Scotsman of My Dreams

by Karen Ranney

  He needed to become accustomed to this new way of life, this monastic existence. He didn’t fool himself by thinking he offered anything to the opposite sex at the moment. Of course, there was the money. His family was wealthy, and according to his solicitor, under Arthur’s able handling the estate had only grown in size.

  Perhaps he should send out a notice that he was in the market for a female companion, one whose greed would have her overlook his damaged face and blindness.

  He hadn’t yet descended to that state. His pride dictated that he remain alone for the time being. Besides, as long as Lewis was alive and well, he saw no need to marry. He had his heir.

  Who the hell cared if he remained a bachelor?

  The idea of a wife, especially one who was solicitous, charming, and eternally underfoot, was hideous. He could barely tolerate his own pity, let alone that rendered by someone else.

  Dalton placed his hands on the ends of the chair arms, feeling the edge of the upholstery and the piping there. He wondered what color the piping was and knew that before America he wouldn’t have even noticed it.

  Some poor benighted fool had told him that his other senses would be heightened because of the loss of his sight. On hearing that, he’d remained silent, finding a curious power in remaining mute. ­People couldn’t argue with him if they didn’t know what he thought. Nor could they seize on a certain sentence or a comment and recall it to death.

  No, silence was the best recourse. Somehow, though, he had to find a way to endure these nights. He would bring the decanter of whiskey into his bedroom from now on.

  He eased back against the chair, digging the balls of his feet into the carpet. The potpourri Mrs. Thompson distributed throughout the house was even more pungent here. Something citrusy with hints of flowers. She was not unlike his mother in her love of growing things, perfuming things, or in finding things about which to be joyous each and every day.

  He should send her to Gledfield, like Samuels. The fewer servants around, the better. The fewer ­people to meet in the hall and have to greet. The fewer with which to pretend that all was well, that life was worth living, and weren’t they all fortunate?

  Bollocks.

  He didn’t hear any carriages, although they weren’t forbidden in Tarkington Square after midnight. God knows he and his friends had made a racket often enough returning to his home. But it seemed as if he were the only rake living here. The others went to bed with the sun and no doubt rose with dawn, farmers in their blood.

  A good thing he didn’t need a light. Otherwise he might give the other residents something about which to be curious. What on earth was the Earl of Rathsmere doing up at this hour? Did his conscience bother him?

  The silence was absolute, deep enough that he could hear the pounding of his heart. He was, despite his blindness, healthy and would no doubt live to an old age. Perhaps he would be known as the curmudgeonly earl.

  Oh, him. He was a rake when he was younger. Cut a wide swath through London society. Was even reprimanded by the Queen. Then he went off to war. It’s said it changed him. At least he needn’t stand on a street corner with an outstretched cup. No, the MacIain wealth shelters that blind beggar.

  He might unbend to be a doting uncle to Lewis’s children when he had them. A little niece might clamber up onto his lap, requesting a horsey ride. A nephew might whisper questions about the war.

  Did you kill anyone, Uncle Dalton?

  What would he say to his imaginary nephew, born only in his imagination?

  Would the child understand? Probably not, any more than anyone else.

  Yes, but the whole experience was anticlimactic, he might say. I was surprised there weren’t angels singing and trumpets bellowing. Just a look of surprise as a cloud of red bloomed on the man’s chest. His legs crumpled beneath him and he rested on the cold ground, his eyes staring sightlessly at a gray sky.

  No, that wasn’t a tale he would tell any child. Or anyone else, for that matter. He would leave his confusion about war and death unvoiced.

  A sound made him turn, staring at the door that led to the hall. Was one of the servants awake? Had he somehow alerted them to his sleeplessness? Was someone going to knock on his door and be solicitous?

  No one in all of London had a more eager-­to-­please staff than he, and no one wanted it less.

  He should banish them all to Gledfield and live here alone. That was an amusing idea, since he had no idea how to feed himself or even deal with the stove. Perhaps he could subsist on vegetables from the market, brought to him by some charitable soul and left on his doorstep each morning. Dammit all, he really liked beef from time to time. Or Cook’s fish stew. No, perhaps he wouldn’t banish Cook to Gledfield.

  Maybe he should make the hallway outside his suite off limits. No one was to come and be kind. Only once a week, when he was in his library, could they enter to straighten up the room and change the sheets. But no trays and no midnight knocking on his door.

  Leave him alone, dammit.

  He wanted the whiskey even more now.

  “I DON’T think this is wise, Minerva.”

  She didn’t bother to look at Hugh. He’d said the same thing at least five times since they left the carriage behind the earl’s town house.

  “Perhaps you can visit your solicitor,” he said. “Apply to him. Perhaps the man has some ability to make the earl listen.”

  She truly detested when someone suggested a man might be able to handle a situation better than she could. Granted, there were times when she needed a man’s help. Although she was strong, for example, Hugh was stronger. But to imply that a man might have more persuasive powers—­especially when right was on her side—­was the most insulting thing Hugh could have said.

  Therefore, when he reached out and grabbed her shoulder, she shook him off and strode on ahead.

  If she hadn’t been able to get past the Earl of Rathsmere’s secretary, she was simply going to circumvent the man. If that required doing something shocking, she would do it.

  If Hugh didn’t want to participate, that was fine with her. She would prefer it, in fact.

  She wasn’t given to breaking the law. Perhaps there were times when she bent it a little. As for society’s edicts, she didn’t give a barleycorn for them.

  Society said she should wear a cumbersome hoop and lace herself to within an inch of her life, thereby ensuring she could barely breathe. Clothes, according to society, were not for the purpose of shielding her nakedness, but to render her miserable.

  Nor was she, according to society, to say anything remotely intelligent. She wasn’t to venture her opinion, most especially in a group of men. She was to be demure and defer to their greater experience and wisdom.

  What balderdash.

  The earl’s town house was on the end, at the south side of Tarkington Square. She squeezed between a line of healthy looking hedges and the wall, grateful that she’d worn her split skirt. The outfit was eminently practical, especially on an expedition. One had to look closely to ascertain that the garment was nothing more than a full set of trousers. However, the skirt was shocking enough that she normally didn’t wear it in London. She eschewed society and most of its rules, but she wasn’t altogether comfortable with the disapproving looks from the women who were her neighbors.

  Although she and Hugh had left her home after midnight, it was entirely possible that one of the three Covington sisters had been awake and peering intently from a window for just such an occasion as this.

  “Please,” Hugh said, adding a comment in Italian.

  Hugh came from Cornwall, but he had an uncanny ability to sound Italian or French or the inhabitant of any country whose males were great lovers. He’d often teased her with romantic phrases. At one time, she’d been delighted. Now it was only annoying.

  She turned and frowned at him in the darkness.
r />   “You know I’ve asked you to stop saying such things,” she said.

  “It’s the only way you listen to me.”

  There was a kernel of truth in that comment, enough that she didn’t offer a rebuttal.

  “Do you think we can gain access through this window?” she asked, making her way to two very tall windows spaced six feet apart.

  Because of the bushes, she didn’t think they could be seen. The streetlamps were dim, indicating their globes needed to be cleaned. In her own square, the Covington sisters ensured the watchman cleaned the lamps once a month.

  “I don’t think we should gain access at all,” Hugh said. “Send him another letter.”

  “I’ve wasted months sending him letters. I doubt he’s even opened them, let alone read them.”

  “There has to be a better way than waking the man, Minerva.”

  Was Hugh now the voice of her conscience? She truly didn’t need him to be. Gaining admittance to the Earl of Rathsmere’s home was a small act in light of his greater sin.

  The man had lost her brother.

  All she was going to do was find his bedchamber and talk to him. In the middle of the night, surprised out of slumber, he would certainly tell her the truth.

  Whether he wished to do so or not.

  Chapter 5

  Standing, Dalton made his way to the door of his sitting room. He’d had time, since returning home in May, to reacquaint himself with the furniture in the room. The maids were under strict orders not to rearrange anything. If an ottoman was moved to brush the carpet beneath, it must be returned to its exact position. Otherwise he would go flying over it as he walked from one side of the room to the other.

  He opened the door, stood listening as he tightened the belt of his robe. He had no idea the color of the garment, so he imagined it burgundy with black lapels and a black belt. It could be pink or chartreuse for all he knew.

  Perhaps he should hire a valet, but the idea of having to be dressed or even asking advice was so repugnant that he hadn’t yet.

  He could just imagine their conversation every morning.

  Are you certain this is brown? Or is it blue?

  Brown as a horse’s droppings, sir.

  That’s why he’d ordered only white shirts and black suits. Otherwise he would probably wander through his home dressed in a mishmash of colors and patterns. None of his very kind servants would ever indicate that he clashed, however. But he paid them very well, enough to be loyally silent before he’d left for America, and they were doing the same now.

  Life, in those days, had been one enjoyable interlude after another. Was he desirous of bed sport? There was the Countess of this or the Duchess of that or the daughter of a merchant who’d made her way in society by dint of her talented tongue. There was Amanda and Jane and Mary, and not to forget Diane or Alice, all girls in the marriage mart who were willing to do almost anything to snare a husband, even a rich rake.

  His father had once been a younger son and was determined to treat his three boys more equitably. Although Arthur had always been reared to understand that he would be earl, responsible for all the duties inheriting the title required, both Dalton and Lewis were gifted with an enormous sum when each turned twenty-­one.

  Dalton had taken his father’s advice and employed a banker with extensive financial acumen to manage his money. Therefore, his individual wealth was increasing each year. He would never need to go to Arthur for additional funds. He’d even been incredibly lucky in his wagers. His horses had won most of their races. He found cards boring and rarely played, but when he did he was fortunate there, too.

  His luck had run out in America.

  He stepped out into the hallway, a small smile pasted on his face in case he encountered a servant.

  Thankfully, no one was there.

  He counted the steps from his door to the end of the hall. Fear surrounded him like a cloud as he approached the head of the stairs. He felt the hollow space around him, stretched out his hand and gripped the banister. He slid his right foot forward, grateful that he hadn’t put on slippers. His toes felt the edge of the step and he took the first one, then the second. The painful tightening around his chest eased, the more steps he took. Descending was much harder than climbing up the steps.

  He hesitated at the bottom of the stairs, then pushed off, crossing the foyer. At the end of seventeen steps he came to a wall. If he turned right and went ten more steps, he would hit the front door. If he turned slightly left, he would enter the hall that led to his library.

  Once past the cold marble flooring, he turned left and pressed his fingers against the wall, feeling the rail and below to the wainscoting. Above it was a very pleasant blue-­and-­white-­pattern wallpaper. His mother had chosen it. In addition to supervising his garden, she’d overseen the redecoration of the house when he first purchased it.

  Alexandra MacIain had been a generous and loving soul. He could still hear her laughter echoing throughout the house.

  “Dalton, my love, you simply must choose the fixtures you prefer. If I chose them, the house would reflect my taste, but it’s your home, not mine.”

  He remembered her comment whenever he went to Gledfield. The great house was hundreds of years old, but his mother had managed to put her stamp on it.

  He’d only been there twice since her death, finding it difficult to believe that she wouldn’t suddenly appear, grab his shoulders, and pull him down for a kiss.

  “You can’t be growing more, surely, my darling child. I must be shrinking.”

  To his eyes she was eternally beautiful, her blond hair always kept in an upswing style. She liked long dangling earrings and she never left her bedroom unless fully dressed, down to her ear bobs.

  He knew she was dying the day he was summoned to Gledfield and entered his mother’s bedroom to find her in bed, no jewelry in sight. Her hair had been brushed until it shone, spread on the pillow in a cloud of pale yellow. Curiously, her face was not as lined as other women of her age. Only her eyes betrayed her wisdom and the sure and certain awareness of that moment.

  Words had stuck in his throat. Grief had been given talons and was clawing at his flesh. He found it impossible to swallow. Slowly, he walked to her bedside, sank down to his knees on the floor like he was eight years old, frightened of a storm or nightmare and seeking her out.

  He held her frail hand between both his hands and forced himself to look into her eyes. With all his soul he’d repudiated what he saw there.

  Her time was done. She wanted to leave him, and he didn’t want her to go.

  He had lowered his head, his forehead touching the mattress. He supposed he prayed, but it wasn’t a normal prayer. Not a solicitation to the Almighty, but an oath, a curse, an imprecation to spare her despite her wishes.

  With the hindsight of several years, he wished he hadn’t been so selfish that day. He should have sat at her side, holding her hand and telling her he understood. In some way, he should have eased her passing. Instead, it was up to Arthur to be the man of the family, despite the fact they were only a year apart.

  They’d all congregated outside her bedroom door, and in the morning their vigil was over. She’d smiled at them the night before, patted his cheek, and then never woke up.

  She, more than his father, had been his lodestone. When he was a boy, he wanted to please her the most, knowing that his father’s praise was always egalitarian. Arthur might have been the heir but wasn’t singled out above Lewis or himself. But his mother’s approbation was always accompanied by a smile, a soft laugh, and a gleam in her eyes that made him certain she truly thought he was special.

  What would she have said to his adventure in America? Would she have castigated him for even wishing to go? It had been a fool’s journey, hadn’t it? He had been repaid a dozen times over for his stupidity.

  He heard another
noise. Had he summoned up ghosts? Here, Arthur had only been a visitor. Here, his mother had flitted it in and out, rarely remaining more than a few hours. He purchased the house after his father’s death, so it came with no taint or tinge of Harland MacIain.

  Perhaps it should have. God knows, his father’s shade would have acted as a calming influence. Perhaps the ghost of the fifth Earl of Rathsmere could have curbed some of his more licentious impulses.

  He could just imagine some of his conquests encountering his father in the hall.

  Until he returned from America, he’d thought that society held no surprises for him. He’d been startled to discover that wasn’t entirely true. Instead of being besieged by visitors who’d learned of his return to London, not one person had come to his home.

  He opened the door to his library, entered the room, and shut the door softly behind him. He would probably never become accustomed to the thought that he should light a lamp, before remembering it wasn’t necessary.

  Stepping a few feet away from the door, he folded his arms, staring into the darkness as if to will it to part, revealing a room shrouded in shadows and only faintly illuminated by the moon.

  He didn’t even know if the moon was full. Nor did he know if it was truly night. His only clue was the absence of sound and activity. The world was hunkered down to sleep, and he felt like the only solitary soul awake.

  Stretching out one hand, he walked toward where he thought the sideboard was located. He hated the feeling of disorientation, but he would probably have to get used to it, just like all the other things accompanying blindness. Being unable to tell how large a room was, if he was alone or not. Being unable to gauge the distance to his mouth with a soup spoon or fork. He was not only annoyed at being a blind toddler, he was enraged.

  He was, though, becoming adept at pouring whiskey into a glass without spilling it all over the surface of the sideboard. That little trick was accomplished by sticking his finger in the tumbler. When his second knuckle was wet, he had poured enough.

  A sound made him hesitate.