The Birthday Scandal (4 page)

Maxwell provided her with a place to live, that was true—but neither Maxton Abbey nor the London house had ever felt like home, and Isabel expected they never would. But allowing herself to think like this would only make her maudlin, so she forced a smile. “If we get too bored, we shall exchange dresses. At least then we will each have something different to look at.”

Emily laughed. “Come, Isabel, I’m longing for my tea. I do hope the tray is already waiting.” She linked her arm in Isabel’s.

“Is Mrs. Dalrymple resting from the journey, or shall we collect her before going down?”

“Now there’s a story,” Emily said. “She isn’t here.”

“Your faithful companion has deserted you? She can’t have been offered a better job.”

“The local squire has proposed marriage—and though Mrs. Dalrymple protested that she could not abandon me at such a time, I insisted you would be a perfectly adequate chaperone. I was assuming, of course, that you would be here—though my answer would have been the same even if I’d known you were not.”

“Mrs. Dalrymple,
married
?”

“It hardly seems fair, does it—that she has a second husband? I grant that Sir Cedric is red-faced and quite square in shape, and his laugh sometimes sounds as if he’s braying. But I’ve never heard that he’s been unkind to a single soul—and I suppose that is more important than his personal oddities.”

Isabel felt something like envy flicker deep in her stomach. “More important indeed,” she said softly as they strolled down the wide staircase to the main drawing room.

Unlike the original section of the castle, this wing had been added within the last hundred years by a previous duke who had thought himself something of an architect. With defense against siege no longer a priority, he had lined the outer walls with windows rather than arrow slits. In the winter, Isabel recalled, the fires at either end of the room had to be kept roaring just to hold frostbite at bay.

But on this pleasant late-September afternoon, the windows were open to the terrace and the room was flooded with fresh air and sunlight so strong that Isabel had to stop in the doorway to let her eyes adjust. A light breeze stirred the draperies and carried the scent of newly cut grass across to her, along with a heavier, spicier scent that was only vaguely familiar. She’d have to ask one of the gardeners which flower or tree it came from.

She was startled to see a tall, silent figure silhouetted by the window. Not the butler; Chalmers would have spoken immediately, and he wouldn’t have stood there staring across the grounds anyway. And not a maid, for this shape was definitely male. It must be Lucien, though she was surprised he could have come all the way from London by now.

“Is that you, dear brother?” Emily called gaily.

The man at the window turned, and Isabel’s throat dried up. Lucien didn’t move like that, with the sinuous grace of a wild animal.

She knew now what the scent had been and why she had almost recognized it. It was not a tree and not a flower—at least not directly.

It was the cologne favored by the Earl of Maxwell.

His deep voice reached out, curled around Isabel’s heart, and squeezed. “Good afternoon, Lady Emily. How kind of you to refer to me as a brother. And Isabel— my lovely wife. Shall I do the pretty and say that it’s a pleasure, or would that be just a little too much, under the circumstances?”

Lucien managed a tankard of ale whenever they stopped to change horses, and he swallowed an ill-assorted repast—no one with the slightest claim to sensibility could have called it a meal—at the journey’s midpoint. When he suggested that everyone would benefit from a longer rest at the coaching inn, however, the senior postboy—a man who looked twice Lucien’s age—shook his head and said fatly, “It’s more than my position is worth, my lord, if I don’t get you there on time to suit the duke.”

So much for being a man of the world, Lucien thought glumly as he climbed back into the post-chaise. He couldn’t even seem to give orders for his own journey. Someday, by Jove, he’d have a stable of his own, with a new team of high-steppers and a different well-sprung vehicle for every day of the week. He occupied himself with choosing possible paint schemes for the curricle of his dreams as well as selecting the perfect team to pull it, and ultimately he nodded off. The nap at least made the remaining hours pass more quickly, though his troubled sleep left him feeling groggy, as well as hungover and rumpled, when the post-chaise finally drew up in front of Weybridge Castle’s front entrance.

He’d barely crossed the threshold when his youngest sister descended on him. “One of the footmen spotted your chaise approaching across the valley,” Emily said. “Come and have tea. You must be starving after traveling all the way from London.”

“And not a thing ft to eat on the road,” Lucien agreed. “But Uncle Josiah won’t like me appearing like this—I’m not ft for company.” He turned toward the stairway.

“Uncle isn’t coming down this afternoon. It’s just us—Isabel and me, and Maxwell.”

Lucien stopped in midstride and gave a low whistle. “Isabel and Maxwell are in the same room?”

“Now you know why I want you.”

“All right, then, I’ll come—but only because I have to see this, and since it’s obvious you haven’t freshened up or changed, either. I’d swear I’ve seen that gown before.”

“You have indeed, but it’s unkind of you to point it out, Lucien. What inspired you to travel across England dressed like
that
, anyway?”

“Not my choice—and it’s not a story that’s ft for your ears.” He offered his arm.

Emily wrinkled her nose but let him pull her hand through the crook of his elbow. “You smell like the taproom, you know. Or is the smell of ale covering up something even worse?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know? Conditions must be pretty tense in the drawing room, if you’re so anxious to have a distraction that you’re willing to put up with my dirt. Lord and Lady Maxwell sniping at each other, are they?”

“They’re being so polite it’s almost worse than insults.” As they reached the drawing room door, Emily called out, “Look who I found, Isabel—and do make him tell why he’s wearing evening dress at this hour of the day. Lucien says it’s too scandalous a story for me to hear—as though I haven’t any idea what sort of pranks he’s capable of. But since you’re married, he might take you off in a corner and whisper the details. And then you can tell me.”

“It’s too warm a tale even for a married lady,” Lucien said. His sisters would no doubt leap to conclusions that there must be a woman involved, but there was no harm in a man burnishing his reputation, especially when he was telling no actual lies.

Lucien leaned over to kiss Isabel’s hand.

She made a face and pulled away, her hazel eyes narrowing. “You need a shave. Have you fired your valet, or has he lost his mind, letting you rattle around the country looking like that?”

Now that was just plain unfair, Lucien thought—taking potshots at him, when Isabel obviously hadn’t changed clothes herself. Her pink traveling dress was crumpled and creased from hours of sitting in a chaise, and there was so much dust on her slippers that she might have walked all the way from the village. He opened his mouth to protest and then thought better of it.

Lucien had barely noticed the Earl of Maxwell until he bowed in greeting. But the earl addressed Isabel instead. “What a comfort it is, my dear wife, to know that you still appreciate good grooming. One would never guess it from observing you.”

Isabel glared at him. “How strange to find it is my appearance which offends you, sir. I thought it was my mere existence.”

Lucien pretended not to hear them. “Good to see you well, Max.” He snagged a cake from the nearest stand and consumed it in one bite. “You said there was no sniping,” he muttered to Emily.

She shrugged. “Apparently, they progressed while I was gone.”

“It’s going to be a warm few days at the castle. By the way, do you have any notion how long this house party is supposed to last? My letter didn’t say.”

“Nor mine.”

“Well—that’s a bit inconvenient, not to know when I might be back in the city.”

“Why? Are you anxious to get back to your friends, or afraid your ladybird will find another protector while you’re gone?”

“Not a ladybird.” But Lucien said it with a mischievous smile.

“You needn’t think I care,” Emily sniffed. “All men are alike. You and your mistresses—”

Belatedly, Lucien recalled what had happened to Emily last year, and sobered. “Not the same thing,” he said hastily. “Even if I did have a ladybird, it would be nothing like what Rivington was up to.” He eyed her carefully. Emily didn’t look as though she was still suffering—in fact she appeared to be blooming. But you never knew, where ladies were concerned.

“That’s a comfort—for despite you being an annoyance, Lucien, I should not like to see you end up as Rivington did.”

Lucien took another cake, more because he didn’t know what else to say than because he was hungry. Appetite had fled with the reminder of Emily’s ill-fated betrothal.

Emily had moved to the window that overlooked a corner of the great courtyard and the valley beyond. “Are we expecting anyone else?”

“I don’t think so,” Isabel said. “Uncle Josiah is hardly in any condition to plan a gala for his birthday. Why?”

“Because here’s another carriage pulling up.”

Lucien joined her, his cake forgotten. “Another post-chaise? I wonder who…By Jove, what a bang-up job that is!”

The curricle of his dreams stood by the front door. The vehicle was perfect, right down to the colors he had envisioned—deep green with black accents. Though now that he saw the combination for himself, Lucien decided he might have had the wheels picked out in gold instead.

The driver had already climbed down, for a groom was holding the tired horses, ready to lead them around to the stable.

Had Uncle Josiah read his mind and ordered this setup for him? What a wonderful birthday-gift-in-reverse
that
would be!

Emily jabbed him in the ribs. “You do realize you’re drooling, Lucien?”

The drawing room door opened to admit the butler. “Lady Maxwell, the Marquess of Athstone has arrived.” He faded away, leaving a gentleman standing on the threshold.

The pieces fell into place in Lucien’s mind.
You should have expected him to turn up
.

Envy surged from the back corner of his mind, swamping his better nature. The heir of the Duke of Weybridge could afford the best—or, more accurately, he didn’t need money, for he would have no lack of credit with which to buy curricles and horses.

Lucien told himself to be sensible. It wasn’t as if the new Marquess of Athstone had pushed him out of a title or an estate; since Weybridge Castle belonged to Lucien’s mother’s family, it would never have come to him even if this chap had not been born.

Besides, Uncle Josiah had said Lucien was his favorite. No American upstart—a mere twig on some far distant branch of the family tree—was going to come between an uncle and the nephew he loved.

Lucien realized—just as the marquess’s gaze came to rest on him with something like astonishment—his momentary irritation and envy had caused his hand to clench hard on the cake he held, turning it into paste that oozed through his fingers and dripped down the front of his coat.

Isabel had tried her best not to even look at her husband. Instead she had concentrated on pouring tea and then chatting with Emily. But no matter how hard she tried to exclude him, the Earl of Maxwell was not to be ignored; he asked Emily about her journey, and he politely requested a report from Isabel on their mutual friends. The moment Emily left the drawing room to fetch Lucien, Isabel turned to glare at him.

That was a mistake. He was just as handsome as he had ever been, tall and lean and dark, and so perfectly turned out that he seemed to have just stepped from his tailor’s hands. But there was an edge about him now that she’d never seen—a glint of danger in his eyes. Had she missed that before, or was it new?

“Just why are you here, sir?” she demanded.

The earl, who had risen politely when Emily got to her feet, sat down again and picked up his cup. “I was invited, like the rest of you.” A look of concern crept across his face. “Were you invited, Isabel? Or is
bribed
a more accurate term?”