The Husband Hunt

by Jillian Hunter

  "Can you do something in two weeks or so?" Olivia asked. "An evening dress, at least. I want to introduce her to the local gentry. I have someone special in mind for her to meet."

  "Meet for what?" Claudette said absently, narrowing her eyes to picture her client in French gauze that would wrap around those curves like a dream.

  "To marry, of course," Arabella snapped. "Why else would we go to all this trouble?"

  Claudette's eyes widened. Was the young woman enceinte? Had that devil Knight impregnated her, and was he hoping now to marry her off to some unsuspecting fool before his seed started to show? She frowned. Oh, men. She would have to allow for an expanding waistline in planning a wardrobe.

  "I suppose lilac gauze would be best," Olivia said.

  Claudette shook her head. "Sea-green, I'm thinking, shot with gold thread to rival those eyes. And we want to expose as much bosom as we can." She eyed Catriona closely. "Well, at least the illusion of a bosom."

  ******************

  Knight needed to escape from the house before his attraction to Catriona deepened into something far more dangerous. He couldn't concentrate on balancing accounts and choosing designs with her picking flowers outside his window or sneaking past his desk to steal another book from the shelf. And he couldn't bring himself to participate with any degree of enthusiasm in her hunt for a suitable husband when the sight of her brought too many unsuitable things to his mind. He was positive there wasn't a man in the whole of West Briarcombe he could approve to court her.

  Still, what a wife she would make, warm, supportive, with a mind of her own and a body to haunt a man's dreams. He had known the moment he met her that she was trouble, but with his blinding arrogance, he had never believed himself vulnerable to her appeal. He couldn't guess who would possess the strength, energy, and good fortune to marry her. If he were—he blocked the tantalizing thought before it could take root.

  He tried to bury himself in business affairs. He intended to invest himself, both energy and wealth, in the local pottery firm. He liked the fact that he could visit it at will; he liked the idea of speculating in a product he could actually hold in his hands. Creating art seemed like the perfect antidote to the destructions of war he had witnessed. Crude earthenware could be dipped in pale clay to conceal the dark flaws beneath. Or it could be decorated by sgraffito to enhance its appeal, remarked to fit a standard form of beauty. A piece of clay could be molded to one's ideals, unlike a human being. Unlike Catriona Grant, whose character had been shaped by mysterious forces indeed.

  A knock distracted him. "There is someone who wishes to see you, my lord," Howard said from the doorway.

  Knight glanced up. He wondered if the visitor might be Simmons, two days early, and he was sorry now he'd sent the man on a fool's errand because he needed him to go to Bristol on business. He couldn't imagine that Catriona harbored any darker secrets in her past than her illegitimacy, and Olivia was right. Her background didn't matter, anyway. She was Lionel's cousin, and having accepted her into the family, Knight would stand beside her no matter what she had been or done. To hell with what anyone thought.

  "It's not Simmons?" he said.

  "Oh, no, my lord," Howard said. "I know Simmons. It's the old jeweler from Clover Hill."

  "Jeweler? Did I send for a jeweler?"

  "I dunno, my lord. But he's brought more pearls with 'im than a bleedin' oyster bed."

  "What do I want with—" Knight turned, his nostrils narrowing in distaste. "What is that unpleasant odor?"

  "Vetiver, my lord. I bought some at market last month and thought I'd give it a try. To please the ladies, you know."

  Knight raised his eyebrow. "No, actually, I don't, but I will pass along a bit of advice on the subject. Unless you wish these particular 'ladies' to pass out in droves at your feet, you will not drown yourself in scent. You have enough on to boil an ox."

  "Shall I call Lady Deering down to see the jeweler, my lord?"

  "Lady Deering? He asked for my sister?"

  Howard scratched his head. "He asked for her first, then he asked for you as you would be the one paying the bill. I took it upon myself to escort him to the entrance lobby."

  "I shall take care of this," Knight said in exasperation, rising from his desk. "Where is she, anyway?"

  "Upstairs, with that saucy little French—" Howard flattened himself against the door to allow his lordship passage. "Do you require my assistance, my lord?"

  "No point in stinking up the entire house, Howard," Knight retorted. "Go to the kitchen and have a good wash."

  The jeweler caught sight of Knight in the hall as he attempted to make a covert dash for the stairs. "Ah, Lord Rutleigh. I've done the very best I could on such short notice, bearing in mind your message that expense was no object—"

  "I said that, did I?" Knight said grimly, taking the stairs two at a time. "Olivia!" he bellowed.

  He heard female voices coming from the bedchamber, chattering, scolding, a curse here and there. Olivia had never demonstrated a sense of economy, not once in her life. If he didn't curb her extravagance, this simple country party would impoverish the both of them.

  "Olivia." He opened the door without knocking. "I would like a word—"

  The four women appeared to be too engrossed in some wardrobe witchery even to notice him. In fact, he hadn't put two and two together himself when that rather bold-eyed seamstress had appeared at the house early that morning. More money, he thought. And now a jeweler. Good heavens.

  He stared into the room. More money spent to dress Catriona so that some clumsy-fingered fool like Anton could undress her on their wedding night and deflower her, so another man could kiss her and take pleasure in her unspoiled spirit. His eyes darkened in displeasure at the prospect.

  "Olivia."

  His voice cut into the feminine conversation like a saber. Olivia and Claudette, kneeling on the floor, glanced up at him with quick looks of resentment for invading their territory. Arabella, on the bed, looked away in embarrassment, a blush stealing across her cheeks.

  The object of all their attention stood in the middle of the floor, draped in a scandalously immodest shell-pink sheath. She looked like a statue, a very unhappy statue, of some legendary maiden turned to stone by a vengeful goddess.

  The deepest of Knight's instincts urged him to bring the young lady back to life in the most basic of ways.

  He frowned at her reflection in the mirror, his gaze wandering up and down her willowy form. He could see her soft breasts straining against the silk, the dusky outline of her nipples, the hollow of her belly . . . and one naked foot tapping a hole into the floor.

  "Well, Knight," Olivia said, putting down a tape measure. "Is there a fire in the house that you have interrupted us in such a manner?"

  Finding Catriona in that revealing thing had made his mind unravel. He was perfectly aware that women dressed provocatively in public, but not one he was supposed to be watching over—what had he wanted, anyway?

  "I do not think that Lionel would like his cousin wearing that to a dance," he said after a long hesitation. "Nor do I wish to be fending off improper advances on her behalf all evening."

  "Did you come all the way upstairs to deliver that commentary, or was there another purpose?" Olivia asked, frowning in exasperation.

  "I happen to think that her dress is a little indelicate for a country dance," he said forcefully, afraid that he had not made his point.

  "It's a chemise and an underskirt!" the four women shouted at him in unison.

  "As if he didn't know," Arabella said amusedly under her breath. "As if he had not removed his share of them in his day."

  "Of course I knew," he said, giving a cough. "Just make sure she wears something over them to the dance."

  "Exactly what is it that you wanted?" Catriona asked.

  "I—oh, yes. The jeweler waiting downstairs. What am I to do with him?"

  "I'll take care of this," Arabella said with a sigh.

 
Olivia frowned. "Why are you being so helpful all of a sudden, Arabella? Why are you even here?"

  Arabella whispered, "Isn't it obvious? I want to make amends for what I've done. I handled the situation rather badly, and I—I'm afraid Knight might end up hurting Anton."

  "What are you whispering about?" Knight demanded.

  "The jeweler," Olivia answered, giving Arabella a searching look. "Go ahead, then. Pick something suitable but in good taste."

  "Pick something that doesn't impoverish me," Knight said. "Olivia, that goes for you, too."

  Olivia pitched a pincushion in the direction of his head. He ducked, snickering behind the door, and heard Catriona release an unearthly shriek of protest.

  Claudette narrowed her eyes in annoyance. "Ooh! I've just stuck mademoiselle with a pin because of all this distraction."

  "Right in mademoiselle's rear, too," Catriona said indignantly.

  Knight couldn't help it. He popped his head around the door, his gaze going straight to her injured seat. Male animal that he was, he took a moment to admire the curvaceous rise of her rump before remembering himself.

  "He's laughing at me again," Catriona said, catching a glimpse of his grinning face in the mirror. "Make him go away."

  "Leave, Knight," Olivia said. "Or I shall be taking her uncle's dirk to you myself."

  "Ah, the infamous dirk," he said as she sprang up to close the door on his face. "Does it really exist?"

  He backed out into the hall, but as the door slammed, his grin began to fade. Wendell had been hounding him to go to Cornwall for a few weeks to consider purchasing more clay pits for another pottery firm. Knight had a few friends in Penzance, and he could easily divert himself for a week or two. Olivia seemed to be happily occupied for the time being.

  It had suddenly occurred to him that he might not enjoy watching the local gentry make utter fools of themselves over the newest morsel on the marriage mart.

  In fact, he did not think he could tolerate it.

  ******************

  Simmons arrived late that same night. Knight had managed to put the note the secretary had written him out of his mind until now. Everyone else had retired hours earlier, but he had stayed awake, staring through his study window at the woods. Not for a long time, not since the first months after returning from Albuera as he recovered from a bayonet injury to his shoulder, had he felt this sense of edginess in his own home. As if something were watching and waiting in the benign surroundings of his boyhood. The ladies of the manor were safely in their rooms, reading in bed, brushing their hair, doing the frivolous little things that females did before they could relax. He knew because he had checked—a ritual he had never indulged in until the recent rash of housebreakings had threatened the security of the sleepy village.

  He'd stood in the hall outside Catriona's room, listening to the faint sounds she made, paper rustling, sheets drawn back, a shoe dropped to the floor. He had considered knocking, propriety ignored, to remind her again that the miscreants in the neighborhood had not been caught. But it was only an excuse, he knew that. He stared at her door as if he could see her inside, safe in her bed while he waged a battle with himself that would terrify her if she knew how she tempted him, how deep his desire for her ran.

  Now he sat in his study, unable to work or read. When he heard a carriage on the road beyond the estate and heard footsteps in the drive, he was not alarmed. He was relieved.

  At last. Something tangible to break this strange pall of tension. A distraction that would prevent him from prowling like a wolf outside a young woman's door.

  "My lord," Simmons said as Knight brought him into the house. "I am glad to find you awake. By good luck, I met Lord Darnley at the Three Mermaids Inn. Recognizing me as your man, he allowed me to ride in his private coach almost to your door."

  "Sit down by the fire," Knight said. "Here. Have a brandy. You surely have not been to Scotland and back in this short time?"

  "Indeed not, my lord. However, after our talk, I was prompted by instinct to contact a former friend who had lived in the Border district where the Earl of Roxshire held his original seat. My friend knew enough of the young lady's history that I thought it imperative to contact you before I continued my investigation."

  "Is this friend reliable?"

  "I should think so. A retired vicar, an Oxford man, well traveled in his day."

  "And?"

  "She is the earl's daughter, my lord, but born out of wedlock."

  Knight put down his glass. "Yes. I know that."

  "Her mother was what the Scots call a green-woman. She lived with the girl on the moor until her premature death. Apparently, she drew her last breath under the illusion that Roxshire meant to marry her. As it happened, he had already died the year before."

  "And Catriona went to live with this rough-mannered old uncle she mentioned? Diarmid Grant?"

  "Five years later."

  He felt an unpleasant prickle at the back of his neck. "Who took care of Catriona until then?"

  "For three years or so, it seems that the child took care of herself," Simmons said. "She managed to deceive the few who cared to ask into believing that her mother was merely ill, bedridden, at the time. The girl left charms on the doorsteps at night and was repaid with food in the same manner when those charms worked. A minister of the kirk found her alone at her mother's grave one night and guessed the truth. It was he who told my friend of the girl's plight."

  "Child, you called her," Knight said, his face troubled, aspects of her personality falling into place. "How old was she?"

  "Nine when her mother died. Twelve, I suppose, when the minister took her briefly into his care."

  "How does a nine-year-old girl live alone, Simmons?" he asked in disbelief. "How could she survive?"

  "Countless children are homeless in this world," Simmons said. "It breaks the heart to see it happen."

  "It should not have happened," Knight said fiercely. "She is Lionel's cousin. Her father should have made provisions."

  "It appears he did for a time, but as is so often the case, when he married and his first legitimate child was born, a son, he lost interest. Then another son came along."

  "Her brother James," Knight said, frowning. "The one she defends. I suppose it is not an uncommon story."

  Simmons took a long sip of brandy. "I'm afraid there is more, which is why I was compelled to warn you about her, my lord."

  Knight smiled, surprised to find himself inclined to protect the woman he had hoped to unmask. "I know that her aunt stabbed her uncle. In the gullet, I believe."

  "And did you know that her uncle was a common farmer, a man who enhanced his livelihood by stealing cattle from his neighbors? His father was an ardent Jacobite rebel from the Highlands who was publicly executed for treason. The uncle inherited his rebel tendencies."

  "That is no stain on her soul."

  "Diarmid Grant was accused of murdering a man in cold blood. The girl was in the house at the time. For several years, she lived under his influence— she could hardly emerge from such an atmosphere unscathed."

  Was it only a week or so ago that Knight would have paid a fortune to unearth such damaging testimony against her? "She quotes Latin, Simmons. She has learned to read and write from someone. Was it from this minister you mentioned?"

  "I do not know. At some point, it is not clear when, there was another uncle who attempted to take her under his wing, some mysterious character who dabbled in the black arts. God only knows what would have become of her if the young earl had not gotten her into a boarding school and brought her to his castle for a proper upbringing."

  "James again, the—" Knight turned slowly as he noticed the other man's expression of alarm. Catriona stood in the doorway, wearing one of Olivia's old lace dressing robes that clung to the delicate lines of her body. She stared at him, her face so white and wounded that Knight rose unconsciously from his chair.

  "Thank you, Simmons," he said in a soft voice. "That wil
l be all."

  "Yes, my lord." The man rose to leave. "Shall I discuss the matter with Lady Deering?"

  "That will not be necessary." Knight's eyes never left Catriona's stricken face. "I will handle the matter."

  ******************

  "Come in," he said the moment Simmons had left the room. "Sit down beside me, Catriona."

  "I could leave the house now, before Olivia wakes up," she said awkwardly. "I could stay in the village until morning. I don't mind. I'll understand if you wish me gone. I never intended to bring you trouble."

  He was furious at himself that she had discovered what he'd done. "You will not leave this house. I thought I had made my feelings clear."

  "Aye." She took a breath, venturing into the room. "But that was before he came and told you."

  "It is impolite for a proper young lady to eavesdrop."

  Her gaze held his, brimming with the pain of betrayal. "I think that after what you just heard, we both know I will never be a proper lady. You can dress me in beautiful clothes. You can hammer social niceties into my head, but deep inside, where it counts, I am unacceptable."

  "Then it was all true?"

  She gave a vague shrug, suddenly looking older than before. "More or less. Will you thank Olivia for all—"

  "Sit in that chair," he growled, grasping her elbow to practically push her small form into it. "Did I not give you an order to stay here?"

  "Well, yes, but—"

  "Then obey it." He hesitated. God, she looked so fragile and—bloody self-assured. "Did your uncle really murder a man? The truth now, Catriona. I am on your side this time. Did he?"

  "No."

  "Good." He took a sip of brandy, but his relief was short-lived as she managed to shock him yet again.

  "He murdered three of them. Two before I was born."

  He almost choked. "And this did not seen barbaric to you?"

  "'Twas in self-defense," she said patiently. "Is there a difference between killing a man to protect yourself and a duel, then?"

  "A duel at least confers an illusion of civility," he said, taking the chair opposite hers. Nine years old. He couldn't stop thinking about it, shaken by the image of a younger Catriona struggling alone on the moor. Had she buried her mother's body by herself? She must have. God help her. That she managed any degree of gentility was a wonder, and he was suddenly, unexpectedly, grateful for this imperfect brother of hers who had rescued her from a fate Knight could not envision.