The Laird Takes a Bride

by Lisa Berne

  She wrenched herself around to face Miss Wolfe. “It’s not the first time, we’ve been meeting in the garden for weeks, and he’s been kissing me!”

  Germaine de la Motte, no doubt aware that his days at the Basingstoke Select Academy for Young Ladies had drawn to an immediate close, and that within mere minutes he would be booted out onto the street with only his hastily packed valise in hand, gave Katherine a look of undisguised malice. “But only, mademoiselle, because you sought me out.”

  Oh, splendid, now the cat was well and truly let out of the bag, thus making things go instantly from bad to worse. Katherine could feel her fury dissolving with almost ludicrous speed and giving way to soul-shattering embarrassment and shame. So much for the embraces, the kisses, the furtive touches here and there, the intensely exciting feel of a man’s body pressed against her own. How wrong and awful she’d been, how bad—

  And here, to emphasize just how bad, was Miss Wolfe again:

  “I can hardly believe my ears! That a pupil of mine would stoop so low! To solicit such a thing! To sneak about, like a sordid criminal! And you but barely turned fifteen, Miss Brooke! Be sure that I shall inform your parents by express first thing tomorrow.”

  Katherine hung her head. She was a low, sneaking, criminal sort of girl. “Yes, Miss Wolfe,” she muttered, resisting the impulse to kick at a stone which had somehow managed to crassly intrude itself on the otherwise immaculate path of the school’s garden. If she was lucky, her parents would have her removed at once.

  But as it turned out, she would stay on at the Basingstoke Academy for four more long, miserable years, her parents agreeing with Miss Wolfe’s expert (and, ultimately, costly) assessment that Katherine—so unruly, so unpleasant, so unpopular with her fellow pupils—would need them in order to acquire even the most fundamental degree of polish, that essential and elusive je ne sais quoi, which would enable her to someday, one hoped, comport herself without committing further, dreadful gaffes.

  Six years after the hushed-up incident at the Basingstoke Select Academy for Young Ladies …

  Somewhere near the Canadian border

  April 1811

  It had been a perfectly good day, tramping along the St. Lawrence River and leading his men in a jolly little reconnaissance among the thickly clustered woods, until all at once there was a crack and a slight whistling noise.

  Then there was a sharp pain six inches down and to the right of his heart.

  “Damn it to hell,” said Hugo Penhallow, whipping around and in a single rapid motion bringing up his own musket, sighting the French sharpshooter two hundred paces away, and targeting him rather more effectively. He watched with grim satisfaction as the other man crumpled like a puppet released from its string, then sat himself down hard on the ground. His hand, pressed against the front of his red jacket, came away equally red, but unfortunately with his own blood.

  If he was lucky, the bullet that was now cozily resident inside him hadn’t struck anything of particular importance. It occurred to him now that he was very fond of his internal organs, as they’d functioned beautifully all his life, and he’d love for them to keep on doing exactly that.

  Carefully, Hugo allowed himself to slide down into a prone position. Everything was getting all hazy and woolly, and just before he closed his eyes he saw the concerned faces of his men hovering over him. Awfully nice bunch of chaps. He was fortunate to have a group like this under his command. Too bad for them they’d have to convey him all the way back to camp, but that, after all, was one of the hazards of military life, and he was sure they’d do a decent job of it.

  The pain, he noticed vaguely, was getting decidedly worse. Well, this certainly was an annoyance. How he loathed those pesky Frenchmen, and wished they’d stay in their own country where they belonged, kowtowing to that blasted little egomaniac Bonaparte and also making brandy which was, admittedly, of excellent quality. In fact, he wouldn’t object to a long swallow of that right now. But, he suspected, he was shortly to be losing consciousness, so all things considered, the brandy might well have been a waste.

  His last sentient thought was gratitude for the fact that the reconnaissance had been a useful one. His men would be able to confirm that yes, of a surety, there were active enemies in the area, and here was their bloodied and insensate captain to prove it.

  Chapter 1

  Six months after the eventful reconnaissance mission along the Canadian border …

  Brooke House, five miles inland from Whitehaven, England

  October 1811

  Many people would have considered Katherine Brooke to be an exceedingly fortunate young lady.

  She was rich—rich beyond the wildest dreams of most. Her jewels were of a quality and a quantity even a queen would envy. Her gowns were made from the costliest fabrics. Her hats, gloves, shoes, stockings, shawls, pelisses, reticules, and parasols were delivered by the dozens. And her immense bedchamber had been modeled, without thought as to expense, after the neoclassical style currently made fashionable by no less a personage than the Prince Regent himself. It was a marvel of a room, with a high domed ceiling, large gilded mirrors, fireplaces artfully crafted so as to resemble the fronts of ancient Roman temples, pedimented window frames, half a dozen busts of eyeless long-dead emperors rendered in the purest of white marble, and walls painted Pompeiian red.

  It was here that Katherine Brooke stood with her back against the closed door, looking at her maid Céleste. “Do you have it?”

  “Oui, mademoiselle.”

  “Give it to me, please.”

  “Je suis désolée, mademoiselle, but it cost more than expected.” The maid’s narrow face was impassive, her voice respectful, but her attitude was nonetheless imbued with every bit of her usual sly, self-satisfied insolence.

  Here we go again, Katherine thought. “How much more?”

  “It came all the way from London, mademoiselle, and as you know, secrecy is difficult to maintain across so many miles.”

  “I know it all too well. How much more?”

  “Le coût total is one pound, eighteen shillings.”

  “That’s absurd.”

  “Mademoiselle is concerned about le coût?” Céleste shrugged, glancing around the luxurious room as if she didn’t, in fact, know exactly just how much pin-money Katherine received. “Quel dommage. Rest assured, I can easily dispose of it elsewhere.”

  “I’m sure you can.” Katherine reached into the satin reticule hanging from her wrist, her fingers slipping past the downy, fragile marabout feathers with which it was lavishly ornamented, and extracted two golden guineas which she held out to Céleste. “Here.”

  Céleste didn’t move. “Would mademoiselle like back les trois shillings?”

  “Keep them.” With effort, Katherine kept her face bland. Oh, tedious, tedious, this final extraction of money on top of what was most certainly an inflated fee. She added, insincerely: “By way of a thank-you.”

  “Mademoiselle is too kind.” Without hurry, Céleste took the guineas, then slid her hand into the pocket-slit at her waist and produced from within it a small rectangular bundle wrapped in cheap, plain paper.

  Katherine snatched it from her, and Céleste smiled.

  “It is always a pleasure doing business with mademoiselle.”

  “You may leave.”

  “But you are expected downstairs, prior to the dinner hour, and your hair is sadly ébouriffé.”

  “Come back in twenty minutes, and fix it then.”

  “I shall come back in five.”

  “Ten.” Her hands, Katherine noticed, were shaking a little with anticipation. But then, they always did at a moment like this.

  “Five minutes, mademoiselle. Or votre chère maman will notice your absence, and she may well chide me for your lateness. I do not wish to be chided.”

  “Nor do I.” A scanty patch of common ground between herself and Céleste. She said, “Have you ever wondered what would happen if Mother found out about our—ah�
�transactions?”

  “I would doubtless be let go at once, and sans reference,” replied Céleste coolly. “One can only speculate as to your punishment, mademoiselle. Too, you would lose my services as an intermédiaire, which would be a punishment in itself, would you not agree? It is not always so easy to find someone as resourceful, and as discreet, as I.”

  This complacent assertion Katherine could not dispute. It had been six years since that humiliating debacle at the Basingstoke Select Academy and the maid Céleste had been forced upon her; the two of them had lived alongside each other locked into this vile dynamic, in which their antipathy was mutual but each benefited from their clandestine dealings. Céleste had been magnificently feathering her nest with all the money Katherine gave her; and as for herself—she very nearly brought the little package to her nose, to sample its heady fragrance, but instead said:

  “Which reminds me. Where are the books I asked for?”

  “The volume of Shakespeare’s plays is en route, I am told, mademoiselle, but the other—the Italian book—”

  “La Divina Commedia.”

  “Oui. It is proving more difficult to locate in the original language. Rest assured, I have not forgotten.” Céleste smiled again, with a knowing sort of glimmer that made Katherine feel as if her skin was prickling with shamed embarrassment. “Shall I leave you now, so that you might enjoy votre petite gâterie?”

  “Yes. Do.” Katherine stepped aside, and Céleste sauntered out of the room; the moment the door was shut Katherine leaned against it again and carefully, oh so carefully, unfolded the paper in her hands.

  There. There they were. Saliva pooled in her mouth as she stared at the two dozen diablotins, the dark thin disks of chocolate covered densely with nonpareils, tiny, tasty white balls of sugar. For years Mother had forbidden her candy, insisting it made her hideously spotty, but still Katherine had found a way.

  Diablotin.

  It meant imp or gremlin in French.

  A defiant little smile curved her lips and quickly she popped one of the disks into her mouth.

  Oh, delicious. Delicious—exquisite—beguiling—magical—except that words couldn’t even come close to describing it. She closed her eyes, savoring. The taste was both bitter and sweet, the chocolate smooth and rich on her tongue; the little nonpareils crunched between her teeth, yielding up a tantalizing contrast of textures.

  But one wasn’t enough. And time was short. Katherine opened her eyes and rapidly consumed three, four, five diablotins, waiting for the rush of pleasure that always came with eating chocolate. No wonder the ancient Aztecs believed that cacao seeds, from which chocolate was made, were a gift from the gods, or that they valued the seeds so greatly they used them as currency. She’d read that in one of her history books, at present hidden away in a locked box under her bed.

  And speaking of books …

  What excellent news that her contraband volume of Shakespeare’s plays was on the way. At school they could only read the Bowdlers’ version, The Family Shakespeare, edited—dissected was more like it—in a way that supposedly protected a maiden’s delicate sensibilities. All the really good parts had been removed, the bits having to do with bad people using bad words, no doubt, and doing bad deeds. Katherine could barely wait to read them all.

  She smiled, really smiled. She was feeling it now. For a few precious moments she would feel happy. Good. Alive.

  Until Céleste came back, and did whatever she was going to do with her hair, and she would have to go downstairs. Ugh. Another excruciating evening spent with her parents and their—what was a good way to describe them?

  “Guests” didn’t quite do them justice. Katherine preferred “leeches in human form.” Hovering a few rungs below Society’s upper echelon, they doubtless had received no better invitations elsewhere, and so here they flocked, the best her parents could do. They ate, they drank, they borrowed money, they expected the Brooke servants to wait on them hand and foot, and for all she knew they were smuggling the silver into their trunks.

  But their worst offense? Well, she’d be willing to wager that none of them had ever read a book from start to finish. And their conversation—if one could call it that—reflected this sad fact. Mealtimes were interminable.

  But at least she would know, all throughout the next several hours, that concealed in her armoire, at the far end of a drawer underneath a pile of silk stockings, were eighteen more diablotins, waiting for her to come back.

  At around the same time …

  On the road to Whitehaven

  Many people would have considered Captain Hugo Penhallow to be a man in trouble.

  He had almost no money, and no income to anticipate; an old house was his only property. In addition, he had a large family to support: a widowed mother, a younger sister, and three younger brothers. His profession for the past eight years, in the Army, was no longer a viable one, for he had recently sold out. As the son of a gentleman, naturally he had no training for any other occupation. And, finally, several months ago he had badly broken his left leg and so now, when he was fatigued, he walked with an unmistakable limp.

  Yet here was Hugo, riding north along the Longtown Road on this cool, cloudy afternoon, sitting his horse with casual grace and whistling cheerfully, giving all the appearance of a person without a care in the world.

  This was, in fact, largely how he was feeling.

  For one thing, he was on his way home, and he’d soon be with his dear and delightful family, whom he hadn’t seen once during those eight years, as he had been sent to the annoyingly obstreperous territory along the Canadian border. Letters had helped bridge the distance between himself and home, although he was fairly certain that not all of them were delivered or received, it being not uncommon to have placed in his hands a letter that looked as if it had been in a battle itself, so begrimed and bent was it.

  As for the financial difficulties, Hugo wasn’t ignoring just how dire they were, but he was taking action: he had decided to capitalize on his two chief assets, both intangible but clearly of significant value in certain circles.

  One—he was a Penhallow. It was an old and illustrious name that loomed large, disproportionately large, among the haut ton. The first Penhallow, so it was said, had long ago come to England with the great Conqueror himself, and the Conqueror had humbly deferred to him. Hugo had gone straight from Eton into the Army, and so hadn’t spent any time in Society; he’d therefore never personally observed the effect of his hoary surname upon even the loftiest dukes and earls. Nonetheless, he was fully aware of the cachet which enabled any Penhallow—even a straitened member of the cadet branch such as himself—to walk about trailing, as it were, clouds of glory. All rather comical, in his opinion, but there it was.

  Two—the female sex evidently found him attractive, which would make his task easier. For years he had heard himself compared left and right to a Greek god which, as a modest fellow, he found extremely silly. He was one of those tall, fit sort of men, an attribute for which of course he was appreciative, but still, one couldn’t help being born the way one was, and it was decidedly uncomfortable to be stared at as if one were an exotic beast on display.

  Yet if his appearance assisted him in his quest, so much the better. And that quest was to marry into money. He had evaluated his limited options carefully, and all in all this seemed to be the best and most expeditious way to solve the problem.

  He could have continued to accept assistance from his older cousin, Gabriel Penhallow, who several years ago had not only generously purchased his commission but had also provided him income in the form of an allowance (most of which he’d had diverted to his stalwart mama, holding the fort back in Whitehaven). No, that sort of thing—charity—was all well and good for a single-minded, Army-mad youth, but he was done with that now. That bullet in his midsection back in April had resulted in a serious, lingering infection, which ultimately had his kindly commander forcibly putting him onto a ship bound for home, and there w
as nothing like a long sea voyage when one was weak as a damned cat to inspire an extended period of introspection.

  While Gabriel’s assistance—which also included sending an additional cheque to Mama once or twice a year—was gratefully received by both himself and the mater, the plain truth was that it wasn’t sufficient to see the children adequately established in life. With Gwendolyn now fourteen, the twins Percy and Francis thirteen, and Bertram twelve, the issue had become considerably more urgent. But he had no intention of asking Gabriel for anything more. Never in a million years could he imagine himself saying, Thanks for all that you’ve done, Coz, and now could you give me many times that sum over again.

  It was, Hugo had concluded, a perfect time in which to take destiny by the shoulders and give it a good hard rattle.

  And as luck would have it, a tremendous storm had blown up as the ship neared the western coast, forcing them to divert from Liverpool to Bude, where, his wound having reopened in spectacular style, he’d decided to hotfoot it to Gabriel’s estate in Somerset, as it was much closer than Whitehaven and the last thing he’d wanted to do was horrify his family by staggering home as a moribund invalid.

  Once he got to Surmont Hall, he had—in an embarrassingly dramatic fashion—toppled off his horse like a sack of turnips and nearly bled to death on Gabriel’s enormous graveled carriage-sweep.

  Some might have thought this a bad thing, but really, when you looked at it another way, it had all worked out beautifully. He’d been able to recuperate at his leisure, attended by a very capable doctor as well as by a veritable horde of servants offering a tempting array of food and drink multiple times a day. Too, it gave him the opportunity to thank Gabriel in person for his generosity and insist that he both accept repayment for the commission and terminate the allowance; to write home alerting them as to his arrival upon terra firma; and to receive in return a buoyant letter from his mother which contained along with her usual fond, rambling report of his siblings’ health and activities a tidbit of neighborhood news which had instantly caught his eye.