by Sara Ramsey
Malcolm scowled at them. “I know what that one means. Buying myself a whore won’t help matters.”
Alastair rolled his eyes in sympathy. “Don’t mind the twins, Malcolm. They’re still more boy than man.” Then he cleared his throat. “Of course, wisdom does occasionally come from the mouths of babes.”
Malcolm and his brothers had adjourned to his study after dinner. The Earl of Salford had declined, instead choosing to work on his correspondence, which is what Malcolm would have done if his brothers hadn’t forced him into retreating to the study and having a drink with them. “Retreat” felt like the right word for it. In the war to secure his clan’s future, the search for a bride was his prime objective. Tonight’s opening salvo had not gone as intended.
At least he had his brothers to commiserate with — although their commiseration usually made him feel better only because it redirected his annoyance to them rather than his other woes. At thirty-four, Malcolm was the oldest and had been responsible for all of them since their father’s death the previous year. Alastair was three years younger than Malcolm, and was the village’s vicar — not that he always behaved so piously. But the twins had just turned twenty-five, and with no wives, no incomes, and no houses of their own, they were a unified thorn in Malcolm’s side.
“I should buy you both commissions and be done with you,” he said, removing the stopper from the heavy crystal decanter to pour himself another drink. “Perhaps one of the India regiments so you can’t come home on leave.”
Douglas grinned. “You’ve threatened that since we were in leading strings. Send Duncan. He sports a uniform better than I do.”
“Only because I bathe regularly,” Duncan retorted. Then he turned back to Malcolm, ready to press his point again. “You cannot seriously intend to marry that chit, brother. It would be like legshackling yourself to a sheep.”
“Or a dishrag,” Douglas supplied.
“She’s not a dishrag,” Alastair said. “Miss Etchingham is just...a tad quiet for you, isn’t she?”
Malcolm glared at his turncoat brother. Alastair usually sided with him, not the twins. “Why should I not marry a quiet woman? It would be a welcome relief from hearing the lot of you criticize me at every turn.”
“Douglas and I are usually silent in our criticisms,” Duncan said. He emphasized it with another gesture to Douglas that had them both laughing again.
Malcolm had had enough. “Miss Etchingham is a very nice young lady.”
“‘Young’ is charitable,” Douglas muttered.
“A very nice young lady,” Malcolm repeated, raising his voice. “She was no doubt tired from her journey. As for conversation, I can’t blame her for not wanting to talk to any of you.”
“Did she talk to you?” Alastair asked.
They all knew the answer to that. Malcolm had escorted her in to dinner, made sure she had the choicest morsels on her plate, led her into discussions of the weather, the society pages, and everything else he could think of — but to no avail. Her answers were monosyllabic. Her countenance was almost bored. She kept glancing down the table as though hoping for a rescue. He coaxed one or two giggles out of her, but nothing that could be deemed joy.
He never failed to engage a lady in conversation. Even her mother, Lady Harcastle, who looked to be every bit the sour bitch his friend Ferguson had warned him about, had warmed to him.
Malcolm rolled his tumbler between his fingers. “You know why I have to marry. If I am to achieve enough influence in the House of Lords to save our clan’s livelihood, I need a hostess who can give the right sort of parties. Ferguson has vouched for her. He claims she can speak quite nicely. She has never caused a scandal. And she needs a husband.”
Alastair sipped his whisky. “Ferguson has only known her a few months. And why do you trust Ferguson’s judgment on society issues?”
Ferguson was Malcolm’s closest friend, but had left Scotland after unexpectedly becoming the Duke of Rothwell several months earlier. He was now married to Lady Amelia’s cousin Madeleine, which was how he knew both Amelia and Miss Etchingham. When Malcolm had decided to find a suitable wife quickly so that the wedding plans didn’t take valuable time away from his political aspirations, Ferguson was perfectly placed to recommend a possible bride.
“Ferguson understands society,” Malcolm said. “He just doesn’t care for it.”
“But if you want a hostess, shouldn’t you look for someone who can, say, host? And talk to people?” Alastair asked.
Douglas looked up from his silent side conversation with Duncan. “What about the blonde girl? She was quite talkative, if you didn’t notice in your efforts to sustain speech on your side of the table.”
The blonde girl. Such simple words for such a beautiful woman. When he had first seen her in the drawing room, it was all he could do to keep his attention focused on the woman he was supposed to marry. Amelia Staunton was lovely — taller than his would-be bride, with humor and intelligence shimmering in her sapphire eyes. She was also loyal, if her attempt to prop up her friend was any indication.
But she was not for him. “Ferguson said he doesn’t know anything about her past, other than that many men have tried to win her and failed. He said Prudence is the safer bet. If one of you wants to tie yourself to Lady Amelia, you’re welcome to. At least she would take you out of my hair.”
“She would be better than India,” Duncan mused.
Alastair eyed him as the twins returned to their conversation. “Lady Amelia does not seem unsuitable. She was all that was charming and witty at dinner.”
Malcolm hadn’t heard any of it. The formal dining table was simply too big, particularly when his mother seated him and Prudence slightly away from the rest of the guests to give them a chance to talk. But Amelia’s low, seductive laugh had cut through him during the awkward silences with Prudence. He would have happily traded places with any of his brothers if it had put him within range of her words.
“If Miss Etchingham does not wish to continue our acquaintance,” he started to say. Then he caught himself. “Miss Etchingham, given enough time, is far more suited for my needs. I want someone who is utterly beyond reproach, who will not bring any embarrassment or scandal, who will serve as my hostess and give me heirs. Her lineage is impeccable, and her financial position poor enough that she will be grateful for what I can give her. I am confident that we can manage each other quite tolerably. Lady Amelia can go to the devil.”
Alastair stared at him, his jaw uncharacteristically slack. “So you do want a dishrag — a dishrag who is grateful for you.”
Malcolm threw back the dregs of his second whisky. He thought about pouring a third, but it would only increase the censure in his saintly brother’s eyes. “What else would you have me do, Alastair? I am destined to marry for duty, not love. It’s the way of the world. And Miss Etchingham is good enough.”
“There are surely other women better suited to this duty than Miss Etchingham.”
“Perhaps. But I cannot spend months or years chasing after silly misses on the marriage mart. I must take up my seat in the Lords in November, and I’ll have this marriage business done before then.”
“I don’t think such haste...” Alastair said.
Malcolm cut him off. “I want to be noticed for my speeches, not my search for a bride. Why not marry the first woman who fits my requirements? Really, you should thank me for it — the faster I gather influence, the sooner I may put a stop to the landlords who are evicting their Scottish tenants to make way for sheep.”
Alastair shook his head. “Do you only see marriage as a duty? If I have learned anything from the church, it is that duty does not have to be joyless.”
“I don’t think that,” Malcolm protested.
“When was the last time you went to Edinburgh for pleasure?” Alastair asked.
“Or gotten properly foxed?” Douglas interjected. “And this drink doesn’t count — I mean well and truly soused, in the pub instead of a
lone in your study?”
“Or taken a mistress?” Duncan asked. “A female mistress, not an estate ledger.”
They all knew the answers. He’d devoted himself to entertainments like those when he was younger, not seeking marriage because there would be time enough for duty when he inherited. But he hadn’t done anything but estate business since his father’s wake.
Malcolm scowled at them. “You can do as you please. But I won’t have our clan forced to emigrate to America while I pursue some mindless pleasures.”
He was overstating it. The look Alastair threw him said they all knew it. No one could evict the MacCabes except Malcolm himself. But his tenants were starting to trickle away on their own, driven by economic policies that ruined the small crofters’ livelihoods.
And if none of the other Scottish landlords would stand for their tenants, Malcolm would try to stand for all of them.
Alastair rose, leaving his unfinished whisky on the table beside him. Duncan beat Douglas to the abandoned glass, draining it with a careless laugh. Alastair sighed, then looked back at Malcolm. “I will marry you to whomever you choose. But at least take care to make it a choice, and not just a business transaction.”
He left after that pronouncement, taking his cursed wisdom with him. Malcolm didn’t want to hear it. He didn’t want to hear it from the twins, either. He left them to the decanter and slipped out onto the terrace. In the dark, in the chill of early autumn, he could be alone with his thoughts.
And if his duty felt distinctly joyless in that moment, he ignored it.
CHAPTER THREE
The gentlemen never joined the women in the drawing room after dinner. Alex had stuck his head in to say that the other men were adjourning to Malcolm’s study, and that for his part he was off to bed.
“I must apologize for my sons,” Lady Carnach said for the third time in an hour as she and the other mothers looked over their cards. “We do not entertain guests often enough for them to remember their manners.”
One would have to be a complete boor to fail to join the ladies after dinner, but Amelia didn’t interrupt the older women from the corner where she and Prudence sat embroidering. Dinner, after all, had not gone well. Who could blame the men for avoiding more of the same?
“It’s no matter, Louisa,” Lady Harcastle said, smiling tightly. “Prudence will still be here in the morning.”
Prudence scowled and jabbed her needle into her linen.
“I do hope so,” Malcolm’s mother replied, although Amelia detected doubt in the soft cadence of her voice.
“You know how it is with young people,” Lady Harcastle continued. “They sometimes need a few days to remember their duty, but they do in the end. We all went through the same experience during our debuts, if I recall.”
Amelia’s ears perked up at that, but she didn’t say anything. She’d sat on the edge of her mother’s conversations with Lady Harcastle for over twenty years, and knew that showing interest in the older ladies’ gossip was the quickest way to end it.
“You may have doubted, but I didn’t,” her mother said, tossing a card to the table. She, Lady Harcastle, and Lady Carnach were playing whist, with a dummy hand to make up for the lack of a fourth player, and the ratafia flowed freely now that the men would not be joining them. Prudence and Amelia sat nearer to the fire, which made Amelia feel somewhat overwarm even though the extra light was welcome.
She forced herself to believe that the flush on her face was caused by the fire. It couldn’t be related to the strange fluttering she’d felt since dinner, when she looked up occasionally and caught Lord Carnach watching her over his wineglass. It was travel fatigue, or indigestion, or perhaps typhus.
Yes, typhus. Better to believe she was dying than that she’d inadvertently solicited the interest of the man her friend needed to marry.
Lady Harcastle frowned at her hand. “Just because you made a love match doesn’t mean you can still lord it over us, Augusta. And with an earl to boot — how unfair.”
Her usual venom seeped into her voice. There had been a time, years earlier, when Lady Harcastle was quite charming. But she’d grown more difficult in recent years, and Amelia didn’t understand why her mother still tolerated the connection.
Augusta took a long draught of ratafia, then sighed. “The fun of lording it over you was lost when Edward died.”
Amelia’s father had been dead a decade, but her mother’s voice was still pained. Amelia looked down at her stitches. They were uneven, but she couldn’t pick them out again; the linen was more hole than cloth. She stabbed at the fabric and wished she could steal some ratafia without her mother noticing. Really, it was no wonder Prudence wanted to escape Lady Harcastle — the woman was the worst.
“I am sorry, dear,” Lady Harcastle said. Guilt replaced the venom, as though she had been sleepwalking through their earlier conversation and had just awoken to the reality of what she’d said.
Amelia’s mother waved her glass. “It’s been years. And for all that I loved him, I would rather have lost him than my sons. I don’t know how you’ve survived it, Mary.”
The silence grew, became absolute. Amelia looked up and saw her mother flush. Augusta was often blunt, but perhaps it was the ratafia that had added an edge to her voice. Augusta reached out a hand toward Lady Harcastle, but the other woman evaded her touch.
“I haven’t survived,” Lady Harcastle said, in a voice turned raspy with buried emotion. “If only Prudence...”
She broke off, looking over at her daughter. Prudence stood abruptly and thrust her embroidery into her workbag with all the fire she hadn’t displayed for Carnach at dinner. “If you will excuse me, Mother, I have the headache.”
Lady Harcastle nodded, covering her eyes with her cards. Amelia followed her friend from the drawing room, not waiting for permission. Amelia was only a few steps behind, but by the time she touched Prudence’s shoulder, she knew the woman was already in tears.
She didn’t say anything, just pulled out her handkerchief and wrapped her arms around Prudence. She was half a head taller, and she felt Prudence’s tears on her shoulder as she glanced down the hall. There was no one about to find them, although she suspected the mothers would hear Prudence if she became much louder.
She patted Prudence on the back, waiting for her to calm down. When her sobs subsided into sniffles, Amelia squeezed her gently. “Is this about your brothers, or something else?”
Prudence stepped back, wiping her cheeks with Amelia’s handkerchief. “Both — or neither. I don’t know, Mellie. It’s been almost three years since they all...”
She still couldn’t say the words. Prudence’s father never should have let both sons buy commissions, not when the estate was entailed, but he wasn’t stern enough to turn them down. When they died together, fighting under Wellington at Talavera, the news had caused Lord Harcastle to have an attack from which he’d never recovered.
Three years later, Prudence was no longer in mourning, but only at her mother’s insistence. She was the only one left. And with the estate passing to a distant cousin, marriage had moved from a priority to a necessity.
Amelia held her hand and tried to reassure her. “If you want to marry Lord Carnach, I will support you.”
She didn’t like it, but she would. Prudence shook her head. “I don’t want to marry Lord Carnach — at least, not really. Can you picture me as a political hostess?”
“No,” Amelia said. “But are you sure? You were eager this afternoon.”
Prudence sniffled again. “I was eager to escape London and settle this marriage business. But I had nothing to say to him. And I know he looks better than I had any right to expect. But I didn’t feel the slightest desire to kiss him. All I could think of at dinner was how I would have to someday — and how I would rather run away to Egypt than do that.”
“You’d rather run away to Egypt than do anything,” Amelia pointed out.
“True. But the more I thought of living here
, of giving up...everything in London, the more I panicked. It was awful.”
“It was awful,” Amelia agreed.
Prudence smiled just a little. “That is not very supportive.”
“You said it first. But perhaps if your mother wasn’t there reminding you of how all her hopes rest on you, you could relax long enough to talk to him.”
“What can I do about that? Ask her to leave? If it were as simple as that, I wouldn’t be considering Carnach’s proposal.”
“No. But you need to spend some time alone with Carnach — or, at least, without your mother.”
“There’s no hope for it,” Prudence said. She tried to return Amelia’s handkerchief, but Amelia looked at the damp fabric and let her keep it. “Carnach and I would not suit each other. I thought I was ready and that the time had come to abandon my silly fantasies. But perhaps not.”
Prudence sucked in a breath, choking back another sob. Amelia patted her shoulder, waiting. When Prudence spoke again, there was an edge of resentment to her voice. “It’s so unfair, isn’t it? That my mother would rather sell me to Carnach than let me find my own way?”
Amelia would have used a stronger word than unfair. “It’s not your fault that you’re all she has. And surely there’s someone better suited for you than Carnach.”
“I used to think that,” Prudence said. “But if there is a man who is meant for me, I cannot keep waiting for him to realize it.”
“Still, you shouldn’t agree to be Carnach’s hostess just because you need the funds. The man seems to be looking for a broodmare, not a companion.”
Prudence giggled a little through her tears. “He did not impress you, did he?”
Carnach had impressed her — too much.
“The earl is better suited to be a villain than a hero,” Amelia declared.
“Does he still have lemon cakes, though?”
