by Tarah Scott
“How about meeting me tonight?”
“Am I to run interference?” Paisley asked.
“Something like that.”
“You’re mistaken if you think I can be trapped by even those fine specimens of femininity.”
The sisters had disappeared down the street, but Erroll knew who he referred to. “You might find you like one of them.”
“I have no doubt I would like both of them.”
Erroll wasn’t sure he liked that idea.
“I might take one of them off your hands,” Paisley waggled his brows, “for the evening.”
“They are not those sorts of ladies.”
“Really?” Montgomery said. “When have you dallied with any other sort? The more reputable ones can be…complicated.”
“That is one way of putting it,” Erroll muttered.
Paisley studied him. “You are not actually smitten with one of them? The last time a lady captured your attention was your final year at university. That was what, five years ago? Not long before you signed up for the navy, if I recall. You navy chaps have a wench in every port. Perhaps there is someone you failed to mention?”
“There is not,” Erroll said with emphasis. “And there is not anyone now. I am simply intrigued.”
“Intrigued?” Paisley laughed heartily. “Poor fellow. That is exactly how it starts. You have my sympathy, and my agreement. I will make the rounds with you tonight. That should prove more interesting than hearing third hand accounts of your antics.”
“There will be nothing of consequence to hear,” Erroll replied.
But that didn’t mean he might not redirect Miss Grace Crenshaw’s attention onto the Earl of Paisley. If her attentions could be diverted to another man, and the elder Miss Crenshaw remained steadfast in her refusal to marry him, he might escape the ladies’ father with his bollocks intact.
Erroll was torn between jumping onto the first ship leaving port and the lust that had persisted on his walk back to the hotel. Paisley was right. Being intrigued by a woman could only lead to trouble. Erroll climbed the final flight of stairs to his hotel room. His wound ached just enough to remind him of his folly, and he entered, his mind on the sherry he knew waited on the small table near the parlor window. Erroll stopped short at sight of his father sitting before the hearth, the sherry decanter on the table beside his chair. He supposed he should be glad the intruder was his father and not another disgruntled paramour. Though he might prefer an angry woman to the marquess.
Erroll closed the door. “I did not expect you, sir.”
His father finished the last of the sherry in his glass, then set it on the table. “Then you are a fool.”
Careful not to favor his leg, Erroll crossed to the table where the glasses sat and picked one up. “Only an hour ago I told Tolland that I was not a fool.” Erroll went to the decanter, refilled his father’s glass, then poured his, and seated himself on the settee to the marquess’ left. “To what do I owe the honor of your visit?”
“I am here to oversee your marriage settlement.”
So much for a getaway. Erroll considered telling his father about the marriage contract in his jacket pocket but, instead, finished his sherry in one swig. He would need a second and a third before this conversation concluded. “You are being a little premature. The lady is not cooperating.”
“Which one?”
“You heard about last night’s events, I take it?”
“All of England has heard. Your mother will be none too pleased.”
“You were not so cruel as to inform her?” Erroll blurted.
“I did.”
Of course he did. What better punishment could he have meted out? “I doubt even her energetic persuasion can induce Miss Crenshaw to marry me,” Erroll said.
His father hmphed. “Which Miss Crenshaw?”
“The elder.”
“Then marry the younger.”
“Tolland is quite adamant that I marry the elder daughter. It seems I tarnished her reputation even more than I did the younger’s—though, I must point out, as I told you in Coventry, I did not sully that lady’s reputation. I never met her until last night at the inn where I, er, caught up with her party.”
“She lied?” his father asked.
“Exactly.”
The marquess shrugged. “You’ve pled innocence too many times in the past to be believed.”
Erroll poured himself another drink, then lifted the glass in salute. “Quite right.” He took a deep sip.
His father watched him with a critical eye. “If you insist on being a complete dissolute, the least you could do is dally with Scottish women.”
And risk falling in love with one as you did? Erroll wondered. He lifted one shoulder in a shrug. “Scotland is rather a long way to ride for a beautiful woman. As the family properties in England will not run themselves, I must satisfy myself with the willing ladies of London society.”
“And you think England is too far away for me to set you straight?”
Erroll held his gaze. “It is my mess, after all.”
“You should have married a Scottish woman, you fool.”
Erroll wasn’t married yet, but decided against saying so. “Great Britain has come a long way since The Forty-Five Rebellion, sir, but I would not ask a Scottish wife to live among the lovely female wolves of the ton.”
“Yet you bed them as if you were Pope John the seventh himself,” he shot back.
“I think you give me too much credit. After all, I have not bedded your mistress.”
His father’s features hardened. “I advise you not to try. I made you. I can make another just like you.”
Erroll had no doubt of that, and the third son would be even better than the second had been and far superior to the first.
“I shouldn’t be surprised to find you had a dozen bastard sons running about,” the marquess muttered.
“I am quite careful.”
“Not careful enough to marry a Scottish woman. That would have made a man of you. But that is of little consequence now. You will marry one of the Crenshaw sisters and settle down. You did not survive war only to drink and whore yourself into an early grave.”
“No need to worry, sir. I have many good years ahead of me, unlike—” Erroll broke off at the realization of what he’d been about to say. His father had finally managed to rattle him. Erroll suddenly felt very tired. ”You have made the trip for nothing.”
His father released a heavy sigh. “You must let him go, Erroll. I have.”
Erroll went cold. “I beg your pardon?”
“Your brother’s death was a blow to all of us, but it has been over a year. What would he think if he saw you now?”
“He would recognize me as the same man I always was.” Five years his brother’s senior, and not the better of the two to carry on the title.
“Be that as it may, it is time you set aside your feelings and marry.”
“And beget an heir, post haste.”
“That is only part of it,” his father said.
“The part that most concerns you.”
“You are the eldest. It is your duty to have sons.”
“I will no doubt have them.” Then which world would he raise them in?
“You may care little for your future,” his father said, “but if my property falls to Lydia, she will ruin your sisters and mother.”
Erroll wished he could argue, but his elder sister was quite capable of wreaking vengeance on his siblings because their father had sired two children with his mistress Moira while married to her mother.
“As you said, you can produce another son,” Erroll said. “Not to mention, you have provided the ladies an ample dowry and allowance. Mother’s jewels alone will keep her and the girls comfortable, and my mother does have property of her own.”
“Would you have your mother and sisters rely on her jewels for their livelihood?”
No, he would not, and said so.
“I wi
ll not have my holdings—not to mention Ravenhall—fall to Lydia and her husband,” the marquess said.
“I thought you liked Connor.”
“I do. He deserves better than Lydia. But Ravenhall is not the Douglas ancestral home. Generations of MacLeans have grown up there. Even you, though I wonder if you remember.”
His father rose and crossed to the hearth where he stared down into the fire, hands clasped behind his back. He was silent for so long, Erroll began to wonder if he had said all he meant to say.
Then his calm voice broke the silence. “You have cinched the English noose more tightly around our necks.”
A rare flash of anger flared. “Is that how you see my mother; an English noose strangling you?”
His father’s blazing eyes snapped onto him. “You are never again to insinuate that I disparage your mother.”
Shame coursed through him. He’d gone too far. The truth was, it was King George III who had placed the noose around their necks when he’d ordered the marriage of the newly widowed marquess to an English duke’s daughter. The marquess, despite his faults, knew his duty to king and family, and brooked no disrespect against his English wife.
“My apologies,” Erroll said.
“I am sorry your duty is such a burden.” His father’s gaze bore into him. “Do you believe Ash is powerful enough to protect your sister Olivia from Lydia’s wrath once we’re gone?”
No. Sweet Lydia would sacrifice everything to ruin the son and daughter of the marquess’ beloved Moira MacLean.
*****
Kidnapping was a crime, but a wedding must take place, and Eve had reconciled herself to the fact that she had to get Lord Rushton married to Grace before their father enforced his will. She slowed as she and her mother entered the ballroom of Lord Grendall’s party. Her mother strolled on without looking back as Eve scanned the crowd. Her gaze caught on a tall man on the dance floor but when he turned, she saw he wasn’t Lord Rushton. Nevertheless, her pulse refused to slow. He shouldn’t be here, but the ballroom was immense and she could easily miss him in the crowd. The time was ten thirty, and she hadn’t encountered him at the other four soirees she had already visited. If all had gone as planned, Lord Rushton had been shanghaied and was on his way to Gretna where Grace waited to marry him.
“Eve?”
Eve turned toward her mother, who had stopped a few feet away and was looking at her.
“Are you coming?”
“I see Miss Haverly,” Eve said. “I want to say hello to her.” When her mother frowned, Eve said, “Don’t worry, I will join you directly.”
She hesitated, then nodded. “I will wait with Lady Collins there in that alcove.” She pointed to the right wall where a group of ladies stood, then started in that direction. “Do not be long.”
Eve angled left toward the first of the two columns on that side of the room. She reached the column and allowed herself to release a slow breath. This night couldn’t end too soon for her liking.
“Really—” Eve stilled at the sound of Lady Annabelle Quincy’s silky voice leaching around the column “—how did their father decide which of them to saddle Lord Rushton with?”
“And how did Lord Rushton go from one sister’s bed to the other?” demanded a second woman, Lady Willamina Consworth, if Eve wasn’t mistaken.
Throughout the evening, she’d overheard women making low comments within her hearing, pretending to be unaware of her presence, but none so rude as this.
Lady Quincy tittered a laugh. “I can’t imagine his lordship settling for the older sister.”
Disgust rolled over Eve.
“Perhaps the younger sister did not prove to be as tasty as he had hoped,” Lady Consworth said.
“Apparently, Eve Crenshaw was not all that interesting either,” Lady Quincy whispered. “Laura Greenwood was seen leaving Rushton’s hotel room this morning.”
“No,” Willamina breathed. “It seems the earl has no intention of giving up his pleasures even long enough to wed.”
Had she heard right? Lady Greenwood visited the earl’s hotel room today?
“Why should he change simply because he’s marrying?” Lady Quincy said. “After all, they are only daughters of a baron. Getting compromised is the only chance they have of marrying a man like Rushton.” She giggled. “Imagine, if he marries Eve Crenshaw. Why, the three of them might—”
Fury swept through Eve and she nearly stumbled in her haste to circle the column and confront the women. They took a surprised step backwards toward the wall.
“Lady Quincy.” Eve swung her glare onto the older of the two gossipmongers. “Lady Consworth.”
“Miss Crenshaw,” Lady Consworth sputtered.
“We did not see you there,” Lady Quincy said.
“Of course you did,” Eve said.
“Miss Crenshaw—”
“Do not act as if you didn’t say those things just to be spiteful and crude.”
“How dare you?” Lady Quincy hissed.
Lady Consworth cast a glance around them. “Keep your voices down.”
“Why?” Eve demanded, raising hers. “So no one else learns how cruel you are?” The ladies’ eyes widened. “Or perhaps you are worried that people will guess your true feelings?” Eve snapped.
“What true feelings?” Lady Consworth said stupidly.
“Willamina,” Lady Quincy said under her breath.
“That you are jealous Lord Rushton did not make an assignation with you in the gardens.”
A malicious gleam lit Lady Quincy’s eyes. “So it is true, your sister did meet him in the gardens.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Eve retorted.
“But you just said—”
“I did not say Grace met him. I said you wished he had met you. For pity’s sake, are you so dense that you don’t understand plain English?”
Lady Quincy gasped.
“You said those things about me and my sister just to be mean, knowing I was within earshot. So don’t act indignant when I do not remain silent.”
“Miss Crenshaw,” Lady Consworth said. “There has been a mistake. Please—”
“There has been no mistake,” Lady Quincy said in a harsh whisper. “When your sister couldn’t trap him, you decided you could do a better job of it.”
Eve stared. “Are you insane? I did not trap him. He came to my room.”
Triumph shone in Lady Quincy’s eyes. “We heard your father discovered the two of you in bed together, and that you shot Lord Rushton. Frankly, I thought the story was too fantastical to be true. I see I was mistaken.”
“Annabelle,” Lady Consworth tugged on her arm.
“The two of you naked…” Lady Quincy tsked and shook her head in disapproval.
“Naked? That is a bald-faced lie,” Eve said. “I was fully clothed, as was Lord Rushton.”
“I did not see your sister arrive with you,” Lady Quincy said, “and I have not seen Lord Rushton. Is it possible they—” Her gaze jerked past Eve and her eyes widened.
Eve started to twist to see who approached, but a large body bumped into her back. She whirled to face a tall, blond gentleman.
“Pardon me,” he quickly said.
“Lord Paisley,” Lady Consworth said.
“Lady Consworth. Lady Quincy.” He looked expectantly at them and Lady Consworth finally said with a flutter of one hand, “Oh, Lord Paisley, may we present Miss Eve Crenshaw.”
He once again faced Eve and this time grasped her hand. “Miss Crenshaw.” He bent over her fingers, his face angled slightly away from the other ladies. His eyes lifted to meet hers in the instant his mouth brushed her hand, and he winked.
Eve blinked.
He straightened, his face all respectability. “Again, my apologies for ramming into you.”
“You did not ram into me,” she said. “But thank you, my lord, I am unharmed.”
“I am immensely relieved.” He turned his attention to Lady Quincy. “I believe I saw your brother a
moment ago, Lady Quincy. He was looking for you.”
Surprise flickered in Lady Quincy’s eyes, followed by suspicion, but she quickly demurred. “Thank you, my lord. I will find him.”
“Allow me to escort you. The crowd here is the largest I have seen tonight. You are sure to be trampled.”
Her mouth pinched in obvious frustration.
“Lady Consworth,” he said. “Perhaps you would like to accompany us.”
“Oh, yes, of course.” She took the arm he proffered.
He canted his head toward Eve. “Very nice to have met you, Miss Crenshaw.” Then he led them away.
Eve stared. What had just happened? Why had a gentleman she didn’t know winked at her? Were the malicious things Lady Quincy and Lady Consworth said a part of the gossip that others believed? Did Lord Paisley believe—understanding struck. Lord Paisley had bumped into her as she was about to say things that would have gotten her deeper into trouble. He had saved her, and the wink had been his way of telling her so. He must have been standing on the other side of the column and—oh Lord, how much of their conversation had he overheard?
“Miss Crenshaw.”
Eve jumped, then silently groaned when recognition struck. Of all the people who could ruin her plans, Lord Richard Somerset was that man. It had been too much to hope that she wouldn’t encounter him tonight. She forced a smile and faced him.
“My lord.” She extended her hand.
He lightly grasped her fingers, bowed, then released her. “Am I fortunate enough to be the first to claim a dance?”
“I have only just arrived and—”
“Good. I want to speak with you.”
Private conversation with Lord Somerset was the last thing she wanted, but she could find no way to protest as he led her onto the dance floor. Her heart sank when the orchestra struck up a country dance. They would be on the dance floor for half an hour. He pulled her into the line of dancers and took his place opposite her. They approached one another in time to the music, bowed, then backed into their former positions. She stepped with her left foot, then the right, and everyone in line followed as one, until the partners again approached one another and slowly circled each other.
“Did you receive my card?” he asked.
“I did. Thank you.”
