Seduced by a Scot

by Julia London

  Nichol clamped his hand onto Dunnan’s shoulder and squeezed hard. “Heed me now, lad. The woman doesna know you, and she doesna have a proper gown. She might forgive the impulsive gathering, but she will no’ forgive being the least well dressed of the evening, do you understand? Do you know anything about the fairer sex?”

  “Precious little,” Dunnan admitted with a sigh. “They donna seem to care for me.”

  “You must postpone the musicale—”

  “Postpone it! But they’ve come!” Dunnan exclaimed, and gestured to the assembled persons. “I sent all the way to Glasgow for them!”

  Nichol had a renewed urge to strangle him. “Aye, all right. Then find her something suitable to wear, and do no’ claim the performance is in her honor.”

  “I must what?” Dunnan whispered with a horrified expression.

  With his chin, Nichol indicated Maura, who was still standing at the door of the salon, sipping at a glass of wine and speaking to a young woman whose hair was adorned with flowers.

  Dunnan looked in the direction Nichol had indicated. “Ah. I see,” he said. “I have just the thing, Bain. She might borrow—”

  “By all that is holy, if you say your mother’s gown, I shall put my fist through your fool mouth,” Nichol muttered.

  Dunnan swallowed down whatever he might have said. He cleared his throat. His cheeks were nearly purple. He looked as if he meant to argue, but Nichol held up a single finger in warning. And still, Dunnan leaned forward to whisper, “But how?” he whispered.

  Nichol looked around the room. He pointed to the woman who was speaking to Maura. The one laughing so deeply that she had both hands on her belly. “That one, then. She looks to be the size of Miss Darby. Tell her that the luggage has no’ yet come, and you would consider it a personal favor if she would assist Miss Darby.”

  “A personal favor,” Dunnan repeated, and nodded.

  “And then you will show Miss Darby to a room. Let her rest, let her bathe, let her prepare to meet these people properly, but for God’s sake, you best act as if you are verra pleased to have her here, aye, Dunnan?”

  “Aye,” Dunnan said, nodding furiously now. “Aye, of course, of course. I understand.”

  Nichol placed both hands on Dunnan’s shoulders. “Look at her,” he commanded.

  Dunnan did as Nichol bade him, and rose up on his toes to see over Nichol’s shoulders, and looked at Maura. He nodded, as if the prey had been sighted.

  “You canna possibly marry better than her, Dunnan. No’ even if you were the bloody king of England.”

  “Aye,” Dunnan agreed.

  “So show a wee bit of interest in her.”

  “I am!” he said. “I will.”

  “And donna hide behind your mother’s skirts.” He removed his hands and turned to take his leave. He could do with a bath, a fresh change of clothes.

  “But...but what shall I talk about?” Dunnan whispered with a hint of desperation in his voice.

  He really was the most hapless person Nichol had ever known. “She is fond of astronomy.”

  “Astronomy,” Dunnan repeated in a whisper, and then, “Oh dear.” His face fell as he undoubtedly realized he knew nothing of astronomy.

  “Think of something, man!” Nichol said sharply.

  “You may depend on it, Bain!” he said, nodding hard again. “You’ll no’ be sorry.”

  Nichol hardly cared if he was sorry or not. What he couldn’t abide in the years to come was the notion that Maura hated him.

  No, he couldn’t bear that.

  But he rather thought he’d hate himself enough for the both of them.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  MAURA HAD DRUNK two glasses of wine on an empty stomach, and was feeling a little woozy and a little feisty when at last Mrs. Cockburn, her supposed intended’s mother, asked if she might escort her to a room.

  “Aye,” Maura said. Anything to escape this salon. She felt sorely out of place, a weed among flowers. She had been ignored for the most part, the merrymakers unconcerned with her.

  Neither was Mr. Cockburn terribly concerned with her. Actually, he had seemed to avoid her at all costs, although he had approached her like a man might approach a snake he wasn’t certain was venomous, creeping up slowly and her eyeing her suspiciously. “How did you find the journey, Miss Darby?” he asked.

  She stared at him. She didn’t know where to begin. Perhaps she should start with having been cast out of the Garbett house the first time. Or perhaps she ought to skip ahead and commence with fleeing the Garbett house the second time. But instead of saying anything, Maura accepted her second glass of wine from the footman and said, “Quite well, thank you.” She reminded herself she was a proper young miss, brought up to be unfailingly polite and demure. To not shine too brightly, lest she burn Sorcha to the ground.

  “Verra well,” Mr. Cockburn said, and seemed relieved that was all she had to say. He flitted off after that, disappearing into the whirl of people moving about the room.

  She had drained the second glass and was searching the room for Nichol when Mrs. Cockburn had appeared before her. Gone was her friendly smile that she’d worn on the drive. She peered closely at Maura with a mix of fascination and what seemed like a wee bit of disgust. Did she look like a light-skirts? Perhaps she did.

  “I’m to show you to a room so that you might rest, aye?” she said.

  “Thank you,” Maura said gratefully with more eagerness than was probably necessary.

  “Follow me,” Mrs. Cockburn said, and sailed out of the salon with Maura close on her heels. But she did not turn left to go up the grand staircase. She walked straight through the foyer and into another long corridor. “Our dining room is here,” she said, and paused at an open door so that Maura could see into a cavernous room with a table as long as a small ship at the center of it. “As you can see, we may dine with forty if we like.”

  “Mmm,” Maura said.

  Mrs. Cockburn jerked her gaze to Maura. “I beg your pardon, are you accustomed to such tables? Do you dine at tables of forty often?”

  The tone of her voice startled Maura. “Pardon? No, madam, I donna at all.”

  “I thought no’,” she said with a sniff, and carried on.

  Maura trudged after her, exhausted and a wee bit in her cups, quite honestly.

  “Here is our morning room. The ladies take their tea here. We dress for tea, Miss Darby.”

  “Aye,” Maura said, afraid to say any more than that for fear of offending her further.

  “And there is my son’s study. He is no’ to be disturbed when he is there, aye? He is a verra busy man. Verra busy.”

  That suited Maura just fine. Perhaps he wouldn’t notice when she sneaked away.

  “This room,” she said, opening the door to a room that was so full of chintz that at first Maura thought it was a storage room, “is my study.”

  “Oh. Aye, it’s...bright.”

  “I’ve done the decorating myself,” she said smugly. “Dunnan insisted we bring up a young man of some repute from Salisbury. He has decorated all the finest English houses, he has.”

  “His work is bonny, aye,” Maura absently agreed, and made a note to never allow this person to decorate one of her rooms. One could become positively lost in all that floral patterning.

  But once again, Mrs. Cockburn turned a cold gaze to her. “He didna do it, lass. I did. This is all my own doing.”

  “Oh. Aye, it’s bonny,” Maura said again, and noticed, for the first time, that Mrs. Cockburn’s dress was also made of floral chintz. She hadn’t realized until this moment that someone could be so enamored of floral chintz. Frankly, it was a travesty of chintz, and she almost smiled at the absurdity.

  “Aye, it is,” Mrs. Cockburn said pertly. “My study is right small, it is, but ’tis the envy of everyone in and around
Luncarty, you may rest assured.”

  Maura would rest assured if that’s what it took to lie down before she collapsed.

  Mrs. Cockburn continued on, pointing to a painting she’d created, or the lace doilies on the consoles in the long hallway. She was responsible, she said, for all the draperies, as she had traveled to London to choose the fabric herself.

  At her son’s insistence, of course.

  She led Maura up a narrow stairwell, and they emerged into another long hallway. “This is the north wing where we house our guests. We often have guests. My son prefers to surround himself with his friends rather than travel. He oversees a vast linen enterprise, I’m sure you’ve heard, then.”

  Maura tried to remember if she’d heard that. So much had happened in the last week.

  This hallway was rather crowded. There were a few people going back and forth between the rooms. Chambermaids dressed in matching striped mantuas went back and forth with them, carrying linens and clothing. Maura followed Mrs. Cockburn down the hall until they came to a room at the end of the hallway.

  “We’ve only the two rooms left, then. Mr. Bain prefers the one across the hall, as it has a view of the gardens and a private sitting room. You’ll no’ mind the smaller one, aye?” she asked, and opened the door.

  It wasn’t a room, it was a closet. It scarcely fit a bed and small bureau within its walls. Maura was so fatigued she hardly cared if it was a closet, and yet, she couldn’t resist giving Mrs. Cockburn a look. This seemed a curious choice of rooms to assign to a woman who would be her future daughter-in-law. Perhaps Mrs. Cockburn hated the idea of her marrying Mr. Cockburn as much as Maura did.

  Mrs. Cockburn smiled in a manner that suggested she dared Maura to say something.

  “Thank you,” Maura said, inclining her head. “This will suit me perfectly, aye?”

  “I thought so,” Mrs. Cockburn said with a gaiety that did not match her expression. “Miss Fabernet has generously loaned you one of her best gowns,” she said, and gestured to one lying across the bed.

  Maura had met Miss Fabernet downstairs. She’d brought her a glass of wine and had told Maura she looked very well for having come so far. The gown she’d left was pale blue silk, with a white petticoat embroidered with tiny red flowers, as well as a matching blue stomacher. It was quite bonny. “Oh,” Maura said appreciatively. “I must thank Miss Fabernet.”

  “A footman will bring a tub for you and a maid will bring water for bathing.”

  “Thank you again,” Maura said, feeling a surge of delight at the possibility of a bath.

  Mrs. Cockburn shrugged indifferently. “Mr. Bain said we must.”

  Why must the lady sound so resentful? Maura couldn’t begin to guess why, and didn’t really care to try. She was exhausted, she was a wee bit drunk and she wanted her bath. “When I see Mr. Bain, I will thank him for insisting on my behalf,” she said, and gave Mrs. Cockburn a flash of a pert smile.

  Mrs. Cockburn did not smile. “We dine at seven, Miss Darby. By the bye, where are your clothes?”

  “In Stirling,” Maura said. She did not offer that Sorcha was wearing them. Or that she’d been tossed out without a thing to her name.

  Mrs. Cockburn’s gestured to her neck. “You’ve come with no clothes, and yet you wear that,” she said.

  Maura put her hand to her necklace. “It belonged to my great-grandmother and has been handed down.”

  “Well, at least there is some dowry, then. I told Dunnan he must insist on a dowry,” Mrs. Cockburn said.

  Maura stifled a laugh. She rather thought Dunnan shouldn’t insist on anything. “He’s no’ offered marriage,” she pointed out with as much civility as she could muster. “And I’ve no’ offered a dowry.”

  “Aye, he’s no’ offered, and you ought to keep that in mind. My advice to you, Miss Darby, is to be on your best behavior. My son is no’ an impressionable man.”

  Maura didn’t know what he was, other than he had a cloying air about him.

  “You must always ask me if you are uncertain of anything,” she added.

  Maura tilted her head to one side as she tried to make sense of that. “Uncertain of what?”

  “Anything to do with my son. What he would like. What he would no’ like and such.”

  It took a moment for Maura to understand that this mother hen was not ready to let her chick go. This was precisely the sort of thing Mrs. Garbett might have said, and Maura was not going to be meek about it this time. She didn’t intend to stay here, and she certainly didn’t intend to stay if Mr. Cockburn’s mother ruled the house. She smiled sweetly and asked with feigned innocence, “Should I no’ inquire of Mr. Cockburn himself what he likes or doesna like?”

  Mrs. Cockburn blinked. Her cheeks began to pinken. She stepped forward, so close to Maura that she could see the tiny crumb in the corner of her mouth. “I should no’ like us to set off unpleasantly, Miss Darby, aye?”

  “Neither would I, Mrs. Cockburn,” Maura said. She would not apologize and she would not submit to the thumb of this woman. It was bad enough that she had to subject her life to the enormous thumbs of men, but to another woman? It was Mrs. Garbett all over again, only in another form, another gown, another estate, and it was not to be borne.

  Mrs. Cockburn smiled coolly. She very carefully tucked part of Maura’s hair over her shoulder. “Let us have an understanding, shall we, Miss Darby? You have come to us because we are indebted to Mr. Bain for his considerable help in another matter, aye? He said you were involved in an unpleasant quandary and were in need of saving.”

  “I donna need to be saved—”

  “We are doing you a favor, aye?” she said, interrupting Maura before she could argue. “You should be thankful that you have a roof over your head, and a fire in your hearth and a wench to help you bathe.”

  Maura swallowed down the retort she wanted to give Mrs. Cockburn. She wanted to tell her that the most unpleasant quandary of all was being made to do as men bid her, with no say of her own, to being subjected to the sort of treatment she was receiving at that very moment by a woman who had concluded she was far superior to her in every way.

  But she was thankful she was not sleeping on a forest floor while snow fell, and she reckoned it wasn’t yet too late for that to happen. She swallowed again. This time, it was the bitter taste of her pride. “Aye, of course. My apologies, Mrs. Cockburn.”

  Mrs. Cockburn’s smile was heartless. “There now, that was no’ so hard, was it, lass?”

  Harder than crossing a desert, which Maura had read about in one of her father’s novels before Mrs. Garbett had them carted off with the excuse they put too many ideas in Maura’s head. Harder than living in David Rumpkin’s house for a fortnight. Harder than being powerless and alone in this world and beholden to someone like Mrs. Cockburn. Nevertheless, she smiled sweetly, as if she had seen the error of her ways and was prepared once again to portray a saintly young virgin in want of a husband.

  Mrs. Cockburn had the gall to pat Maura’s cheek as if she were a petulant child. “Penny will come round and help you dress, she will.”

  “Thank you.”

  Mrs. Cockburn turned away. She eyed the gown that Miss Fabernet had left her, ran her hand over the silk. “Oh, it’s bonny, that it is,” she said, and went out.

  Maura waited until she was certain she was gone before she whirled around and kicked the bedpost as hard as she could, then winced with the pain that caused her toes.

  “Are you injured, then?”

  Maura whipped around—she’d not heard the petite young woman come to the door. She was just at the threshold holding two pails of water.

  “Where am I to put it, then?” a male voice asked behind her.

  “By the hearth, Mr. Gils, what do you think?” the maid said, and stepped aside so the footman could wrangle the wooden tub into the room. When he had it i
n front of the hearth, he bowed to Maura and went out.

  The girl poured the water into the tub. “I’m Penny,” she said cheerfully. “Madam said I was to tend you at your bath.”

  Maura didn’t know if she trusted Penny, but the prospect of water and soap convinced her to take her chances. She began to unfasten her gown.

  Penny shut the door to her room, then bent down to the small bureau and rummaged around. When she stood, she held a linen cloth.

  “Thank you,” Maura said. “I’m desperate to bathe. I’ve been riding for days, it would seem.”

  “Where’d you come from, then?” the girl asked.

  After the discussion with Mrs. Cockburn, Maura thought the less she said the better. “No’ far, really.” She stripped down and eased into the water. She closed her eyes and sighed.

  “Oh, but ’tis a lovely gown, is it no’?” Penny said from somewhere near the bed.

  “Mmm,” Maura agreed. “I must thank Miss Fabernet for her kindness.”

  “You may thank her soon, you will. She’s coming round to dress your hair.”

  “Pardon?” Maura asked, and opened her eyes.

  “She said your hair was a tragedy—I beg your pardon—and that you couldna dine with it so, and she means to help you dress it.” She glanced over her shoulder at Maura. “She’s an actress.”

  As if on cue, there was a knock at the door. Penny rushed to answer it before Maura could cover herself, and in swept a woman with a tower of powdered hair dotted with silk flowers. She had a fine figure and light brown eyes. The kohl that darkened her brows and lashes made her skin look almost white.

  “There you are!” she trilled as she swept in. “I’ve caught you at your bath, have I?”

  Miss Fabernet was English, judging by her accent, a fact that had escaped Maura earlier. “Ah...”

  “You must not mind me, darling.” Miss Fabernet held up a pillowcase whose contents made some interesting lumps. “I’ve come prepared to dress your hair. I would not wish to intervene, and I’m certain that any lady Dunnan means to marry would have her own dresser, but I presume yours has not yet come? I’ve taken pity on you.”