by Karen Ranney
For whatever reason, he’d found himself captivated by Lillian Carstairs, and the next night sought out a secluded alcove and kissed her. He should have noted her eagerness on that occasion. She hadn’t been horrified by his actions. Nor was she over the next two months, when he’d kissed her more often.
When he offered for her hand, he was greeted with open arms by both the father and the daughter.
Another warning, one as telling as his wedding night.
Although his experience with women hadn’t been excessive, Morgan knew his wife wasn’t a virgin. But by then he’d been well and truly snared, diving into the emotion of love as he did all things, with enthusiasm and intensity.
How long had it taken him to realize he wasn’t loved in return? Was it the conversation when Lillian had expressed a distaste for the idea of bearing a child? Or was it at his first suspicion that she was not faithful?
Toward the end of two miserable years of marriage, he’d sought out each of the four men who preceded him in idiotic adoration of Lillian Carstairs. One by one the men confirmed what he’d suspected.
She had seduced each one.
Strange, he was the only one with whom she’d been circumspect. But his fortune no doubt played a part in her portrayal of innocence. A fortune she’d not, blessedly, been able to decimate, however much she attempted it. When Lillian wasn’t shopping, or being unfaithful, she was giving money to her father. A thoroughly dislikable minor baron, whose sole claim to any achievement was that his only child was now a countess.
Now, Morgan wondered why he was giving so much thought to the past, and realized it was because he was home again. Perhaps his father’s shade required penance.
He stared down at the top of his father’s desk, empty but for an oil lamp to the right and a leather-edged blotter taking up the middle.
What was he going to do with the rest of his life? Sit here day after day, thinking about the past? Insist on measuring himself against some unseen ruler, and always coming up short?
He couldn’t involve himself in politics any longer. He’d become a pariah, a social disgrace. He was unfit for the company of others, not because of his own morals, but because he’d been unwilling to accept the lack of morals from his wife.
Why, then, did he feel as if he were paying the price?
Should he have continued to be cuckolded by Lillian? He would no doubt be looked at with pity, clapped on the shoulder by men with compassion in their eyes. People would stop talking about his wife when he walked into the room. Or whisper behind his back.
All in all, he preferred being a pariah.
That didn’t mean, however, he had a plan for his life.
Between his steward and his father’s long-range plans, Ballindair was running smoothly, hardly requiring his intervention. The distilleries could do with a visit from time to time, but didn’t need his daily interference.
He had no other occupations to speak of—work had been his solace and his ambition. He’d enjoyed being elected to represent Scotland at Parliament, thinking himself following in his father’s footsteps.
Maybe he should take up painting like Andrew, traipsing around the countryside with his leather satchel of paints and brushes, for the sole purpose of staring fixedly at an object in order to replicate it on canvas.
Where was the sense in that?
He didn’t want to see a landscape as viewed by another man. Nor was he enamored of those portraits he’d seen exhibited in London. All the subjects had dead eyes. For that very reason, he’d gone to the gallery the night before, to view his father’s portrait himself.
The artist had been more talented than some he’d seen. His father looked on the verge of smiling. Or laughing, perhaps, as he was always doing.
Why shouldn’t he be happy? People considered him a hero. He was forever being lauded by one person or another. Books had been written featuring the most famous of all the Murderous MacCraigs. Except, of course, Thomas MacCraig had single-handedly forced the world to forget that appellation.
Morgan had almost spoken to the portrait. Why, to beg his father’s forgiveness? What would his father have said? No doubt something like: Toughen up, lad.
“What is wrong with you?” Catriona asked as they undressed.
Jean only shook her head.
Her sister, clad only in her corset and shift, turned to look at her.
“Something has happened, Jean,” she said, hands on her hips. “Tell me what it is. Everyone knows something’s going to happen. You’ve learned something, haven’t you? Tell me. Are we being dismissed?”
Jean shook her head again. “I haven’t learned anything.”
“I don’t mind the mystery, as long as it doesn’t affect me.”
Jean looked at her sister. That comment was so true she was startled. Was Catriona becoming more self-aware? Frankly, she doubted it. Catriona was the center of her world, and anyone else just an orbiting body. No one else was as important to Catriona as Catriona was to herself.
“I shouldn’t be talking to you anyway,” her sister said, tossing her hair. “You were very mean earlier.” She went back to her undressing, then stopped and stared at her.
“Was the earl there?”
Jean blinked several times, wishing words would come to her mind.
“When?” she finally asked.
“When you took the towels and soap to him.”
“No.”
Lies didn’t come easily, but she wasn’t about to tell Catriona the truth in this instance.
Sometimes she wished she could confide in her sister. Catriona could be a source of comfort, instead of just aggravation. Now, especially, she wished she had someone to whom she could say: “I saw the earl nude. I saw him naked. Not only did I see him naked, but I stood there and stared at him while he was naked. I didn’t turn away. I didn’t scream. I didn’t faint. I didn’t run out of the room until much later. I simply stared, appalled.” Her sense of fairness asserted itself as she imagined what she would say, and she added, “No, not quite appalled. Fascinated.”
Those words would go with her to the grave. She would never, ever tell anyone what she’d done, or how she felt about it.
But was it entirely normal for the picture of him to be implanted in her mind? She didn’t even have to close her eyes to see him standing there, that portion of him growing larger as she stared.
She had often chastised Catriona for flirting, but what she’d done was worse, so much worse.
Their room was small, but tonight it felt even smaller. She finished undressing on her side of the room, hoping and praying Catriona wouldn’t bring up the earl again, but she was doomed to disappointment.
“I asked Aunt Mary how long he was staying, and she didn’t know.”
She wouldn’t blame Aunt Mary for not sharing what she knew with Catriona, as her sister had no reticence. Whatever she thought, she said. And secrets? Catriona had never met a secret that wasn’t worthwhile sharing—with anyone.
“Perhaps he’ll return to London soon enough,” she said, hoping the discussion was ended.
Catriona sighed. “I hope he stays for a very long time.”
“Don’t be thinking things that cannot happen, Catriona,” she said. “Our stations in life have changed. We’re no longer the daughters of an Inverness physician. We’re maids at Ballindair.”
Catriona’s beautiful face twisted in a look of disgust.
“Don’t you think I know, Jean? Even if I could forget for one day, you’re forever reminding me.”
“I don’t want you to sigh over the Earl of Denbleigh. The only way he would look at you is if he wanted a mistress.”
“And what would be so wrong with that?”
Aghast, Jean stared at her sister. “What are you saying?”
Catriona smiled. “Exactly what you’re thinking. If he summoned me tonight, I would willingly go to his bedroom.”
Jean sat down on the edge of her bed. “You can’t be serious.”
What should she say to that comment? Regrettably, it was the truth.
“I don’t want to be a maid for the rest of my life,” her sister said. “If it was a choice between being a mistress or a maid, Jean, I’d gladly choose the role of mistress.”
Once again Catriona managed to shock her.
“What do you know about being a mistress?”
Now, Catriona’s smile was sly. “I like kissing.”
Jean stood and advanced on her sister. Once in front of her, she folded her arms and glared down. “Who have you kissed?”
“Does it matter? I wanted to know what a kiss was like and I kissed someone. More than one someone.”
“Was there more than kissing, Catriona?”
“You’re not my mother, Jean.”
Suddenly, Jean felt even older and plainer than before. Catriona might be three years her junior, but she had much greater experience in flirting and handling men. They weren’t supposed to fraternize with the other staff, but more often than not a footman stepped up to assist Catriona whenever she had to carry something, or reach something, or do something she didn’t want to do.
All she had to do was purse her lips, look down at the floor and sigh, and suddenly a man was there.
“Leave it alone, Catriona, please. Nothing good can come of you longing to be someone you’re not.”
Her sister didn’t say anything in response. But her eyes twinkled, as if she were anticipating luring the Earl of Denbleigh into her bed.
Dear God, what was she going to do about her?
A refrain that kept her awake after Catriona had fallen asleep.
She was not, however, going ghost hunting. If she did, she might encounter the earl, and he was the very last person she wished to see. Ever again.
For an hour she told herself that. For an hour she was resigned to remaining awake, despite her tiredness. For an hour she was virtuous and abed.
Until she rose, donning her uniform once again.
She avoided the Long Gallery, her destination instead the library.
Chapter 9
RULES FOR STAFF: Always remember your behavior is a reflection of Ballindair and the family.
Morgan moved from the desk, walking slowly through the shadowed room until he came to the circular iron staircase leading to the second floor of the library.
The expansion of the library had been the last renovation at Ballindair. A gift from his father to succeeding generations.
As early as he could remember, he’d been told that if he didn’t produce an heir, Ballindair and his other estates would pass to a cousin. However, the Entail Amendment Act of 1848 gave him the power to petition for the restrictive fee tail to be removed. The law had served him well once; it might do so again.
His reputation was as blackened as it could be. What did a few more ashes matter?
He could see his father’s planning as he ascended the steps. Each shelf radiated outward from the circular stairs, like spokes of a wheel. At the farthest point, comfortable chairs and tables with reading lamps were set. A reader didn’t need to descend the staircase with his selection of books. Instead, he could read in comfort here, feeling a sense of seclusion.
He stood at the landing to the room, wondering where he would find books on Ballindair’s ghosts. Strange, that his interest was incited by a maid’s curiosity.
But, then, she’d been curious about a great many things, hadn’t she? Especially his nakedness.
Her eyes hadn’t left him for the whole time he’d stood there. Should he have apologized? Banished her from the room? Anything but stand there, letting her look her fill. Perhaps his only excuse was he’d never had a woman regard him in that way.
Every other woman of his acquaintance would’ve turned away, gasped, or fainted. The little wren did nothing but stare at him. He wanted to ask her if she was disappointed by the sight. If he measured up to other men of her acquaintance.
Jean had irritated him, befuddled him, intrigued and now amused him, and he’d only been home two days. He couldn’t help but wonder what the following weeks would bring.
He heard a faint sound like a whisper. He hesitated, staring at the books in front of him. The noise came again, but now he recognized it. Someone had entered the library and was walking very quietly.
He doubted if ghosts cared about being overheard. Moving to the end of the bookcase, he folded his arms and waited.
The grandfather clock on the first floor of the library sounded eleven chimes, obscuring the sound of footsteps. They kept country hours at Ballindair. He had his suspicions, and as he waited, he felt a stirring of anticipation.
Since he didn’t want to startle her on the stairs, he waited until Jean was on the landing and moving toward him.
Nevertheless, she made a sound like an abbreviated scream at the sight of him.
Reaching out, he grabbed her upper arms to keep her from falling. For several moments she trembled beneath his hands. He wanted, curiously, to pull her close, wrap his arms around her and just hold her until she was still and calm.
Instead, he dropped his hands, forcing himself to move several feet away.
“Forgive me,” he said. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”
She bolted.
He went after her, grabbing her arm before she descended the steps.
“Don’t go,” he said, the second time he’d done so. Why couldn’t he just let her go, leave him to his solitary pursuits?
Because loneliness was a damn difficult companion.
She stopped, turned around and stared at him.
“I didn’t go to the Long Gallery tonight, because I thought you might be there,” she said in a rush of words. “And here you are. I truly do want to avoid you. How can I do that if you’re always where I am?”
“No one has ever come out and admitted they were trying to avoid me,” he said. “Even though they were.” God knows the last year he’d been rebuffed by more people than he could count.
“I don’t want to intrude upon your privacy,” she said, blushing.
Was she remembering this afternoon?
Suddenly, he was as well.
He moved back and turned, so she wouldn’t see evidence of his sudden recollection.
Until returning to Ballindair, he’d had some control over his libido. After all, it had been some time since Lillian welcomed him into her bed. His wife had a way of banishing him for any infraction. He hadn’t known it at the time, but she was busy juggling her many lovers. When she had time, she accommodated him.
What was it about this plain maid that intrigued him?
Perhaps it was her way of speaking directly to him, something he’d not experienced for a very long time.
“Were you ghost hunting?” he asked, glancing at her over his shoulder.
That was the wrong thing to do, to express any curiosity about her actions. He should simply have dismissed her and sent her back to her room.
“No,” she said. “I wanted something to read.”
Another surprise.
His wife never read, never willingly entered the library in his London home, or a bookshop. He wasn’t even certain she could read.
“What kind of book does a maid read?”
“Must I be defined by my occupation?” she asked, frowning at him. “Are you forever labeled earl? What does the earl read? What does the earl eat? What does the earl do?”
“Yes,” he said. “I’m almost always defined by my title.”
At his words, her face carefully assumed a blank expression. He preferred her frown.
“What do you read, Jean? Novels?”
“Good God no,” she said, startling him. “Why on earth would I want to read about histrionic females? They’re all wandering from one disaster to another. I don’t need to read about such things when my life has been the same.”
She clasped her hand over her mouth and looked at him in horror, as if the words had become sentient beings, overcoming her will and escaping by themselves.
Once again she incited his curiosity. More, he wanted to smile in her presence.
“We have quite a few books on the history of the Murderous MacCraigs,” he offered. “However, I’m not entirely certain that particular selection of reading material will lead to a dreamless sleep.”
“I don’t mind dreaming,” she said. “In fact, I much prefer my dreams. In them, I’m intelligent and witty and I don’t make mistakes.”
“I like your mistakes,” he found himself saying. “You’re very honest, and that’s rare to find. I should think you would cherish that quality of yours.”
“I think, perhaps, you’ve misjudged me. I haven’t been all that honest.”
“Isn’t honesty a good trait for a maid to have? Or have you absconded with my silver?”
She looked startled.
“I don’t mean that kind of honesty,” she said. “I mean the kind where you lie to yourself and tell yourself everything will be all right. Or when you talk yourself into doing something even when you know it’s wrong.”
“Internal honesty?” he asked, feeling the most absurd wish to smile.
She nodded.
“And how have you been internally dishonest?”
He didn’t think she would answer, but she did.
“I lied to my sister. I fibbed to the housekeeper.”
“Dastardly deeds.”
She nodded again.
He knew it was wrong to ask, but he was somehow unable to bite back the question.
“What did you lie about?”
To his surprise, she shook her head and wouldn’t speak.
“How did you come to work at Ballindair?”
She looked away, concentrating on a shelf of books. One hand reached out and touched a gilt edged spine, fingers straying over the title. Was she all that interested in animal husbandry?
With her silence came a feeling of shame. He should have been inured to that emotion, and it was curious to experience it now. But he knew, by his very position, he was coercing her to remain here.
