Prudence Whittaker. It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”