by Fascination
Grace’s limbs felt unaccountably weak.
“My daughter sent for you,” Mama announced, letting Grace know that yet again her parent was manipulating events. “She wishes to know exactly what is the marquess’s current condition.”
“I see.” Mr. Innes clasped his hands behind his back. “I think the best way to describe the marquess at this time would be as, hm, changeable.”
There was a moment’s silence before Mama narrowed her eyes and said, “You mean he is in varying degrees of ... debility?”
“Very varying.”
“As in he could become dangerously debilitated at any moment?”
The nostrils of Mr. Innes’s straight nose drew in. He tipped his face toward the delicate plasterwork ceiling. “I would say his lordship’s condition could most accurately be stated as dangerous, yes.”
“In that case, there must be no delay. Not one moment.” Mama rose majestically to her feet and settled her skirts. “We wish to see the marquess at once. He has asked Grace to marry him, and she is here to do so.”
Grace opened her mouth to speak and promptly closed it. Another man had arrived in the open doorway, this one tall and dark and slender. His curly hair had been disheveled by the storm, and he was in the act of unfastening his cloak whilst Shanks scurried in his wake.
“Good God!” Mr. Innes’s exclamation made Grace jump.
“I’m glad you approve of my arrival, Calum,” the newcomer said cheerfully. “Always nice to get a warm welcome to Kirkcaldy.”
“Your—”
“Good to see you, too, Archie,” the man cut Mr. McWallop off. “What’s this I hear about a wedding?”
“Not right now, man,” Mr. Innes said. “The marquess will want to see you. We’d best go immediately to Revelation.”
Revelation? “What is this about the marquess and Revelation?” Grace said. “Is that his lordship’s preferred biblical reading?”
“Revelation is a tower,” Mr. Innes said curtly. “To be precise, it is the tower that houses his lordship’s rooms.”
“Did I not hear the lady say that there was to be a marriage?” the newcomer asked, clearly uninterested in any other subject.
“You did indeed, sir,” Mama said, settling her elbows at her waist. “The marquess is to marry my daughter.” She indicated Grace.
“He is?” The cloak hit the floor, and Grace’s hand was enfolded in a crushing grip. “Praise be to God. That’s the best news I’ve heard in years. Haven’t I always told you the Lord provides, Calum? I’ve arrived just in time.”
Mr. Innes made a strange sound, like a word inhaled, and said, “You always were an irritating bastard ... Ahem. Miss Wren, allow me to present your future brother-in-law, Father Struan Rossmara.”
Chapter 5
The trouble with women was that they were necessary.
God, were they necessary.
Arran cocked his head at a fresh onslaught of wind and rain against the windows and checked his watch. The hour of his proposed meeting with Miss Wren was long passed and she had not appeared.
Damnation. He ought to be glad. If Calum had not come—with Struan, for God’s sake—to inform him that his fiancée was impatient for her marriage, he might take her failure to keep their appointment as evidence that she had some sensibilities he’d failed to discern. He might wonder if she had regretted her forwardness of the previous night and decided to give her future husband the loyal consideration he deserved!
Arran smiled darkly. He’d been tempted to reveal their first meeting to Calum, and might have done so had dear brother Struan not been present. Father Struan—pious priest—had a way of rousing some spurious shreds of conscience in Arran. Struan made one feel vaguely sinful at all times.
Vaguely? Hah!
Damn the girl. He had better things to do with his precious night hours than await her pleasure.
Pleasure. Ah yes. As soon as the business of the marriage was attended to, he would consider resuming his affair with Mrs. Foster. Mrs. Foster asked no questions, made no demands in excess of his considerable consideration of her—and she knew a great deal about pleasure. No, perhaps he didn’t have better things to do, but he’d do them anyway. The latest piece—for piano and violin—did not yet please him.
He went to his favorite piano close to the windows and played again the theme that had seemed so engrossing only yesterday but which now bored him.
It would not do.
Absently at first but quickly engrossed, he began to play a waltz he’d composed whilst recalling the longing young faces of partnerless misses at a London ball. Arran bent to the keys. He saw the music as he’d thought the girls saw it. And he felt in the notes an inward swaying.
How different were the real and the perceived natures of the privileged nubile female. All sweet innocence on the outside. All calculated maneuvering behind their simpering smiles.
The music was at odds with the storm that had continued to gather strength since his return home. Arran took pleasure in the dichotomy, playing as if his music laughed at nature’s rage.
He raised his face ... and looked directly into the startled brown eyes of Miss Grace Wren.
Instantly his fingers stilled on the keys. “You are late.” Damnably stupid thing to say. She would think him impatient for her.
“I’ve come,” she said, sounding breathless. Gold tipped her smoky lashes and cast a gilded gleam into dark brown. Unusual eyes. Large and unwavering—and deeply intelligent if he trusted his instincts. The thought disconcerted him mildly.
Then she smiled.
My God. She smiled like a magical, merry imp set
free from captivity. She smiled ... openly ... honestly?
“Caught!” Glee clung to the word. “For a moment I was too engrossed to realize. You were playing the piano last night.”
He made to rise.
“Oh, no!” She freed one hand from the bulky package she carried and waved him back to the seat. “Please continue. It’s so beautiful.”
“Is it?” Isabel had pretended fascination with his music. That had beguiled him. Never again. At least he had not made the mistake of telling her the pieces she heard were of his own composition. Only Calum and Struan knew.
“My own skills at the pianoforte are abysmal. Mama tells me I should not let gentlemen know as much.” She turned up her palm. “I’m sorry I interrupted you. Your skills are very considerable.”
Very considerable? “You are too kind.”
Her brow puckered. “Do you doubt that you are talented?”
Might he be spared inane conversation with foolish females. “I doubt very little.” In fact, he usually felt extremely sure of himself. How peculiar that he did not feel particularly certain now ...
“Then carry on. Do.”
“I think not. I should prefer you to forget that you ever heard me play.”
She pressed a finger to her mouth. Such a soft, full mouth. Her smile remained, but it was more whimsical than merry now. “My, my. Mama would say that it was unsuitable to refer to a gentleman as charming, but I find you so.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Do not be cross with me.”
The girl was a riddle. “I fear I do not understand you.”
Miss Wren giggled, a delightful sound. “You are
shy! I find that charming in a man who is so obviously ... physically ... powerful. You are too shy to play for me!”
“Shy?” He stared at her. Impertinent chit. “Ridiculous nonsense. I choose to play only for myself.”
“Oh.” He saw her swallow and color rose in her pale face. “I have misjudged you. I thought that we ... No matter. I find you very mean. And I really see no need for you to snap at me like that.”
He frowned. Mean? Snap? The little female was decidedly odd. Decidedly and unfashionably direct.
“If I could play beautifully and make people see pictures with my music, I should be delighted to do so as often as possible.”
A
rran spread his fingers on his knees. “Would you indeed, Miss Wren?”
“Most definitely.” She passed him and carefully lowered another of her mysterious burdens onto the window seat. Without looking at him, she continued, “I do not believe in keeping special gifts to oneself. Not if there is an opportunity to do otherwise.”
As she bent, the little enameled bluebird she wore on a chain around her neck swung forward, and her breasts seemed perilously close to popping free of her bodice. Yes indeed, he decided, Miss Wren would definitely be generous with her gifts. That gown had been no accident. She wore it intending to encourage him to take what she offered. How simple it would be to help her in that particular task.
“You made me see lovely colors.”
She made him see a slender white body opened for him, and silver hair spread wide, and pink lips smiling a welcome, a very worldly welcome.
And she made him disconcertingly, inappropriately, angry. It should not matter to him that she was shallow and grasping.
Damn, but he still, in some crevice of his otherwise cynical mind, wanted a woman who was tender and true. He wanted to love again, God help him.
“Such marvelous colors,” she murmured.
Arran started. “Excuse me?”
“Your music,” she said very softly. “It was like twirling ball gowns. But the feeling was wistful, as if one wanted to be part of the music rather than an observer. It made me want to dance.”
Everything within him grew wary. She knew what he’d intended. He looked at the music before him and realized that, of course, he’d been playing from memory. Fool. Even had she seen the piece on paper, she could not have known what the notes depicted for him. She’d made a clever guess, that was all.
Arran gathered his composure. “I take it that you and your parent are settling well at Kirkcaldy.”
She did not appear to hear him.
“Miss Wren?” Arran said, frowning. “Are you and your mother—”
“Yes.” She interrupted him abruptly, but her voice was barely audible. “Well, thank you.” She stood as if transfixed, her face averted toward the black, rain-washed windows.
He rose. “Your plans are going ahead satisfactorily?”
She did not respond.
Arran tapped his jaw. Something had distracted her. “Are you satisfied with your progress at Kirkcaldy?”
“No.” She shook her head.
She was an enigma. “How so?” he asked, aware of a stillness that emanated from her.
“I fear it will all take too long.”
Distaste assaulted him. “You think ... You are afraid the marquess may take longer than is convenient to die?” His lip curled. “For your purposes, that is? Surely the matter of a decrepit old husband confined to his bed need not stand in the way of whatever pastime you choose to pursue?”
“Probably not. However, I should prefer to be a free woman.”
“Freedom is very important to you?”
“Freedom and power,” she said, her voice, with its suggestion of forgotten laughter, rising a little with each word. “I do think power is intoxicating, don’t you?”
“Very. Would you care to share with me the nature of the power you crave?”
“Power over my own destiny. Power that makes me any man’s equal.”
Any man’s equal indeed! Never had a small, lithe female form been so deceptive. Her back was very straight inside the dark blue crepe edged at its low, square neck with pleated satin as creamy as the soft skin it touched. With her head erect, the mass of pale ringlets cascaded from her crown past a vulnerable neck so slim that Arran knew he could surround it with one hand. The hips were, as Calum had pointed out, just so—as were the fragile white shoulders. From where he stood, Arran could see the curve of her cheek, the flicker of thick lashes.
Deceptive indeed. The next time his overburdened brain whispered thoughts of love in connection with Miss Wren, he must remind it that the woman within her appealing exterior was pure steel.
And he wanted to touch her, curse it. He wanted to touch and taste and possess all of her—now.
The wind’s voice became a scream.
Those white shoulders drew up sharply. The girl chafed her crossed arms.
“Perhaps we should discuss how best to pursue the matter of filling the empty hours that lie ahead of you.” His mouth was unaccountably dry.
“Not now.”
Arran locked his thighs and willed away his body’s unwelcome yet mounting response. “When then?”
“Soon ... perhaps, soon.”
He searched for a means to distract himself and found none. “How soon?” Innocent her wide-eyed, soft-mouthed face might appear, but he saw beyond the angelic mask.
And still he had to make tight fists to stop himself from sweeping her into his arms and stripping her naked. Even as she protested and blushed, and tried to cover herself, her chin would be defiantly high and she would become softly, urgently, pliant. Soft white thighs ... Arran drew in a long, slow breath that did not fill his lungs. He would need to be careful with one so small, and he would be careful—with each thrust into her body, he would be careful not to crush her.
Her teeth would clench between parted lips.
Her eyes would glitter with the fevered light of passion.
Her breasts would tighten and swell in his hands.
Her nipples would bud against his tongue and she would cry out.
Her hips would arch to receive him and her legs would wrap and hold him.
And her slick, moist center would clench ...
Arran had to open his mouth to take in a complete breath. The pulse in his groin became a driving throb.
He was obsessing on a stranger; a stranger who would become his wife only to use him.
Arran allowed himself a scornful smile. Miss Grace Wren would learn all about using from a man who had learned the art from the best. He would enjoy instructing her.
Lightning cleaved the darkness outside. For seconds the girl’s hair was turned to shimmering white gold. Then thunder burst, at first like a mighty stroke on a huge drum, then as reverberating crackles that split the air in slowly fading ripples.
“A wild night,” Arran remarked.
She did not speak or move.
“Should you like to put your bundle inside the window seat?”
Not a word.
Arran narrowed his eyes. “Miss Wren?”
If she heard him, she gave no sign.
Lightning shot earthward once more, and thunder followed immediately in its wake. The girl jumped violently and he saw a fine tremor pass through her.
She was afraid of the storm and she did not respond to him because she had ceased to hear anything but the howling night.
Arran stepped closer. The set of her body was so rigid, he feared the slightest contact would fracture it.
Cautiously he touched the fingertips of his right hand to the side of her waist and felt a jarring start.
“Hush,” he told her, settling his hand where his fingers and thumb could measure the tiny proportions of her ribs. “You are safe here with me. The storm cannot penetrate these walls.”
Thunder rolled once more and she shuddered.
Slowly, so slowly, Arran drew his hand behind her. With the back of one finger, he stroked her rigid spine all the way to her neck and back to her waist. “Let me comfort you,” he murmured.
She drew in a shallow breath and her head fell forward.
Smiling, Arran traced her spine again—and again. The tension was not gone, but this sensual little woman reacted to his touch despite her fear.
A voluptuary indeed, he thought, with deep satisfaction. All else aside, this marriage he had not wanted began to promise intriguing possibilities.
“I ... I’m sorry,” she said at last. “You said something?”
“You are afraid of the storm.”
“Of course not.” But her breaking voice betrayed the lie.
“There should be n
o shame in a small weakness. There is no man—or woman—who fears nothing.”
Arran splayed both of his hands on her back and smoothed upward, over her cool, bare shoulders. She tilted her head backward and he slipped his thumbs up the sides of her neck and made small circles in the tender hollows beneath her ears.
Grace Wren sighed. “What do you fear?”
He opened his mouth to assure her he feared nothing, but smiled instead. “I fear ... mm ... cold soup when it is meant to be hot and hot soup when it is meant to be cold.”
“That’s silly.” She wriggled a little, and Arran realized he’d stopped exploring her delectable skin. Such an appetite for fleshly pleasures. Pure carnal desire speared him. Rather than bracing his legs and pulling her soft hips against the swollen ridge she’d created, he schooled himself to wait ... not a long wait, but at least until he could gain the satisfaction of seeing her squirm and beg. And she would squirm when she learned the true identity of her decrepit old marquess. And she would beg when she learned that any pleasure they shared would be upon his demand and only to achieve his ends.
“I do not believe any woman has ever called me silly,” he told her, stroking her arms, then settling his hands at her waist.
“Mama has called me silly ever so often. Mama says I am childish—especially in the matter of storms.”
In Calum’s words, the Wren parent was a shrew. Arran disliked cruelty, particularly cruelty by those who should be gently strong ... the way a mother
should be gently strong toward a child ... Some women were incapable of natural instincts. “I think you are delightful—in all ways.” It seemed only kind to say as much, even to a scheming female. “And I offer my services to ease you through any storm.” The nature of the services he had in mind would ease them both.
“What is your name?”
Arran stopped chafing her midriff. “As I told you last night. My name is unimportant.”
“It is ... If we are to be friends, I should like to know how to call you, please.”
