“What is wrong with Bath or Oxfordshire?”
Moira faced forward and bit her bottom lip. Should she tell him the truth? She glanced back up from beneath the brim of her hat. Something about Lord Ainsely instilled trust. “If you swear never to breathe a word of it.”
“I swear.”
“Because, only my three dearest and closest friends and Alvina know, so if anyone finds out, I know it will be because you said something.”
“I promise not to reveal your secret.”
“Very well.” Moira took a deep breath and leaned closer. “I want to live in Scotland.”
“Why Scotland?” he whispered back.
“Because my mother swore never to set foot in that wretched country again.”
He stiffened and pulled away. “Why does she hate it so?”
Moira shrugged. “I really have no idea, but to hear her speak, one would think that as soon as one crosses the border, one has stepped into the most uncivilized place on earth. I think it must have something to do with my great-grandmother, my father’s mother, Fiona Moira MacLachlan. I was named after her.”
“Have you even been to Scotland?” He turned her so they could continue on their stroll.
“No.” A grin pulled at her lips. “But I hear it is lovely.”
He smiled as if in agreement. “It can be that.”
Moira stopped and turned toward him. “Have you been there?” Her pulse increased with the very idea he was familiar with the country that so fascinated her.
“Several times.” He laughed. “I can assure you it isn’t as horrible as your mother makes it out to be.” He guided her further down the walk.
Moira sighed. “That is a relief.”
“So, you simply wish to move there because of your mother.”
“If I live in Scotland, I never have to worry about her visiting me. That alone makes it pure heaven.”
“You may feel that way now, but after going weeks and months without seeing her, you may feel differently,” he offered seriously.
He didn’t know her mother. Perhaps he no longer had one of his own and couldn’t understand, or perhaps she was a kind soul like Georgie’s mother or Patience’s late mama. “I will see her during the Season, I suppose, and perhaps a visit later in the year.”
“What if your husband doesn’t wish to return to England all that often?”
“What difference would that make? It isn’t as though he would see me all that often anyway.”
Ainsely stopped again and looked down at her. “Usually husbands and wives share a home, even in the wilds of Scotland.”
She couldn’t help but laugh at the seriousness of his tone. “They may share a house, but I doubt most husbands and wives spend an inordinate amount of time together. Why, I can recall the number of times my father dined with the family on two hands, not including holidays and weddings.” She looked around at the various couples walking along. “From what I have gathered, husbands and wives actually see very little of one another, so why should my husband mind if I only visited England on a rare occasion?”
Ainsely negotiated a turn, and soon they were walking back in the direction from which they had come. Nyle and Alvina had returned and were looking in their direction.
“Your brother seems to spend a good deal of time with Lady Hearne.”
“Of course he does,” Moira agreed. “They have an unusual situation.”
“Unusual?”
“Yes.” She beamed up at him. “They are in love.”
Mr. Fiske bets Lord Alston three hundred pounds that Lord Struthers,
who does not have an estate near Bath or in Oxfordshire,
will present himself to Lady Moira Kirkwood
to be compromised by the 1stof May, 1813 ~ April 24, 1813
Bloody hell. Gideon rubbed a hand over his face. Another one. Lady Moira had dismissed Garson a mere two hours earlier. Did Fiske and Alston have spies at every corner, hiding in bushes and behind potted palms? Well, it was another wasted bet, given that Struthers lived on a barren estate in Shropshire.
Gideon made his way to a back, empty table and took a seat. Why had he come here? He should have just gone home and then he would not know about the bet or feel the need to do tell Hearne or Lady Moira. He signaled a footman, who delivered a scotch whiskey and set it before Gideon.
He wasn’t home because he needed to think, and the silence in the mansion would be deafening.
Could it be that simple? He picked up the glass and sipped the fiery liquid. Lady Moira was a lovely lady. More so, actually, when her face wasn’t broken out in hives and blotches. And she wanted to live in Scotland. From the few encounters he’d experienced with the girl, she seemed to have a pleasing personality. Not once had Lady Moira prattled on about nonsense, and she’d revealed a depth of compassion and caring when it came to her family. On the other hand, she did want to escape her mother, which was in complete opposition of what she exhibited toward her brother and sister-in-law. Gideon would need to learn more about Lady Moira before forming a more permanent opinion on the matter. But, most importantly, Lady Moira didn’t expect a love match, like so many simpering debutants. Gideon smiled down into his glass. Being compromised by her wouldn’t be a hardship either.
What happened to her breasts? Had she previously added stuffing to her corset somehow? Not possible. The creamy display, barely contained by her gown at the Davenport ball, was not brought on by cotton. But why?
Laughter burst from a table not far away, and Gideon glanced in that direction. Now there was an odd gathering. It wasn’t a surprise to see Viscount Heathfield and Damien Lockwell together; they had always been friends. But, where had John Phillip Trent (Jordan’s younger brother) and Wesley Cavendish come from? He hadn’t seen either gentleman in at least two or three years. If he recalled, Cavendish had moved to the continent after his father smeared his name from one end of England to another. Trent had simply disappeared.
“I am as surprised as you.”
Gideon turned as Jordan settled at his table.
“Who would have thought such four perfect rakes would fall so low as to be gleefully married and in love with their wives?” Jordan took a deep drink. “It is rather nauseating.”
“Your brother and Cavendish married?” Gideon wasn’t surprised he did not know. He didn’t keep up with gossip, not like a proper member of the ton should.
Jordan chuckled. “They—” he pointed to the table “—each married one of the Duke of Danby’s granddaughters.”
Gideon sat back. Those were very high connections, though he wasn’t so sure he wanted that particular duke as an in-law. Rather frightening actually. The only person who carried more power than Danby was the king, and even that was questionable.
“They all married within weeks, even days, of each other, right around Christmas.”
“Arranged?”
Jordan barked out laughter. “One way or another.”
Despite Jordan’s insistence that he would never marry and give up his freedom, there was a bit of longing in his eyes. Perhaps Jordan was rethinking bachelorhood just as Gideon was.
Gideon had never been against marriage, only against arranged marriages. He needed someone he would get along well with. Someone with similar interests, or at least an entertaining companion. Someone such as Lady Moira.
He didn’t know her nearly well enough to make such a rash decision, which was why he didn’t tell her that his home lay in a remote area outside of Selkirk, Scotland. Yet, of the few ladies he’d encountered in London thus far, only she held any interest.
“What is wrong with Oxfordshire?
Gideon refocused on Jordan and shrugged. He had promised the lady not to reveal her secret, and Gideon was a man of his word.
Moira balled her hands into fists to keep from clawing at her face. Nothing had ever itched so badly in her life. Not even the Stinging Nettles she’d encountered as a child.
“I’ve brought this for you, Lady M
oira.” Beatrice handed her a cool, moist cloth. Moira lay back on her bed and pressed it against her face.
“It is a shame your mother insisted you go out in the damp air this evening.”
Moira peeked from beneath the rag. “You’ve been with me since I was ten, Beatrice. I am not sure either of us will ever understand.” Moira adjusted the cloth so that it covered her face, but not her mouth. “She wants to rid me of my freckles to be more attractive to gentlemen, yet insists I be out, despite being covered in this horrid rash, all because I hadn’t been seen in four days.”
Beatrice tsked. “Cook suggested some laudanum in your tea to help you sleep.”
Moira grimaced. She hated the taste, but if she didn’t do something, this infernal itching would keep her awake all night. “Very well. Please prepare a cup,” Moira mumbled and pulled the cloth to cover the rest of her face.
The only time in this long night her face had not bothered her was when she was distracted in the presence of Lord Ainsely. What was it about him and why did she trust him so? Nobody, above Patience, Pippa, Georgie, and Alvina, knew of her desire to live in Scotland and she knew none of them would ever breathe a word of her secret. Yet she’d told Ainsely for some reason. What had she been thinking?
Moira removed the rag from her face and sat up. Swinging her legs over the side of the bed, she stood. What if he did tell someone, especially Nyle? Would her brother keep her from meeting any Scottish gentleman, or deny her hand in marriage to any Scot who asked? What if her brother forbade her to be so far away from the family? As long as she was unmarried, he had the power to do just that.
She wheeled around and stalked to the opposite side the room before turning and retracing her steps.
Nyle mustn’t ever learn of her plan, and she must speak with Ainsely soon, to make him promise once again not to tell anyone her secret.
She stopped in front of the fire. Perhaps he may even be of assistance. Moira sank down onto the rug and stared into the flames. He had introduced her to the last two gentlemen, and he had been to Scotland. Maybe he knew the perfect candidate for her husband. If the gentleman were a friend of Ainsely’s, all the better. She could do far worse in a lifelong companion.
Oh, if only it were Ainsely. But, he didn’t have a Scottish accent or brogue, and his title was neither Scottish, nor did his last name have a Scottish ring. If it were McBaxter or MacBaxter, or McAnything, it would be different. It was a shame too. Moira could see herself with Ainsely for the rest of her life. Though on second thought, she could easily fall in love with him. So it was best he wasn’t a Scot. After all, her mother warned that love led to emptiness and if one’s heart remained protected, it couldn’t be disappointed. Though her mother was wrong about most things, Moira could not dismiss this warning. Not when it was something she would have to live with for the rest of her life.
If he were wise, Gideon would have gone to Hearne. Instead, he found himself on the stoop outside the Hearne home. Oddly, this was the family residence, so why didn’t the earl live here?
It was none of his concern. Gideon lifted his cane and knocked on the door. A stodgy butler opened and peered down at him. Rather intimidating, given Gideon was not a small man. He handed his card over to the servant. “Is Lady Moira receiving callers today?”
The man took the card, squinted to read the writing, and opened the door further. Gideon stepped inside the quiet, empty foyer.
“One moment please.”
Gideon was left standing while the butler disappeared down the hall. What am I doing here?
The butler returned a moment later. “Lady Moira will see you.” He turned. “If you will follow me.”
Gideon did as he was bade, clutching the cane in his hand so tightly his knuckles turned white. Why such nervousness? This wasn’t the first lady he’d ever called upon in his life, though it may be the last.
He stopped the thought before it could form any further and followed the butler into a blue salon as his name was announced.
Lady Moira rose from the settee and nodded a greeting. “Lord Ainsely. This is a lovely surprise.”
If anyone were surprised, it should be he. What had she done to her once lovely hair?
“Calico.”
“Pardon?” He shook his head to clear his thoughts.
“Calico.”
He looked around and then down toward his ankles for a cat.
“My hair,” Lady Moira clarified. “I am sure it will soon be all the rage.”
Gideon’s face burned with embarrassment, which had never happened to him before. He should have never shown a reaction to her appearance, but how could he not when faced with such a shocking display? Gone were the sunrise tresses, replaced by patches of blond, red, and brown. And Lady Moira was correct. Her hair did resemble the calico kitten he once owned as a child.
He cleared his throat. “I do not doubt it for a moment.” What was he to say? Was she serious? Why had she done such a horrible thing to her hair?
Lady Moira giggled. “You are far too polite, Lord Ainsely.”
He resisted the urge to loosen his cravat.
“Thankfully the coloring is temporary,” she continued. “I’ve vowed to wash my hair no less than five times a day until my natural color is restored.
Thank goodness.
A maid entered, followed by a footman who set the set a tea service on the table. While the footman retreated, the other servant settled into a chair at the back of the room and picked up her sewing.
“Please, do sit.” Lady Moira’s smile was radiant as she resumed her seat and reached for the teapot. Gideon took the seat across from her.
“Milk, sugar?”
“Neither, please.”
She poured and handed him a cup before preparing her own, to which she added two spoons of sugar. After a quick glance at the maid, she added a third.
Her position across from him gave Gideon an ample view of her breasts, or what he could see of them. Since they were no longer as abundant as they were a few days ago, her dress gapped when she leaned forward, yet he couldn’t see what was real and what may have been enhanced at one time. Why did Lady Moira feel the need to change her appearance? So drastically and so often?
He glanced back up at her face before she caught him looking where he should not. Though a few remnants of her rash remained, her face didn’t appear to be in the painful state it had been last night. “You are looking, um, better.”
She graced him with another smile. “That is one remedy I will not try again.”
“Remedy?” He took a sip of his tea.
“To rid myself of the freckles.”
He choked on the tea and sputtered. “My pardon.”
Lady Moira handed him a napkin. “Are you quite all right, Lord Ainsely?”
He dabbed at his mouth and set the cup and saucer back on the table. “Why would you wish to make your freckles disappear?”
“The same reason my red hair needs to go, and why my bre...mother has assured me that gentlemen don't wish their wives to have such endow...blemishes and coloring.”
Gideon straightened. He had never heard such rubbish before in his life. Where was Hearne, and why wasn’t he taking the situation in hand? “Please, Lady Moira, do not change a thing. You are quite a bonny lass.”
Moira paused with the teacup halfway to her lips. Did he just refer to her as a bonny lass? Her eyes narrowed and she placed the cup back in the saucer. “Lord Ainsely, where is your estate?”
“I, um, well—“
“Do you not know where you live?” she interrupted. Her heartbeat increased. Was it possible he was from Scotland?
“Yorkshire,” he blurted out. “There is an estate in Yorkshire.”
Moira’s heart sank. “Englishmen do not usually refer to ladies as bonny lasses; only Scots. At least I’ve never heard an Englishman say such a thing.”
“Well, you, um see… I must have picked up a few of the phrases from my time in the country.”
“I suppose,” she sighed.
Ainsely glanced over his shoulder to Beatrice, who by all appearances was engrossed in her stitching. Moira knew better. Her maid had a knack for listening to and observing everything around her when others were convinced she wasn’t paying attention.
He turned back to Moira and leaned forward. She shifted toward the table and waited.
“I have some rather disturbing news.”
Oh dear, what now?
“There has been another bet,” he whispered.
Moira straightened and grimaced. “About me?”
“Yes. Lord Struthers.”
“Go on,” Moira encouraged.
“His estate is in Shropshire.”
Her shoulders fell with the exhaling of her breath. “We are a week past Easter, and my name has already been in that blasted book three times.”
Ainsely raised his eyebrows at her language.
“Apologies. I don’t always mind my tongue.”
The left side of his mouth quirked in half a smile. At least he didn’t appear overly scandalized by her language.
“It is quite all right.”
“I wonder if there is a record for how many times a lady’s name appears in the book in one Season.”
He grimaced. “I am not sure that is a goal you should aim for. Most ladies are not listed for flattering reasons.”
“I know.” Moira settled her hands on the settee on either side of her legs and pushed to stand. She could have been more graceful, she supposed, but she was almost as comfortable around Ainsely as she was Pippa, Georgie, and Patience. He was turning into a grand friend. He didn’t need to come to her this morning and tell her of the bet. He could have gone to Nyle instead, and her brother would have delivered the news. “I am still no closer to my goal, however.”
Ainsely stood as well, as any polite gentleman would. “Please, you can be seated. I tend to pace when anxious, and it can be quite uncomfortable for any gentleman in the room.”
He sank back down and watched as she wore a path in the carpet between the settee and the table.
“Perhaps you can help me?” It had been on her mind to ask, and she was going to suggest it when they next met. Now was as good a time as any, and he had come to her first.
The Betting Season (A Regency Season Book) Page 20
