Stranded With The Scottish Earl

by Anna Campbell

  Fenella still resisted the rising mood. “I don’t want to marry again.”

  Caroline laughed, caught up in the idea of breaking free of stifling limitations. “Dashing widows don’t have to marry. They’ve done their duty. Dashing widows have fun.”

  A reluctant smile tugged at Fenella’s lips. “I can’t remember the last time I had fun.”

  “There you are, then,” Helena said. “We’ll all be dashing widows.”

  With a giddy laugh, Caroline stepped across to ring for a servant. “We’ll be the most dashing widows the ton has ever seen.”

  “Count me in,” Helena said, and for once her expression held no trace of irony.

  “Fen, you can’t turn the terrible trio into a desperate duo,” Caroline urged.

  Fenella still looked unconvinced. “It’s so long since I was out in society.”

  “I’ve never been out in society. My father wouldn’t pay for a season when the match with Freddie was already arranged,” Caroline said. “Helena will have to be our guide.”

  Helena’s lips twitched. “Heaven help us, then.” Earnestness deepened her voice. “Come and join us, Fen. We’re not asking you to run a steeplechase in your petticoat. We’re just inviting you to chance a step out of your safe little cave. You commit to nothing more than wearing colors and attending a party or two.”

  Something new sparked in Fenella’s eyes, banishing her customary melancholy. She raised her chin with un-Fenella-like brio. “Very well. I’ll do it.”

  “Wonderful,” Helena said, hugging her with un-Helena-like exuberance.

  The butler entered the room. Caroline greeted him with a smile and caught his surprise at the festive atmosphere. Another signal, should she need one, that it was time she crawled out of her slough of self-pity and made plans for her independence.

  “Hunter, champagne.”

  “Caro, at five o’clock in the afternoon?” Fenella asked, shocked.

  Hunter bowed, his imperturbability back in place. “Very good, my lady.”

  Caroline beamed, the pall of boredom and frustration shifting from her shoulders. She felt light enough to float up into the cloudy winter sky. From what she saw of her friends, they too had found fresh purpose on this February afternoon.

  “Why not? Dashing widows drink champagne whenever they feel like it. What better excuse than a toast to our glittering success?”

  Chapter One

  May 1820

  The Grosvenor Square house stood transformed. Spring had arrived and with it a release from the pall of mourning. Caroline had thrown herself wholeheartedly into the season, and tonight’s ball was the culmination of her campaign to win society’s acclaim.

  She halted in the doorway to her crowded, noisy ballroom, at last able to catch a breath. Holding what turned out to be a brilliant success of a party required diligent attention. But finally, everything was in place and she was ready to have fun. The orchestra played a lively quadrille; a lavish supper was ready and under Hunter’s capable supervision; she’d greeted all her guests, delighted at how many people had accepted her invitation. Of course society was curious about rich Lady Beaumont, so recently out of mourning. But she could see already that tonight curiosity veered toward approval.

  Helena was dancing with a red-haired fellow whose name escaped her. Fenella danced, too, her pale prettiness flushed to vivacity. She wore a sky blue dress in the first stare of fashion—it was so pleasing to see her in something other than gray. Both friends had worked like Trojans with Caroline to ensure that the launch of the dashing widows was a triumph.

  “You’re looking revoltingly pleased with yourself, Caro,” a deep voice murmured in her ear.

  Pleasure warmed her and extending her hand, she turned with a smile. “Silas, I wasn’t sure you’d tear yourself away from your greenhouses long enough to come.”

  Silas Nash, Viscount Stone, was Helena’s older brother, the cleverest member of a notoriously clever family. Soon after coming to London, Caroline had met the noted botanist at Helena’s house. She’d immediately liked his humor and kindness. And his handsomeness had offered a welcome distraction during the dull days of her seclusion. A handsomeness of which he remained refreshingly unaware.

  “I wouldn’t miss this for the world. You’ve arrived with fireworks.” He bowed over her gloved hand, hazel eyes glinting up at her as he bent.

  He always treated her as if they shared a joke that the rest of the world had missed. It made her feel special. He made her feel special. When she came to London, unhappy and uncertain, she’d been deeply grateful for his support. Tonight, happy and confident, she remained deeply grateful. “Helena has been talking.”

  He straightened and released her hand. “Perhaps she dropped a hint here and there about the evening’s finale.”

  She couldn’t contain a smug smile. “My party is a great success, isn’t it?”

  “It is indeed.” He regarded her from under tawny eyebrows, his gaze sharp. “I congratulate you on your victory over society.”

  She flicked her fan open and cast him a flirtatious glance as she fell into their familiar bantering. “I intend to enjoy myself.”

  “You deserve to kick up your heels a little.” The fondness in his expression made her heart swell. She wondered if he knew quite how much his friendship meant to her. His immediate approbation had done wonders for her self-assurance when she’d been new in Town. Without it, she doubted she’d have had the nerve to claim a prominent place in the ton.

  “Oh, I plan on doing more than a little,” she said on a laugh. “I’ve spent my life as someone’s dutiful daughter or someone’s obedient wife. Now I seek amusement on my own account—and nobody can say me nay.”

  “Until you find another husband.”

  All the color and music and movement around her jangled into cacophony in her head. Her throat clogged with horror. Another husband? She’d rather die.

  “Caro?”

  Silas’s voice brought her back, reminded her that she need never enter the smothering hell of married life again. Instead, here she was with handsome Silas Nash and she was free to enjoy herself precisely how she wished.

  She took in the tall, rangy build set off to perfection in evening clothes, the thick honey-brown hair, his intense, intelligent face with its Roman nose so like Helena’s. It all made for a man of more than average appeal. His title was singularly inappropriate—anyone less like a stone was impossible to imagine. He was the most alive person she’d ever met.

  She waved her fan slowly in front of her face, chasing off all her dark memories. Tonight was hers, and she didn’t intend to waste it on unhappy thoughts. “I don’t want another husband.”

  He frowned. “Of course you do.”

  “Of course I don’t.” She tilted her chin and took advantage of the small island of privacy surrounding them to confide her wicked intentions. “I am, however, in the market for a lover.”

  As she’d expected, her pronouncement didn’t shock Silas. His tolerant attitude was among the many things she liked about him. He regarded her thoughtfully. “Is that an invitation, Caro?”

  She stared into his unwavering hazel eyes. Around her, the crowded ballroom receded strangely until she and Silas seemed alone together.

  Caroline hadn’t blushed since before she’d married Freddie. But something in Silas’s expression brought color to her cheeks and a disconcerting stumble to her heart. Which was absurd. Even without Helena’s warnings—and her friend had early dampened any thought of setting her cap at Silas—she’d soon recognized that he never took his conquests seriously. While for all their shared jokes, she did take this friendship seriously.

  When she’d mentally listed the men she’d consider inviting to her bed, she hadn’t included Silas. She couldn’t bear for him to dismiss her the way he dismissed all his flirts beyond the immediate seduction.

  And if he didn’t dismiss her, what then? She didn’t want anything that required a commitment. As she’d told Si
las, she was never going to marry again. Tiptoeing around Freddie’s feelings had been hard enough. Catering to a man who loved her, a man she wanted to please, was signing up for another life sentence.

  Far better Silas remained her dear friend and she sought physical pleasure elsewhere.

  After a month in society, she’d seen enough to know that a dashing widow would easily find a lover. Replacing a true friend was an entirely different matter. Which meant she stalwartly ignored the unprecedented catch in her breath when Silas focused that green-gold stare on her. Even if he looked like he’d need little encouragement to sweep her off and prove his reputation as a devil with the ladies.

  “I’m more than you can handle,” she said lightly with a flutter of her fan. “You like them silly and flighty. Neither word applies to me.”

  His mouth firmed when she’d hoped to make him smile. “That sounds like a challenge.”

  Startled, she looked at him properly. Their interactions were usually unshadowed, a blessing in a world that had varied between black and gray as long as hers had. She’d imagined, once she left her seclusion behind, that the easy camaraderie would continue. Perhaps she’d been naive.

  He looked disgruntled. It took her so long to interpret the expression because she’d never seen it on his face before. Sulking sat surprisingly well on Silas’s vivid features. Which obscurely annoyed her more than it should.

  No woman could miss how attractive Silas was, but so far, she’d admired his spectacular looks as one might admire a fine painting. A brooding Lord Stone became unacceptably compelling. She forced a laugh and wished she sounded more natural. She snapped her fan shut and tapped him on the arm. “You’re teasing.”

  Still he didn’t smile. “Am I?”

  A horrible thought arose, scattering her archness. “Good God, Silas, don’t say you disapprove of my plans? I never imagined you’d be mealy mouthed about a few adventures, not when you’ve been mad for the girls since you went to Cambridge.”

  The grim expression didn’t lighten. She’d never seen him so stern. “Apparently Helena’s been spreading tales about more than this evening’s entertainments.”

  His unfavorable reaction left her flummoxed. Lord Stone’s beautiful manners were touted as society’s ideal. His careless wit and graceful demeanor were much praised. Yet he responded now with neither wit nor grace, when she’d expected him to applaud her daring.

  Caroline became annoyed. With Silas Nash, of all people. “I was a good and faithful wife to Frederick Beaumont. And I nearly perished of boredom as a result. If I choose to take a lover or two now, it’s entirely my decision. If that doesn’t fit some hypocritical view you have of respectable women, that’s too bad. I won’t apologize.”

  She waited for him to respond with equal heat, but after a fraught second while she braced for a scolding, he sucked in a breath and the temper faded from his expression. “Let’s not quarrel, Caro. Not tonight when you’re basking in your success.”

  “Your censure oversteps the mark, my lord,” she said stiffly, telling herself to accept his olive branch. But worse than anger, she was hurt that someone she’d counted as an ally turned against her.

  His lips quirked and abruptly he became the easygoing companion who had helped her weather all those humdrum tea parties. “‘My lord?’ Oh, the pain. I’ll never recover. You know how to strike a man down, Lady Beaumont.”

  Despite her disquiet, she couldn’t suppress a faint smile. “I probably shouldn’t have told you my plans. I’ve become too used to confiding in you.” She studied him searchingly. “If I lost your regard, I’d be cast low indeed.”

  He expelled his breath with a hint of impatience. “Don’t be a goose, Caro. You haven’t lost my regard. You never could.” He glanced around the packed room. “I’ll prove it by asking you to dance.”

  The familiar benevolence settled on his features, but she hadn’t mistaken his anger in those brief moments of discord. She battled the uncomfortable suspicion that she didn’t know Silas Nash at all.

  “I must check on the supper,” she said quickly, although it wasn’t true. She needed to gather her composure. Their discussion had come too close to argument and left her on edge. Fear beat in her blood, chilled her on this warm night. If Silas withdrew his friendship, she’d miss him like the devil.

  “Given the interest our contretemps has aroused, a waltz would be the wiser choice.”

  She started. Good heavens. What on earth was wrong with her? She’d forgotten where she was. She’d taken so much trouble to establish herself in society. Now in bickering with a rake, she risked all she’d gained. A quick reconnoiter indicated more than one pair of eyes focused on her. She caught Helena’s concerned dark gaze and sent her a reassuring smile.

  “You’re right,” she said, still reluctant to step into Silas’s arms for the dance. Then she squared her shoulders and damned the world, and Lord Stone with it. She’d lived too long as a mouse. Now she meant to be a tiger.

  “Shall we?”

  The orchestra she’d brought from Paris played the introduction to the latest waltz. Ignoring the disquiet churning in her stomach, Caroline stuck a brilliant smile on her face and nodded. “We shall.”

  * * *

  And that, sir, was how not to court a lady.

  What a blockhead he was. Silas had known from the moment he met beautiful and stubborn Caroline Beaumont that if he intended to win her, he needed to tread carefully.

  For over a year, he, famous for his various but fleeting amours, had done just that. Until now, he’d never taken trouble over a woman. If the one who caught his fickle interest wouldn’t have him—and he was arrogant enough to note how rarely that happened—there was always another equally appealing candidate to occupy his brief attention.

  Then his brilliant, troublesome, but beloved sister Helena had held a tea party on a cold March day. His wayward attention had landed on a lovely woman whose fiery spirit made a mockery of her widow’s weeds. He’d spent every day since then telling himself that love at first sight was a poet’s stupidity—and eating his heart out over Caro Beaumont. For a man of thirty-one, it was distinctly lowering to suffer romantic yearnings that rivaled any adolescent Romeo’s. Even more lowering to recognize that the object of his inconvenient passion hardly regarded him as a man at all.

  Payment, he supposed, for all those casually discarded ladies.

  He curled one arm around Caro’s slender waist and took her gloved hand in his, and his heart leaped with an excitement he hadn’t felt since he was a stripling. It was humiliating. It was disturbing. It was unacceptable.

  And after this long enchantment, he acknowledged that it was inescapable.

  Since she’d cast off her mourning, he’d danced with her several times. Usually she was light and supple in his arms, responding to his body’s signals with a readiness that boded well for her bedding. Now tension stiffened the delicate muscles beneath his hand.

  Blast. Impatience had brought him close to blowing his plans. Caro did a fine job of pretending enjoyment, but he saw beneath the sparkling surface to the old wariness. From the first, she’d been skittish. Like a highly strung thoroughbred mistreated early and as a result, disinclined to trust to any handler, even the kindest. How she’d loathe knowing that Silas had immediately recognized her fear—she was a proud creature, as befitted a thoroughbred, and worthy of a gentle wooing.

  Damn it, he verged so close, yet he could still lose the prize. How far the rake had fallen that he’d counted gaining her trust as a victory. He’d built that trust step by step, through a hundred innocuous gatherings suitable for a new widow.

  He never ventured into deeper waters with Caroline. Instead, he’d set out to make her laugh—some instinct told him laughter had been a rare visitor to her life. In return she’d gifted him with a friendship that, to his shame, counted as his most rewarding relationship with a female outside his family.

  Tonight, like a fathead, he’d put all that dedicated hard w
ork at risk.

  But dear God, he’d wanted to smash his fist into the wall when, after a year without so much as a kiss, she spoke in such an offhand manner about taking a lover. A lover who was not Silas Nash, Viscount Stone.

  “Silas, you’re holding me too tightly.”

  He emerged from his fit of the sullens—confound it, no woman but Caro pierced his sangfroid—to find her watching him curiously. And with more of that dashed wariness.

  Careful, Silas.

  He made himself smile and loosened the hand clutching her waist the way a falling man clutched an overhang on a mountainside. “My apologies.”

  He’d imagined that their friendship would offer him some advantage over other predatory males. Now he wondered if he’d made a basic mistake in his strategy. He’d become part of the furniture of her life when she was on the hunt for novelty and excitement.

  His fear of competition was well founded. In this room a host of men, good and bad, watched the beautiful widow with avid eyes. He could hardly blame them. In unrelieved black, she’d been lovely. In a red gown with gold embroidery and a décolletage that skimmed the edges of propriety—and a few other things—she was breathtaking. With difficulty, Silas kept his attention on her face and not on the wealth of white skin displayed below her collarbones.

  As he whirled her around the room, her smile became more natural. “No, I’m sorry. I spoke inappropriately. It’s partly your fault. You’ve become a mainstay of my life since I came to London. Like Helena or Fenella.”

  Bugger him to hell and back. He only just hid a wince. “I don’t want to see you hurt.”

  Which was true, if not the whole truth. He intended to be the man to introduce her to sensual delight. She’d only ever mentioned her married life in passing. But hints—and the few stultifyingly dull occasions when he’d met Freddie Beaumont, a good soul, but as thick-witted as a sheep—had led him to some interesting conclusions about her sexual experience. She was ripe with womanly promise, but every instinct screamed that all her bottled-up passion had never yet found outlet.