One Little Sin

by Liz Carlyle

  And now, Quin had stepped in. And if Esmée were truly serious about Quin, then Alasdair would have the pleasure of going through the rest of his life imagining what Esmée looked like in his best friend’s bed. Her husband’s bed. Every bloody time he saw them together.

  He had wanted her to wed. The sooner the better, he’d told himself. He had gone so far as to warn her away from fortune hunters like Smathers and boors like Nowell—not that she had thanked him for it.

  Good Lord, he needed the evening to be over. He dashed up Cockpit Stairs and hastened toward Great Queen Street. He felt an almost desperate need for the solace of his own home; for a few moments of peace and quiet in which to nurse a whisky or two or six. But it was not to be. He heard Sorcha’s screams before he’d so much as knocked on the door.

  Wellings let him in. “A nightmare, sir,” he intoned. “Young miss has been inconsolable for the last ten minutes or more.”

  He went upstairs to find Lydia, still in her nightcap, pacing back and forth with Sorcha, who was flinging herself about in her nurse’s arms, and squalling until she could scarce get her breath. Lydia—not to mention her still-splinted wrist—probably couldn’t take much more.

  “A nightmare, sir,” Lydia said over the racket. “Or some sort o’ colic, per’aps? She awoke in such a state, I can’t think what else it could be.”

  Alasdair held out his hands just as Lydia turned. “Sorcha, my love,” he said, when the child’s wild eyes caught his. “What’s all this, hmm? Come to me, minx.”

  The child held out her arms demandingly. “Mae!” she squalled, her face red and swollen, her nose dripping like a tap. She all but crawled into his arms, and deliberately turned her back on Lydia. “Mae!” she squalled again. “Me go Mae. Go now!”

  He looked at Lydia. “She wants Miss Hamilton, I collect,” she said almost apologetically. “She’s been squalling for her off and on since she woke.”

  Alasdair began to pace the floor of the nursery, rhythmically patting Sorcha’s back. “Why don’t you go downstairs, Lydia and warm some milk?” he said gently. “And tell someone else to carry it up so you can rest that wrist. I’ll manage here.” Indeed, Sorcha was already quieting.

  Lydia curtseyed. “Yes, sir, as you wish,” she said. “But…but she’s making a mess, sir, on your fine coat.”

  Alasdair looked down to see his lapel was smeared with tears and something a good deal worse. “Ah, well, this coat was never a favorite,” he answered, sighing. “Why don’t you put on enough milk for three, Lydia? It feels like an awfully long night.”

  Lydia curtseyed again and went out quietly.

  And that was the end of his whisky. It was to be warm milk in the nursery instead. And the funny thing was, Alasdair didn’t really care. He was more concerned for Sorcha, who was still sniveling against his lapel. The child felt wet and feverish, but from her fear and her tantrum, he thought, rather than illness. But he wasn’t perfectly certain. Still, he went to the window, drew the drapes, and threw up the casement anyway. Cool night air washed over them, the breeze so strong, it teased at what was left of his hair.

  Sorcha seemed somewhat appeased. She had set her stained and swollen cheek against his coat, and her sobs had subsided into shuddering hiccups. For a long moment, he simply stood there, looking down at the darkened streets of Westminster, drawing in the brisk night air and wondering if he was making his child ill. Perhaps she would take pneumonia. Perhaps she already had it. Good Lord, where was Esmée when you needed her?

  Gone, that’s where. Sent away, by his own hand, God help them all. And as he stood there, feeling his child quake and his own heart break, he realized, suddenly and awfully, that it just might have been the biggest mistake of his life.

  “Mae,” Sorcha whimpered, curling one tiny fist into his lapel. “Me wants Mae.”

  Alasdair bent his head and set his lips to her forehead. “I know you do, love,” he whispered. “I know you do. And I’m afraid, my little minx, that I do, too.”

  Chapter Nine

  In which Miss Hamilton receives A Bold Proposal

  The following day, Esmée was in the morning parlor with her leg propped up on a little footstool when her aunt rushed in to tell her that Lord and Lady Wynwood had come to call. “Grimond is bringing them up shortly,” she said, looking anxiously about the room. “I did not think you ought to walk into the withdrawing room. Will this do, do you think?”

  Esmée smiled and laid aside her needlework. “This is a pretty, cozy room, Aunt Rowena,” she said. “You worry too much.”

  They were shown in, and at once, and Lady Wynwood swept across the room to bend down and kiss Esmée’s cheek. “Oh, my poor, poor child!” she said. “Oh, I do hope the pain is not unbearable.”

  Esmée widened her eyes. “Why, there’s no pain to speak of, ma’am,” she said. “I’m a wee bit hobbled, but I’ll be fit to dance a jig by week’s end.”

  Lady Wynwood straightened up, but her hand still covered Esmée’s on the chair arm. “What a dear, brave girl!” she announced, placing the other hand over her heart. “Wynwood, is she not courageous? And to look so serene and lovely after all we endured last night!”

  Lord Wynwood tried to urge his mother toward a chair. “All that I endured, ma’am, was the ruin of my evening slippers traipsing about the streets after you,” he said. “Now if we should sit down, perhaps Lady Tatton can be persuaded to serve us a cup of coffee.”

  Lady Tatton was easily persuaded, and the coffee was brought in short order. Initially, the talk was of the theater fire: who had been where, what they had worn, said, or done. But soon, Lady Wynwood let the topic drop and looked at Lady Tatton with spurious innocence. “Well, that’s old history now, is it not?” she said. “Rowena, I was wondering if I might prevail upon you to show me your garden.”

  “My garden?” said Lady Tatton. “But Gwendolyn, this is November.”

  “Your spring bulbs,” said Lady Wynwood swiftly. “I wish to see how your gardener has laid their beds in for the winter. Everyone says you have loveliest daffodils in town. Mine always fail so utterly! I am convinced it has something to do with the wintering.”

  “Well…” Lady Tatton rose slowly. “I shall just go and change my shoes, then.”

  “An excellent notion!” Lady Wynwood jerked to her feet, clutching her reticule. “I shall help you.”

  Esmée, who had been watching this exchange in mute amazement, turned to Lord Wynwood as soon as the door closed. He was hunched awkwardly in his chair and pinching his nose in a valiant attempt not to laugh.

  “Miss Hamilton,” he finally said, when he had regained his composure, “I daresay you understand why we’ve been left here alone.”

  She gave him a bemused smile. “I’m not sure I understand anything anymore, Lord Wynwood.”

  “I believe I am now expected to ask permission to pay court to you,” he said. “My mother wishes me to marry, and I believe she has settled on you as the perfect wife.”

  Unconsciously, Esmée imitated Lady Wynwood’s overwrought hand-over-the-heart gesture. “My goodness,” she managed. “This seems…very sudden.”

  “You did not know that I was expected to marry soon?”

  Esmée smiled a little tightly. “Oh, I shan’t insult your intelligence by claiming that,” she said. “Aunt Rowena knows every worthy bachelor from Penzance to Newcastle. But why me?”

  He opened his hands expansively. “Why not you?”

  Esmée felt her face heat. “Well, I am new to town,” she said slowly. “And a Scot. Then there is the unfortunate situation with Sorcha. I do not delude myself, my lord. I know that gossip about the circumstances of my sister’s birth is inevitable. I cannot think your mother wholly unconcerned on that score.”

  Wynwood flashed a crooked smile. “My mother suffered a terrible fright last night, Miss Hamilton,” he replied. “Her life passed before her eyes, and at the end of that inauspicious vision, she realized most acutely that there were no grandchildren.
My marriage has suddenly become her most pressing priority. To that end, she has settled on you and damn the consequences.”

  “Why?” asked Esmée quietly. “Because I am convenient?”

  “No, because I like you,” he said, his expression honest. “And she knows that you are not a silly, simpering fool like most of the chits who’ll be on the marriage market next season. Those sorts would be easier for me to refuse. And for all that you don’t look it, you are a woman, not a girl.”

  Esmée’s gaze fell to her hands, which were clasped in her lap. “I feel very like a girl sometimes,” she confessed. “I wish I had been more in society. I wish I understood how the world works.”

  Wynwood leaned intently forward in his chair. “Your aunt and my mother believe we would make a good match, Miss Hamilton,” he said calmly. “What do you think?”

  “I can’t think,” she answered. “This all seems too fast. And you do not even know me, my lord. We have scarce exchanged a dozen words.”

  He gave her another muted smile. “In the weeks since we became acquainted, Miss Hamilton, I have come to esteem you highly,” he answered. “You have a kind heart, and you love your sister. You are gracious, well bred, and obliging. Those are qualities I seek in a wife.”

  “Do you really wish for a wife at all, my lord?” she gently challenged.

  He lifted one shoulder and tore his gaze from hers. “I am a practical man, Miss Hamilton. My father died some months past, and it is my duty to beget an heir as soon as possible. Indeed, my mother’s future is somewhat uncertain until I do so. And for all my wicked ways, Miss Hamilton, I do love my mother. And I will do my duty.”

  Esmée gave a pathetic laugh. “Aunt Rowena keeps reminding me that a man who treats his mother well will treat his wife well.”

  His smile deepened. “What of you, Miss Hamilton? Do you not wish for a family?”

  “Sorcha and Aunt Rowena are my family,” she said simply. “If I have no one else, my love for them will sustain me.”

  “That is in part what motivates my offer,” he said. Then abruptly, he bowed his head. “I beg your pardon. I have not yet made my offer, have I? Miss Hamilton, will you do me the honor of being my wife? And please carefully consider what is best for your sister before you answer.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I am already aware of Sorcha’s parentage,” he continued. “You need make no awkward explanations to me. I understand the delicacy of your situation and respect you all the more for it.”

  “I thank you,” she said quietly.

  “Indeed, were Alasdair to agree to give your sister up, nothing would better please me,” Wynwood continued. “But he won’t, and I would never ask it of him. Still, if Sorcha should end up spending a vast deal of time in our home, or is treated like a cherished niece or godchild, who would question it? Alasdair and I have been close friends for many years.”

  Esmée marveled at the beauty of his argument. If she were Lady Wynwood, she could come and go in Sorcha’s life often and with ease, and no questions would be asked. That would be the most wonderful thing imaginable! But if married to Wynwood, she would also see a great deal more of Alasdair. Suddenly, she felt the hot press of tears behind her eyes. She set the back of her hand to her lips and tried to force them down.

  Lord Wynwood started from his chair, then halted uncertainly. “I beg your pardon,” he said again. “I am behaving as if all this is a given. Nothing is settled, nor need it ever be. The wishes of your aunt or my mother are secondary. I would account myself fortunate simply to be your friend.”

  His kindness made it worse. “The problem is, Lord Wynwood, that I do not love you!” she cried. “Indeed, I cannot. I feel very sure of that. I can say no more, except to explain that—well, that I am probably far less innocent than any gentleman would wish his bride to be.”

  Fleetingly, his serene smile faltered. “Ah, I collect there has been someone before me,” he said quietly. “I understand that better than you might think. And alas, Miss Hamilton, I do not love you either. But I do like you very much. I like your honestly and your plain speaking. And I certainly do not require a virgin in my marriage bed.”

  Esmée paled. “Oh, ’tis not tha—”

  “Please, say no more,” he interjected, holding up his hand. “I should rather not know. Let us agree to keep our pasts in the past. Indeed, given my reputation, many would wonder at my audacity in offering for you.”

  Esmée snagged her lower lip between her teeth. “A great many men seem to be considering it,” she answered. “But I daresay ’tis that little word heiress which attracts their attention.”

  He smiled dryly. “I do not need your grandfather’s money, Miss Hamilton,” he said. “If you accept me, we will arrange to have it set aside for Sorcha or one of our children.”

  One of our children.

  Oh, Esmée wanted children! Wanted them desperately, even if she wasn’t very good at raising them. But she was not at all sure she could want Lord Wynwood, no matter how kind or handsome he was. Long moments passed, punctuated by the tick of the mantel clock.

  “You are uncertain,” he said, fracturing the silence. “Do you not wish to marry?”

  “Oh, yes,” she admitted. “I do.”

  He smiled. “Well, a betrothal is not binding on the lady,” he reminded her. “I can put Mamma off until the season ends, and it is perfectly reasonable for you to wait a full year after your mother’s death. If, at the end of that period, you are still uncertain, cry off.”

  “Cry off?” she interjected. “I could not!”

  “Oh, I’ll give you a good excuse,” Lord Wynwood reassured her. “I’ll do something wicked enough to make sure no one calls you a jilt. Indeed, I might well do so without even trying. I have a way of bollixing up my life sometimes.”

  “Well,” said Esmée, drawing in a deep, ragged breath. “Then I suppose…I suppose my answer is yes.”

  Wynwood smiled, and it looked amazingly sincere. “Miss Hamilton,” he said, “you have just made me the happiest man on earth.”

  She looked askance at him. “Please,” she said, “let us begin as we mean to go on. Let us always be honest with one another.”

  His smile faded very little. “Well, the happiest man in Mayfair, then,” he corrected. “Now I wish to beg a favor of you, if I may?”

  “But of course,” said Esmée. “You have only to ask.”

  “Mother wishes to retire to my estate in Buckinghamshire until spring,” he went on. “It is but a few hours’ drive from town. As soon as she is settled, she wishes to give a dinner party in our honor. A quiet affair for our closest friends and family only. She wishes everyone to meet you, especially her brother, Lord Chesley, who owns the estate adjacent. You will like him very much—everyone does. Would you be willing to come?”

  Esmée opened and closed her mouth soundlessly. It seemed too soon. She was not ready. But she had agreed. “Yes, of course,” she finally said. “I should be honored.”

  “Excellent!” he said, swiftly rising. “I must go and give Mamma the good news. She will be so pleased. And she will be a good motherin-law to you, Miss Hamilton, I promise. She will know her place. And should she forget it, you may depend upon me to remind her.”

  “Thank you, Lord Wynwood,” Esmée managed. “You are very kind, I’m sure.”

  Swiftly, he seized her hand and kissed it fervently. “You must call me Quin now,” he said. “Or Quinten, if you prefer.”

  “Quin, then,” she said. “And I am Esmée.”

  “Esmée. That is lovely.”

  And just like that, the deed, it seemed, was done. Lord Wynwood—Quin—kissed her hand again, as if for good measure, then left her sitting just as she had been upon his arrival; her leg propped on the footstool and her mind in a secret turmoil.

  “Paper! Paper! Get it ’ere!” The newsboy’s voice rang clearly in the sharp autumn air. “Prime Minister steps down! Read all about it!”

  About to turn th
e street corner into St. James’s, Alasdair hesitated, then dashed between a gap in the stream of horses and carriages to fetch a paper instead. Lately, very little of current affairs interested him, but the sudden shakeup in government could have piqued a dead man’s curiosity.

  “Paper! Paper! Get it ’ere!” cried the boy, palming Alasdair’s coins without missing a beat. “King acceptsP.M.’s resignation! Read it ’ere! All the details!”

  Alasdair snapped open his freshly inked copy and set off again in the direction of White’s.

  “What do you think, MacLachlan?” asked a voice from behind him. “Is Wellington finally done for?”

  Alasdair turned to see one of the young pups from his club dogging his heels. “So it would seem,” he said, as the lad fell into step with him. “Off to White’s, are you?”

  The lad nodded effusively. “Mustn’t miss the excitement,” he said. “A banner news day, ain’t it? First Wynwood, now this.”

  Alasdair abruptly halted on the pavement. He had not seen Quin since the fire, some three days past. “First Wynwood what?” he asked, looking pointedly at the lad.

  The young man was turning faintly crimson. “Well, I don’t know, precisely,” he answered. “I heard he was to be married. Tenby said it was in the Times this morning.” He paused to gesture at the paper. “I daresay it’s in that one, too, if it’s true. Let’s have a look, shall we?”

  The ground shifted beneath Alasdair’s feet. “Later,” he managed, stalking off in the direction of his club. He could not bring himself to utter another word to the lad, who hastened to keep his pace. Married. Good Lord, Quin was to be married? Alasdair felt suddenly ill. His hand clutching the paper had gone cold and bloodless. There was a roaring in his ears, as if he were about to faint, though he was not. The traffic beyond faded from his consciousness.