Sold to a Laird

by Karen Ranney

  “Have we any footmen?” he asked. “Or stableboys, for that matter?”

  “Two men were hired today, sir,” the young man replied. “I do not believe they begin work until tomorrow.”

  “Then you will do, Paulson,” Douglas said, pointing to a long crate beside the door, “I need this crate moved to one of the wagons in the stable. Be mindful of it. There are a variety of flasks and beakers from Italy inside. I would hate for them to be broken.”

  “You wish me to carry this to a wagon, sir?”

  “I do,” Douglas said. He looked around the room, now more a storeroom than a parlor. He was looking for one crate in particular, and he finally found it, and made his way to the other side of the room.

  “Sir, I was hired for my knowledge of how a gentleman’s household should be run, not for general labor.”

  Douglas moved out from behind a stack of crates.

  “I’m not certain what Mr. Alano told you,” he said, “but this is not a large establishment. Each member of the staff will be expected to turn a hand to anything that needs doing. I cannot abide laziness, Paulson. Nor will I pay for it.”

  “Sir.”

  Paulson didn’t look happy, but Douglas was satisfied that he would do as told. He directed the young man to six more crates.

  “Move these as well,” he said, ignoring Paulson’s petulant expression. “And use the same caution, please.”

  Douglas found the wine cellar simply by following the noise. Above the hammering sounds, Alano was swearing, and there was nothing quite as colorful as his friend’s torrent of profanity uttered in a dozen languages.

  He leaned against the railing at the bottom of the steps, amused by the spectacle in front of him. Arrayed in a circle were the dozen or so casks of wine Douglas had purchased in Spain. Two or three candles were stuck in empty bottles and served as illumination. In the center of the casks, seated on a stool with a curious contraption strapped to his knee, was Alano. Despite the fact that his hair was white, his dark-complexioned face was curiously unlined. His teeth, on those occasions when he deigned to smile, were as white as his hair. The clue to Alano’s temperament lay in his brown eyes, however, eyes that flashed with emotion more often than not.

  “Well, lad,” Alano said, in a thick Spanish accent, an oddity given that his name was McDonough. His great-grandfather had emigrated to Spain, and begun a dynasty that had prospered. “How did it go? Did the duke agree?”

  “I have an investment of sorts,” Douglas said, moving through the barrels. “Not money, but marriage.”

  Alano’s look held equal parts disbelief and surprise.

  “Marriage?”

  “To the daughter of a man who has little liking for Scotland or its inhabitants. It seems that my intended bride’s mother is Scottish, and he seems to dislike all of us.”

  “Start from the beginning, lad. I’ve the feeling you’ve left out a great deal.”

  Douglas began from the moment he’d entered the Duke of Herridge’s home, up until he’d been escorted to the door by Simons, the majordomo.

  “You can’t think to go through with it.” Alano said, when he’d finished. “There are many other men who’ve expressed an interest in your discovery, lad. I doubt any of them will force marriage on you.”

  Douglas sat down on one of the barrels. “Perhaps it’s time I married.”

  Alano put the bottle down and stared at Douglas. “Is she all that rich?”

  Douglas smiled. “I have an idea that the Duke of Herridge doesn’t have five farthings to rub together. This marriage is his way of saving face and still acquiring an interest in my discovery.”

  “Is she all that beautiful, then?”

  He could see Sarah before him as if she’d stepped into the room. “She is lovely,” he said, unaware that his voice had softened. “She has black hair and soft gray eyes, and a full mouth. But there’s something more to her than just being beautiful. She’s brave, and loyal, and loving. Her mother is ill, and you can hear the heartbreak in her voice when she speaks of her. She’s frightened of her father; she flinched every time he moved, but she still stood there and defied him.”

  “So, it’s love at first sight, is it?” Alano asked.

  Douglas glanced at him, surprised. “Is there such a thing?”

  “I’ve not enough fingers to list the girls I thought I loved, lad. But I’ve never gone and married one.”

  Douglas shook his head, either negating Alano’s words or his own actions—he wasn’t sure which.

  “Is this something you’re set on doing, then?”

  Douglas smiled. “I think I am, yes.”

  “Are you going to tell him, or her, that you’re a Scot as well? Or are you going to leave that a secret?”

  “He’s the one with the antipathy. Perhaps Sarah, being half-Scottish, will not mind a husband from Scotland.”

  Alano shook his head.

  “You were nervous enough about meeting a real duke. How are you going to feel being married to the daughter of one?”

  It was just like his old friend to bring a little realism into the day.

  “I’ve managed up ’til now well enough,” Douglas said. “What have you always told me? Something about feeling the part, and looking the part, and soon you’ll be acting the part. The Duke of Herridge saw me as a gentleman.”

  Alano nodded. “You look and act the part, lad,” he said. “But I noticed you’re still carrying that notebook around with you, as if you’re afraid to make a mistake.”

  Douglas looked away. “It’s the other side of the world, Alano,” he said. “From where I’ve come from to where I want to go. It’s not that far in distance, but everything else is different.”

  “You’ve come all this way on your own, lad. Nobody gave it to you. You didn’t inherit it. Every penny you have is a penny you earned. Don’t you ever forget it. Those fops in their fine homes cannot measure up to what you’ve done. The Duke of Herridge got his title and his money from his father, and his father before that, and his father before that. He didn’t make it all on his own, like you.”

  Douglas smiled. “I thought you said that nobles looked down at those in trade.”

  Alano snorted and reached for the bottle he was corking. “To their detriment. They’d make their own way if they knew what was good for them,” he said. “Instead, they marry for money or live in genteel starvation. Not like you, lad. You were destined for great things from the moment I met you.”

  Douglas picked up a bottle already corked. Despite the number of servants he hired, Alano would always perform this chore himself, convinced that no one else, including Douglas, could do the job competently enough.

  “You’ve always believed in me, Alano. All these years. Why?” He’d always wondered, but today seemed like the day to ask.

  Alano looked surprised. “Why?” he asked, his eyebrows rising. “Because you were the most obnoxious boy I’d ever met. And you’ve grown into a man with the same stubborn streak. You get an idea in your head, and you won’t let go of it until you see it through. As a boy, you just needed direction, lad, that was all.”

  “And as a man?” Douglas asked with a smile. “What do I need?”

  “A swift kick, I’m thinking.”

  After that comment, Alano ignored him for a few minutes. He held an empty bottle below the cask, released the stopper, and watched as the wine filled the bottle. When the level was just below the neck of the bottle, he replaced the stopper, placed the bottle inside the curious leather cradle strapped to his knee, before grabbing a cork from the press beside him. He made a great show of concentrating his attention on hammering the cork into the bottle.

  Finally, Alano turned to Douglas. “Does she know that you’ve just come to London? Does she know this place will be all topsy-turvy when she gets here? I’ve not yet had time to get the furniture for the front hall, let alone the dining room.”

  He reached for another bottle, but his expression was so thunderous that Dou
glas wondered if Alano would rather toss it in his direction instead.

  “She has a house,” Douglas said.

  “And what am I supposed to be doing with this one?”

  They’d known each other for two decades, had encountered hurricanes together, not to mention floods, earthquakes, and on one unforgettable occasion, a village filled with angry pygmies. In all that time, Douglas had never felt as flummoxed as he did now, when faced with a domestic crisis.

  “Are you going to be like the peerage, then, since you’re wedding into it? Keep this place for when you come to London?” Alano looked up, his sudden smile robbing the words of their sting.

  “It sounds like a reasonable solution,” Douglas said. “There’s no need to sell it right away.”

  Alano nodded, intent on rubbing the dark green bottle in his hands with a rag. “I’ll put it to rights, then. I’ll settle myself here. I find London to my liking.”

  There was nothing more to be said. When Alano made a decision, it was rare that he changed his mind. Besides, he wasn’t an employee. Alano had his own fortune. One that, while not the equal of what Douglas had amassed, was certainly enough to enable him to live comfortably.

  “You’re hiring staff, at least. What made you choose Paulson?”

  Alano didn’t look happy about that question. “Stupidity,” he said. “A mistake on my part. Maybe something about him reminded me of you.”

  He stared at Douglas, and the look reminded him of the first time he’d seen Alano. He’d been picking his pocket, and Alano had caught him at it, even though he considered himself an expert at the skill. Alano had only grabbed his wrist, twisted it behind his back, and proceeded to swear at him for a good fifteen minutes in Spanish. After that, he’d taken Douglas to a small establishment and fed him.

  Alano placed another completed bottle on the barrel and turned to him. “If you’re certain you want to go through with this, lad, then I’m behind you. Let me give you a spot of advice, though.”

  “As if I could stop you,” Douglas said, smiling.

  Alano ignored him, and continued. “Tell this woman the truth about yourself, lad. Then you’ve nothing to fear.”

  “And if she moves heaven and earth to prevent a marriage between us, Alano?”

  “Because you’re not good enough for her?” Alano’s mouth twisted into a grimace. “Then she’s not good enough for you now, is she?”

  The special license Douglas obtained had cost him dearly, but he’d been able to acquire one because of his extended stay abroad, the reasoning being that he had no home parish. Also, using the Duke of Herridge’s name assisted the process.

  Instead of returning home, however, he returned to the duke’s home midmorning. According to Alano, morning calls were not made until afternoon. But this was not a social call as much as one of conscience.

  First of all, he wanted to ensure that Sarah was not being mistreated by her father. He hadn’t liked what he’d seen of the Duke of Herridge and wouldn’t put it past the man to be a bully. Secondly, he wanted to speak to Sarah alone. She deserved to know the truth; he was as far from a gentleman as she was from the alleys of Perth.

  Simons, however, refused to admit him when he knocked.

  “I’m sorry, sir, but Lady Sarah is not at home to callers.”

  A statement Douglas correctly interpreted, thanks to Alano’s tutelage, as being within but unwilling to see him.

  “It’s important that I speak with her, Simons,” he said. “Is the Duke at home?”

  “His Grace is not, sir.”

  Simons dismissed a lingering footman with a gesture of his hand and opened the door a little wider.

  “You’ll be doing her no favors by attempting to see her, sir,” Simons said softly. “In fact, you may well be harming her.”

  Douglas looked at the man, surprised. “How?”

  “The duke would not hesitate to punish her further, sir, if he were annoyed. At least now he’s giving her food and water.”

  “What do you mean, now? Has he done this before?”

  Simons looked torn between reticence and revelation.

  “Sir, the duke does not like rebellion,” he finally said. “Especially from those he considers beneath him.”

  “His daughter?”

  “Quite so, sir. Or his wife.” Simons looked toward the back of the house and the stables, as if afraid the duke would return at any moment. “He is like to do anything, and has. At the end of her last season, Lady Sarah did not wish to attend a certain function. His Grace beat her in front of the entire staff for her refusal. He has not hesitated to do what he wished whenever he wished.”

  When Douglas didn’t respond, the majordomo smiled thinly. “It may be the very best thing for Lady Sarah, sir, that she is to marry you. The very best thing.”

  Douglas took a step back. For all his upbringing—orphaned at eight, running wild through the alleys of Perth—he’d never abused the weak or the defenseless.

  “I’m beginning to think that you’re correct, Simons,” he said. “Tell His Grace that I shall be here at the appointed time tomorrow.”

  Douglas turned, descended the steps, and entered his carriage, conscious that Simons was still watching him. Once seated in the vehicle, he glanced up to see a female hand gripping the edge of a curtain on the second floor. Perhaps the hand belonged to a maid, industriously dusting. Or was it Lady Sarah?

  He’d come to reassure himself of her safety only to discover that she was in more peril than he’d realized.

  Tomorrow he would rescue her by marrying her.

  Would she see it as such?

  Chapter 3

  Two days later, Sarah was well and truly wed, to a man she didn’t know, a man who’d been whisked from her father’s home five minutes after they’d met.

  “Escort my daughter upstairs,” her father had said, and just like that, she was led away, to quite a lovely chamber, if she could ignore the noxious shades of peach. She’d stayed there during her last disastrous season, and there were no good memories in attendance.

  As she walked into the room, the door was closed behind her, and a key turned in the lock. She didn’t bother pounding on the door or shouting for Simons. Her father’s servants were, if not fanatically loyal, then at least afraid of him to the extent they would not release her.

  That night, a note delivered with her dinner tray only emphasized her father’s intent. Either she married, or he would send her mother to Scotland. Neither fate seemed palatable, but she didn’t have the right to choose her own well-being over that of her ailing mother. She sent him a note in reply, asking for his guarantee that he would leave her mother at Chavensworth if she agreed to the marriage.

  He didn’t respond.

  There was no choice, after all, but it was with some irritation that she greeted her bridegroom at the bottom of the stairs two days later.

  Douglas Eston didn’t look the least disturbed by the fact that she was being forced to wed him or the fact that it was barely a few hours past dawn, a time that few society weddings occurred. Nor did he appear disconcerted that she was frowning fiercely at him. He continued to regard her with a half smile, those strange-colored eyes of his impossible to read.

  “You had to be complicit in this,” she said, refusing to take his arm when he offered it. “A special license must be procured by the groom.”

  He didn’t answer.

  “I shan’t be a good wife,” she warned him. “I have a solitary nature, one that is not amenable to other people. I’m bookish, I’ve been told. I have too many flaws. I like to study the stars.”

  At that, he glanced down at her. Another irritant, that he was so much taller than she. He was rather large, too, with shoulders that blocked her view of the room.

  She looked away rather than be mesmerized by those eyes of his.

  “How do you study the stars? Have you a telescope?”

  She glanced up at him. She was not going to tell him that he was the first pe
rson ever to ask her that question. Nor was she going to tell him that his question elicited the first bit of curiosity about him. No, it was best if they remained as they were, strangers who were about to wed because of her father’s cruelty.

  He led her into the parlor, where a minister stood, chatting away with her father, both of them wearing smiles as if this morning had been blessed by God himself.

  Did the minister think that she was with child and this furtive wedding performed to protect her father’s reputation?

  She didn’t say a word to disabuse him of that notion. In fact, it gave her a little thrill to think that the good man might be a gossipy sort, willing to trade a few rumors with a friend. Good, let him pass along the news that the Duke of Herridge’s daughter was loose. Her father prided himself on his good name. All her life she’d been counseled on how to act, how to behave in public so as not to shame her father.

  Her mother would always chastise her with a whisper. “Think of your father, Sarah.”

  The minute she left London, she had no intention of thinking of her father ever again. In fact, there should be no occasion whatsoever for her even to see the man.

  Two servants served as additional witnesses to her marriage, a young maid she didn’t recognize and Simons, who couldn’t quite look her in the eyes. If nothing else, she was grateful for him sending a young maid to help her with her hair this morning.

  The girl had apologized profusely and endlessly for her ineptitude.

  “It’s not your fault,” Sarah had said. “You were not hired to do my hair. Nevertheless, I appreciate your attempts to assist me. Besides, no one shall be looking at my hair,” she added. “They will be stunned into silence by my dress.”

  She glanced down at herself. The modiste hired by her father had been enamored of stripes. Every dress made for her second season had either had a striped skirt or a striped bodice or a striped leghorn sleeves. This ghastly garment had all three, and when she’d found it in the armoire, she’d sighed inwardly, remembering the loathing she’d felt for it and why, exactly, she’d left it behind in London.