Seduction Regency Style

by Louisa Cornell

  His ears perked at the longest speech she had made in his presence. This Mrs. Green, the lost Flower of Scotland he sought, cared for his uncle. That was most unexpected.

  Quinn forked tongue into his mouth. “Do your mother and father yet live, Mrs. Green?”

  Her gaze dropped to her plate. “Nae, my parents are both gone.”

  His chest constricted. She missed her father. He would wager she didn’t miss that disreputable stepbrother. Quinn opened his mouth to ask, but a procession of servants arrived with more covered dishes containing culinary delights.

  “Good God,” he exclaimed. “All of this for one person, and me a mere brewer. I would have counted myself lucky for a bowl of stew and a slice of bread and butter.”

  She smiled. “You are no ‘mere brewer’ to his lordship. As his heir, you are the future of the earldom.”

  He narrowed his eyes. “Indeed. I am certain he would like to forget the stench of ‘the shop’ on my decidedly common fingers.”

  Her eyes widened. “I assure you, that is not the case, sir. I have heard him speak with pride of your father’s accomplishments in regard to your brewery. He keeps a sizable stock of the Bonnie Lassie here at Balmurray.”

  “Singular,” Quinn muttered. “He wasn’t always so broad minded.” He hadn’t forgotten the “monster” who had booted them from his grandfather’s funeral service.

  “I’m sure I don’t know, sir,” she replied, her fairy eyes gazing at him in earnest. “I can tell you, in all frankness, that he has been kind to everyone in the time I have worked here.” She grinned. “Except for the doctor. His lordship has little respect for doctors, I fear. He calls them charlatans and quacks.”

  Quinn stared, stunned at how pretty she looked when she smiled. He took a long swig of wine. “What is your opinion of the doctor, Mrs. Green?”

  “Dr. McTavish seems competent—as physicians go.” The last was added with enough vehemence that Quinn discerned that she had little more respect for doctors than did his uncle. “He isn’t frightened off by his lordship’s ill temper,” she said.

  “What says he of my uncle’s condition?”

  She picked up a spoon and pushed at the apple frushie on her plate. “It’s not really my place to comment. You should hear that news from the doctor himself. He’s expected on Friday.”

  Quinn paused in lifting his wine glass and locked gazes with her. “If it concerns my uncle’s health, I expect you to tell me, Mrs. Green.”

  She bit her lip again.

  “If you could try not to upset him.” She drew a sharp breath. “Oh dear, I didn’t mean to imply that you would, of course.” She looked up at his face. “We’ve been told that too much excitement could precipitate another attack. Frankly, he is already over-stimulated by the preparations surrounding your visit, although there was no stopping him, you understand.”

  “You fear I intend to confront him about old family grievances and thus push him closer to the grave?” Quinn said. “Rest easy. I have no wish to send him to the grave any earlier than necessary.” Which didn’t mean he and his uncle would suddenly become family. Quinn was here out of duty and to please his mother.

  Mrs. Green released a breath. “I am relieved. I believe you will like the earl, Mister Murray.” She glanced at the timepiece pinned to the bodice of her apron and started. “Goodness gracious, how the time has flown. I beg your pardon, sir, but it has grown late, and I must be about my duties.”

  Quinn rose as a footman stepped forward and pulled back her chair. “Thank you for your company, Mrs. Green. I hope the pleasure will be repeated soon.”

  Her cheeks flamed a pretty pink, she bobbed a curtsy, and hurried from the room.

  He chuckled, then scowled. Blast it to hell, how was he to get the image of that delightful armful out of his mind now?

  He thought an evening spent on business correspondence might do it, but no. He achieved little, then slept fitfully. All he could remember of his dreams the following morning involved a pair of beguiling fairy green eyes.

  Chapter Eleven

  Quinn arrived in the dining room for breakfast to find a place at the table elegantly laid for one. Why should he feel disappointed that Mrs. Green wasn’t present? No doubt, she had far too much to do in the morning to consider entertaining him. He’d best get used to having most of his meals alone in the massive room.

  Quinn declined the footman’s offer to procure his food for him and served himself from the silver warming dishes on the sideboard. Enough food had been prepared for a small army. He filled his plate with coddled eggs, bacon, kippers, porridge, and buttered toast, then returned to his seat. The footman pulled out his chair for him, picked up his serviette and laid it on his lap, poured his coffee, and stood behind his chair as he ate. The combination of the oppressive silence and the awareness of being watched wore on his nerves.

  He sampled the eggs and bacon, and by the time he’d tried the porridge, had almost forgotten about the footman who hovered so close Quinn swore he would feel heat from the man’s body. Quinn sighed. He missed his mother’s tattie scones prepared from a family recipe.

  By the light of day, the ornateness of the richly decorated dining room seemed excessive. He preferred the warm coziness of the breakfast room at his home in Edinburgh, its bright yellow walls decorated with his mother’s sketches of flowers and scenes of nature. Most of all, he missed her reassuring voice as she prattled on about the neighbors, items in the newspaper, her plans for the day, and young ladies she was eager for him to meet. Well, as for the introductions…not so much.

  If this was what being an earl was all about, God help him. The world was changing—Scotland, too—and the old world, structured around the comfort and convenience of a few wealthy people, would have to reinvent itself to include the needs of the majority. He was far from being a republican—the little Corsican was an equal menace in his mind—but the revolution of the French people was a significant indication of a forthcoming power shift.

  The possibility that he, as the Earl St. Andrews, could be a part of that change was a large part of the reason he had agreed to come here. If he was about to inherit the old pile of stones, he might as well start thinking about what he was going to do with it.

  Breakfast finished, he gave the egregious room a scowl of disapproval as he slapped his serviette on the table and made to push back his chair.

  “Allow me, sir.”

  The deuced footman. They were everywhere. He nodded curtly at this one and strolled from the room, just as the intriguing Mrs. Green descended the stairs. She smiled and, for a brief moment, he was dazzled by the youthful bloom on her face. No middle-aged hag here. Barely twenty, he suspected.

  “Good morning, Mister Murray.” She stepped from the last stair. “I have just come from the earl, and he is in grand spirits, so eager to meet you. I’ll take you to him.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Green.” He tried to direct his attention away from the enticing sway of her hips as he followed her up the stairs and down the corridor to his uncle’s suite.

  The sitting room, papered in deep bottle green, felt dark and gloomy despite the bright sunlight streaming through the tall windows on the far side. An emaciated old man in a tartan bed jacket and woolen cap sat in a wing chair next to a roaring fire, his lap covered by blankets. He smiled broadly when Quinn entered.

  “My boy! William.” He made as if to rise, but Mrs. Green rushed to prevent him from doing so.

  “You must not, my lord. Remain seated and save your strength for your nephew’s visit.”

  The earl grimaced but settled back into his chair. “An old mother hen, she is. Damned annoying.”

  “I will leave you gentlemen alone.” She gave Quinn a stern look. “He mustn’t be overtired, sir. Mary will be in to check on him in a quarter hour or so.” She gestured to a chair on the other side of the fireplace.

  Quinn bowed to his uncle. “Good morning, your lordship. Quinn Murray, at your service.” He took his seat.r />
  The earl’s frown softened. “William Quinn Murray. After our father—your grandfather, of course.” He chuckled. “That name happens to be mine, as well.” He scrubbed a hand across his face and briefly closed his eyes. “Please, call me Uncle. I hope the two of us will manage to deal amicably in the future, at least for the trifling amount of time left to me.”

  “I have no wish to cause further conflict.”

  The earl stared at the floor and sighed. “I regret that the truth came to me too late to make things right with your father. I’m sure when we meet again in the hereafter, he will have a great deal to say to me, and, I assure you, it is all well deserved.”

  Quinn remained silent. The old man would soon face his Maker. It was not for him to aid his uncle in unloading the transgressions of the past.

  “I met your mother when Donald brought her to Balmurray to announce their betrothal.” He shook his head. “I’m not sure why he made the effort. I took it as an act of defiance, but I suppose he meant it as a sort of olive branch.” His gaze shifted to Quinn. “I suppose you know the cause of our quarrel.”

  Quinn cleared his throat. “You wished my father to marry a duke’s daughter.”

  The earl laughed bitterly, which turned into a cough.

  Quinn jumped to his feet. God save him from Mrs. Green’s fury should he kill his uncle within five minutes of their meeting. “Can I get you something, sir?”

  “No. Er—yes. Whisky.” He pointed to a cupboard in the far corner.

  Whisky? That seemed a dubious choice, but Quinn rose and poured a glass, then watched as his uncle took a long swig and released a breathy sigh.

  “The perfect medicine,” he said with a satisfied smile. “Good Scots whisky does me better than anything concocted by that quack McTavish.” He took another swig, finished the drink, and handed the glass back to Quinn. “Have a nip yourself, if you wish, then return the bottle to the cupboard. The doctor’s minions will fuss if they see it.”

  Quinn stifled a smile. The old earl might be a reformed man, but a bit of cunning spirit remained.

  “Where were we?” asked the earl as Quinn returned to his seat with a glass of his own. The old man seemed calmer, more relaxed, and the tension in Quinn’s shoulders loosened a bit.

  “The duke’s daughter,” Quinn urged.

  “Ah, yes.” The earl sighed. “Your father was wise to reject that match. Wiser than I.”

  Quinn stared. “Sir?”

  His gaze went heavenward. “Indeed. Fool as I was, I’d promised the duke a marriage.” He directed a stern look at Quinn. “Never make promises to dukes. They have ways of making you pay.”

  He proceeded to describe his marriage to the “wife from hell,” with whom he had shared a mutual antagonism. After the birth of their son, she moved to Edinburgh, where she raised the boy to despise him as much as she did.

  “Why did you not insist on raising him yourself? Surely, the law was on your side.”

  His uncle snorted. “My father-in-law. Not only did he finagle the terms of the wedding agreement to ensure that the dowry went to his daughter in case of a separation, but it gave her custody of all children of the marriage.”

  Quinn whistled. “How did—? Did you not have a solicitor to advise you?” He wanted to add, ‘Did you not read the agreement before you signed it?’ but decided against the notion.

  His uncle’s nostril’s flared. “Damned clause wasn’t there when I signed the agreement, I assure you. Someone very cleverly added it afterward—in both copies! Nobody noticed—not even old Greaves, who should have gone through the contract word by word, damned fool that he was.” He shook his head. “I was all for taking the matter to the courts, but was advised that it would be difficult to prove and would cost the Earth.” He sighed. “And I would still be married to Matilda and subject to the duke’s vengeance through her and Hayden.”

  Ah yes. William Hayden Murray, his cousin, who had put paid to his own existence, the tragic event that had led to Quinn becoming heir presumptive to the St. Andrews earldom. He wondered at the cause of his young cousin’s desperate action, but seeing the anguish in his uncle’s expression, decided not to broach the subject. It appeared the man had suffered greatly from his own manipulations. Quinn had no wish to crow over his uncle’s misfortunes. On the other hand, the earl needed to know how his repudiation of his brother had affected the family.

  Quinn cleared his throat. “I am not without sympathy for your sufferings, sir. There is no question but that you were ill-used by the duke, and that his misdeeds have been a constant source of affliction to you. Have you any idea of the distress you caused my father—and through him, my mother?”

  The earl reached out to him, then pulled back, his shoulders curling over his chest. “Aye,” he murmured. “I have some idea.”

  Quinn’s muscles tightened as he launched into the narrative that now seemed to him to have been on the tip of his tongue since he’d witnessed his uncle’s cruelty at his grandfather’s funeral. “My father was the finest man I have ever known,” he began. “The McCoys welcomed him into their family, and he repaid them by being an exceptional husband and father, and by working to make their Bonnie Lassie beer the preferred beer in Scotland. It is my intention,” he added with pride, “to make it the preferred beer in all of Great Britain.”

  Quinn recounted his father’s sadness on holidays spent with his wife’s family, with nary a word spoken about his own. About tears in his father’s eyes whenever he spoke of his childhood and his parents, and how he made excuses for his brother’s behavior even as he denounced it.

  Quinn ended with, “I once overheard my mother confide to Mrs. Beatie, her closest friend, her guilt for being the cause of her husband’s estrangement from his family—from you, sir.”

  The earl’s head bowed, and Quinn suddenly realized he had overwhelmed the frail, old man. He started to stand before the earl said, “I have many regrets, the greatest of which is the wrong I did to my brother and his family. And to our father, who never got to know you, his own grandson.” He bit his lip. “Had he been well, he’d never have allowed it. I am ashamed to say I took advantage of his…weakness.”

  “Father said he suffered a sort of mental deterioration,” Quinn said with more calm than he felt. Not for the first time, he wondered if some sort of hereditary defect ran in the family.

  “He had an attack of apoplexy and was never the same,” his uncle replied. “At times, he was lucid, but that happened less and less as time passed. He often asked after Donald, but in his mind, Donald was a young lad.” He laughed softly. “As was I, too often. Now, I find myself at the end of my life reexamining the events of the past, wishing I could go back and correct the errors.” He sighed “‘Tis not possible, of course.”

  “How much of this desire for a reconciliation is due to the loss of your son?” Quinn asked.

  The earl’s brow furrowed.. Perhaps the question had been cruel, but he had to know.

  Moisture appeared in his uncle’s eyes. “Did losing Hayden contribute to the need for a reconciliation?” He grunted. “Of course, it did. You cannot imagine how losing a child changes a man. I pray you never need such a lesson to teach you what is important. I frittered my life away with bitterness and the need to be right. I can’t expect you to understand that. I am simply grateful for the opportunity to tell you that I am sorry.”

  Quinn gave a slow nod. “All that remains is for us to go forward, Uncle.”

  “I’m forgiven, then? I’d hardly dared hope…” His eyes filled with tears.

  “It is not for me to stand in judgment of you,” Quinn said slowly. “I forgive you, Uncle.”

  The old man choked with tears.

  The door opened and Mary entered with a tray. She halted just inside the room. Her eyes swung from the earl to Quinn. “Sir, you have upset him.” She rushed to the table and nearly dumped the tray onto the surface in her haste to reach her master. She helped him to his feet and Quinn rose.

/>   “Come to bed, my lord,” she coaxed. “You mustn’t get overtired. And you”—she pointed her chin at Quinn—”it is time for you to leave, sir.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Early the next morning, Roslyn sat in the kitchen, enjoying her usual toast and coffee, when Mary burst into the room.

  “She’s here,” Mary said between gasps.

  Roslyn frowned. “She?”

  The bustle in the room halted and everyone stared at the girl.

  “Mrs. Jane Murray,” the girl panted. “The future earl’s mother.”

  Roslyn stared dumbly at her. “Here? Now?”

  Mary bobbed her head. “The viscount’s mother is here in the foyer.”

  Roslyn jumped to her feet. “You left her standing in the foyer?”

  Mary’s eyes widened.

  Roslyn pushed past her and raced toward the door. “Have tea prepared and sent to the parlor, immediately,” she called over her shoulder.

  As she neared the foyer, she forced herself to a walk, in order to slow her pounding heart. She turned the corner and entered the foyer to find a slim woman dressed in a canary yellow day dress. Mrs. Murray had removed her bonnet and was fidgeting with the ribbon. She looked up at Roslyn’s approach.

  “Good morning, ma’am.” Roslyn stopped and curtsied. “Forgive Mary for leaving you here in the foyer. If you will come with me, I will show you to the parlor, then fetch your son.”

  The woman gave a small nod and followed Roslyn to the parlor. Thankfully, due to Mister Murray’s visit, the parlor drapes were open and a fire burned in the hearth.

  “If you will have a seat, tea will be served presently.” Roslyn started to turn.

  “Forgive me, but can you tell me, how is the earl?” the woman asked.

  Roslyn drew in a breath. “He is doing as well as can be expected.”

  Mrs. Murray’s attention shifted to her bonnet. “Are…how are he and my son getting on?”