Entrancing the Earl

by Patricia Rice

  “A lot less historical.” Iona folded the letter and handed it back. “I hadn’t realized you were interested in palatial mansions. Perhaps you should marry Arthur. He wouldn’t know the difference.”

  Isobel laughed. “I don’t want to live in a mansion or with Arthur. But I might learn things from the estate. And I can wear one of your new gowns!”

  “You can have gowns of your own. Did you think I’d let you go back home looking like a ragpicker while I dressed in silk? We are to be very wealthy.” She took Isobel’s arm and steered her toward the librarian’s castle.

  “I can’t go home if Mortimer is still about,” her sister said mournfully. “Although I like it here very much. I don’t think Lydia or Mr. Ives will let him come near me.”

  “I have taken a lesson from Lord Ives, and I’m making arrangements.” Grimly, Iona marched up the hill. “I will simply not be as polite about it. Now that we have funds of our own, I intend to use them wisely. Once I have Arthur’s, I’ll fritter them.”

  “I don’t know whether to laugh or be afraid.”

  “Mortimer should be afraid. You should laugh. I now have friends who can tell me when ships leave for China and Africa and South America. It’s only a matter of choosing between Edinburgh and Glasgow. The train goes both ways from here, so I think I’ll give myself a wedding present, pour laudanum into his drink, and see that he’s on one.”

  “Won’t he wake before he reaches the coast ? How will you put him on a ship?” Isobel stopped in the courtyard to watch her worriedly.

  “Hire men.” Iona had spent lots of nights plotting. “If I have to spend every penny of my money, it will be worth it. Once he’s gone, we can keep what we earn.”

  “We won’t need to earn anything if you’re wealthy,” Isobel reminded her. “But I should like to see if I can make the estate pay for itself again. I like your idea so well that I might even go with Mortimer to be certain he sails away.”

  Iona hugged her. “And then we’ll go to Balmoral!”

  “I think I shall like being an independent woman. Perhaps I shall travel, too.” Isobel straightened her shoulders and marched toward the house.

  “Probably not a wise idea until you’re cured,” Iona called after her. Isobel ignored her.

  Iona didn’t much care if she was independent so long as she had the wealth to do as she wished. Perhaps she would follow Lord Ives if he went to Italy. Wouldn’t he be surprised?

  The question was more—would he be pleased?

  She hadn’t heard a word from him since he’d been reported as recovering.

  Once she was married, she could take lovers, she supposed. She just didn’t think she’d find anyone who interested her in the way Gerard did. Simply thinking about him. . . left her weak with hunger. She hoped he felt the same.

  He’d never admit it. He’d hide behind his aristocratic boredom and not acknowledge her existence once she was out of sight.

  Arthur strolled out to greet her. He was currently experimenting with wearing tweeds, breeches, and boots like a country gentleman. He’d even gone hunting and brought home a goose. Already bordering on stout, he reminded her of an overgrown St. Bernard puppy, eager to please and to play.

  “I hear we are to go to Balmoral,” he said proudly, offering his arm to escort her inside.

  It had not once occurred to her that he would go with them, but she supposed he would be her husband then. She had just thought he would wander off and do whatever it was wealthy men did, but of course he would hope to hobnob with royalty. That was why he was marrying her.

  Once inside, she was swept into the wedding planning that she had tried to escape by visiting the bees. Lydia the Librarian loved big gatherings. Iona had persuaded her to keep the guest list small and exclusive, but the public rooms were filling with ribbons and bows—and flowers now, apparently. Big bouquets of autumn colors adorned the drafty great hall. They didn’t have the perfume of roses, of course, but Iona loved all flowers.

  “And look,” Lydia cried as she proudly showed off her efforts. “Phoebe sent you a kitten! She says she heard you never had a pet.”

  Iona gasped as a tiny golden kitten was dropped into her hands. The kitten crouched and solemnly studied her. She studied him back. He had golden-brown eyes, like hers. Phoebe had noticed her eyes?

  Except—she couldn’t remember telling Phoebe that she hadn’t had a pet. Gerard. She had once, a lifetime ago it seemed, told him. Her stupid hope jolted into existence again.

  “Hello, tiny little one,” she murmured, stroking a small head with a fingertip. “I trust you don’t eat bees.”

  “Cats don’t eat bees,” Arthur scoffed. “They eat mice. We’ll need a barn to keep it in.”

  Iona chilled. He didn’t really think she meant to live with him, did he? Big puppy dogs might. She grimaced and gently reminded him of her plans. “I shall take him to Wystan with me, and he may sleep in my room. If there are any mice there, he’s welcome to them.”

  Lydia, her pregnancy more noticeable than a month ago, beamed in delight. “Mrs. Merriweather adores cats. Tiny will be one very pampered kitten.”

  “Perhaps I shall call him Kingsley. He won’t always be small. Come along, King, let’s see if you like my bridal gown.” Iona sailed off, leaving Arthur to his own entertainment.

  She feared she bewildered him. She’d never meant to hurt him. But she wasn’t his damned mother.

  Twenty-five

  “Will my hair cover the scar?” Edgily, Gerard regarded his reflection in the shaving mirror as Lowell arranged his overlong hair.

  “I’ll part it from the other side, but the marquess isn’t a barber. He butchered it in the process of stitching you up. Be grateful you’re alive.” Lowell snipped a few strands and combed them out. “You’ll simply start a new fashion with close-cropped sides until it grows out.”

  “I don’t want to start a fashion. I just don’t wish to frighten small children.” Or Iona, but that went without saying.

  “A new bride won’t notice her guests.” Lowell scoffed, understanding the direction of his thoughts. “Just put a hat on and smile as if you mean it.”

  He’d shoot Arthur first. Well, perhaps second—Mortimer was likely to be there. Max had said the old bastard hadn’t shown up yet, but the twins were at Calder. Now that their stepfather was out on bond, he would head straight there.

  Gerard tugged angrily at his cravat. She was marrying in two days. Two days. And he still only had a feeble plan.

  “You don’t have to go, y’know,” his valet reminded him. “You had your chance with the wench and you lost.”

  The medallion in his pocket snorted. Gerard hadn’t decided if he was relieved or not that his wits were still scrambled. Dolts were already calling him Marvelous Malcolm—or Mister Malcolm, which was worse. He’d never live it down. He was an Ives, dammit.

  “I’m not losing,” he said curtly, although he might lose Wystan if he continued down this path. The reward money was frittering away quickly. “I had things to do. Wellington didn’t win by rushing haphazardly into battle.”

  “Near enough, if you ask me.” The valet stood back to admire his handiwork. “You’ll pass.”

  “Good.” Gerard grabbed his hat and cane, waited for Lowell to pick up their bags, and hurried down the stairs to join the wedding party heading for the station.

  His shoulder was pretty much incapacitated. His head ached when he was tired. But he’d have to be dead before he missed this trip.

  * * *

  Iona took one last look in Lydia’s pier glass. Something old—she stroked her mother’s newly strung pearls. The string was smaller now, but she felt her mother smiling as she touched it. Isobel wore hers too.

  Something borrowed—she adjusted the beautiful veil concealing her too-short hair. Lydia had worn it at her wedding. Something blue—that would be her garter. No one would see it but her. She’d arranged separate rooms for their wedding night. The bottle of laudanum would take care
of both husband and stepfather. She’d be gone by morning. So would Mortimer.

  That thought finally brought a smile to her lips.

  “You look so beautiful,” Isobel said wistfully, handing her the bouquet. “I wish you were marrying someone a little more dashing.”

  Gerard had been dashing that night he’d saved his friends’ lives and almost sacrificed his own. Dashing got people killed.

  “I’m a beekeeper. Dashing isn’t for me.” She’d never dreamed of dashing. Her only thought these last years had been of survival.

  She checked to see that the lace and embroidered train of her gown trailed correctly. Between her new corset and the gown’s tight fit, with her shoulders and arms bare above a froth of tulle forming her bustle, she almost looked like a mermaid rising from the surf.

  “Everyone has arrived and is in the chapel,” Lydia called from the doorway. “Oh, you look so gorgeous!” She burst into tears.

  The librarian had a tendency to weep these days. Prepared, Isobel handed her a handkerchief and tucked a spare up her sleeve. Her twin was wearing a magnificent royal blue silk with bustle and ruffles that Isobel hoped to wear again to visit the queen. A coronet of white roses dangled blue ribbons down her nape and over her short hair.

  Iona kissed her sleepy kitten and tucked him into a basket of ribbons with instructions to a maid to look after him. Her heart melted knowing Gerard had sent the perfect wedding gift—one just for her, to keep her company on the lonely nights ahead. She did love the oblivious man. She simply didn’t want to destroy his future.

  The wail of bagpipes echoed through the ancient stone halls they traversed to the chapel. In an unusually sentimental mood, Iona wished for her mother’s tartan, but she’d had to leave it at Craigmore. She could send for it once she reached Wystan. Perhaps Grace could weave another since the old one was tattered and worn after decades of use.

  Outside the chapel, Isobel and Lydia kissed Iona’s cheeks, then proceeded her down the aisle of the old Gothic chapel. As always for Malcolm weddings, potted rowans guarded the interior, their autumn berries red against dark green.

  The bagpipes blew their last note and a solemn piano chord sounded, signaling Iona’s entrance. A moment of panic washed over her, and she hesitated. She would be very rich, she reminded herself. Mortimer would be out of their lives. Isobel would be happy. The estate would flourish again. . . She would not run and hide. People waited.

  She had a kitten now.

  Laughing quietly at her foolishness, Iona stepped into the ancient stone chapel with its cathedral ceiling. She concentrated on admiring the pretty ribbons Lydia had attached to the rowans rather than look at Arthur waiting for her at the altar. If she were to have only one wedding day, she ought to remember the lovely details.

  She almost walked into the librarian’s wide back. Why had Lydia stopped in the middle of the aisle?

  Iona tore her nervous gaze from the décor. Around her, she heard worried murmurs beneath the lovely music. In the pews, heads bent toward each other, whispering, then strained to see the front.

  The librarian glanced in concern over her shoulder, then wordlessly stepped aside so Iona could view the altar.

  Wearing a flower in the lapel of his elegant dark blue tail coat, standing tall and handsome and strong—Lord Ives stood where Arthur ought to be.

  What in heaven. . . ? The corset restricted Iona’s breathing, and all the air swooshed from her lungs. She might faint like Isobel if she didn’t breathe soon.

  Oh, my word, he was so strikingly aristocratic and stern. . . He’d rearranged his black hair to cover the wound, which didn’t help to soften his harsh cheekbones. Did he look a little paler than usual? At sight of her, the earl’s mouth softened, and his whole demeanor changed. She could almost smell his lust and happiness from this distance, and she swallowed hard. There was the man she so wanted to love. . .

  Taking a deep breath, Iona skirted around Lydia, squeezed Isobel’s arm to tell her she was fine, and marched up to confront the obnoxiously arrogant lord. “What are you doing here? What have you done to Arthur?”

  “Your groom accidentally took a little too much laudanum.” Gerard attempted to look regretful but it didn’t match his scent of victory. “He shouldn’t have toasted your future with Mortimer. That was a serious mistake.”

  Iona couldn’t unwind her tongue from her teeth. He had knocked out her stepfather? She hadn’t even found the cad yet. “How? How did you do that?”

  Gerard drew her gloved hand through the crook of his arm and turned her toward the gawking preacher. “Tavern in the village, of course. Shouldn’t the rest wait? We have an audience expecting a wedding. You look beyond beautiful, you know. I love the way your hair curls about your ears like that, almost like mine now.”

  She wanted to laugh. She wanted to hug and kiss him for rescuing her from a lifetime of running away. She wanted to punch him—very, very hard, but she was holding his injured arm.

  “You can’t do this,” she hissed through clenched teeth. “It’s not legal. You have no license.”

  That was a stupid argument, but all the others fell by the wayside while she had Gerard this close and could sense his uncertainty and triumph and rage. He had way too many emotions churning away, concealed from the world by his practiced indifference.

  “Irregular, yes. Illegal, no. This is Scotland, remember. In your charming country I’ll simply pay the fine when we file with the registrar.”

  Her head spun with so many fears that she couldn’t express them all. “What about your duty to your father and to Wystan? I have no money!”

  “I have spent a lifetime carrying out the duties of others. What about my duty to me?” For the first time, his insouciance cracked, and outrage peered through. “What about your duty to you? Are we naught but cogs in the great wheel of life?”

  He turned to the preacher. “Mind going straight to the vows? She’s likely to run off and hide again until I have a ring on her finger.”

  “I do not run off,” she protested. Well, she did, she supposed, but for very good reasons. She wasn’t certain if this was one of them. Joy filled her heart, even though her head said this was insane.

  Gerard glared down at her sternly. “You ran off and left me confined to the bed and unable to follow. Hiding is what you do.”

  “I do not,” she whispered as the preacher uncertainly spoke foolish words about sickness and health, loving and cherishing. “I was right here where anyone with half a brain could find me.”

  The preacher faltered. Gerard signaled for him to continue.

  “You do understand that marriage is forever?” he demanded, his dark eyes glaring down at her like midnight while the preacher hurriedly continued the ceremony.

  “I do,” she retorted angrily. “I’m not—”

  Before she could finish, Gerard placed a finger over her lips and faced the preacher. “You heard the lady, she does swear to love me. And I do solemnly swear to take the wench for richer and a damned sight poorer than she wanted, and in sickness and health, in love, honor and equality. May I put the ring on her now?”

  “Repeat after me,” the beleaguered preacher intoned. “With this ring I give you, as a sign of our constant faith. . .”

  Gerard removed her glove and hurried the process. “For so long as we both shall live.” He slid a slender band of gold and diamonds over her finger.

  Iona stared at it incredulously. “You can’t afford this. You’re fixing Wystan.” She wanted to add You can’t do this, except he already had. And she loved him so much, tears rimmed her eyes, and she couldn’t think of any way of stopping this mockery.

  She might have mentioned “in madness and in health” at some point.

  As the preacher intoned, “Those whom God has joined together let no one separate,” Gerard murmured, “And I may now kiss the bride.”

  He circled her waist, drew her up against him, and when she gasped and attempted to protest this wasn’t part of the ceremony
, he covered her open lips with his and tickled them with his tongue. And she leaned into him until he held her off the floor and there was no separating the spiraling passion between them.

  Their guests cheered and laughed and clapped. The preacher harrumphed.

  Iona wasn’t entirely coherent by the time the bagpipes broke into a triumphant march.

  Their audience roared and flung flowers when Lord Ives turned her to face the world as his wife. She was too bewitched and bewildered to do more than smile like a fool.

  Bewitched. The Earl of Ives and Wystan had magicked her, just like the Malcolm he was.

  * * *

  Triumphant and terrified, Gerard led his bride into the anteroom to sign the marriage papers along with the preacher. Max and Lydia witnessed them. Iona’s hand trembled as she added her signature.

  She was eerily silent as they continued down the chilly stone corridor to the drafty great hall, but she’d been a full-fledged participant in that kiss. He hadn’t abducted her. Was she already regretting what they’d done?

  When they reached the wildly adorned ancient hall, Gerard handed her a cup of punch and waited.

  “Arthur may sue,” was her opening volley.

  He could deal with the practical. “I left him in the capable hands of Lady Alice.”

  His squabble with the lady hadn’t been very diplomatic, until he’d listed the great advantages of marrying a wealthy milksop who wouldn’t mind her extracurricular activities. Once Alice recognized Gerard’s wisdom, Arthur didn’t stand a chance. Her father was a powerful lord, after all, one who could pull all the strings needed to obtain a knighthood for his son-in-law if he desired. He even had an ancient barony or two that might be called upon, if needed. Gerard had done them both a favor. He’d left Alice in bed with Arthur, waiting for him to wake up.

  Before he could explain any of this, excited voices echoed down the corridor, almost drowned out by the bagpipe’s wail. Lady Dare had promised to delay the party with her camera. She’d apparently lost control of the guests.