Lady Charlotte didn’t look convinced. “How can you be certain?”
“Because I know enough about my great-nephew to know he cannot refuse a challenge. And this gel, whoever she is, has challenged him.”
“And if he doesn’t?”
Her grace’s brows lowered. “He must. He is the earl. It is his responsibility to marry well and have an heir.”
MacDougal tried to keep his attention on his dusting, but it was difficult. Even though he understood the importance of a man of wealth and title marrying to carry on the family name, he almost felt sorry for Lord Sinclair.
“I do hope Lord Sinclair will be amenable.” Lady Charlotte’s tone said she thought he would be anything but.
“For the love of Zeus, Charlotte! What is all of this nay-saying?”
“I’m sorry,” Charlotte said. “I was just thinking that Lord Sinclair and Miss Balfour might hate each other and—”
“Lud, pray stop thinking, for it’s giving me a headache! I don’t care if Sin and Miss Balfour deal well with each other or not. All I want is to get my nephew to attend my ball. Once he’s here, hopefully one of the eligible chits I’ve invited will appeal to him and thus my sister’s problems will be solved.”
“Oh. I thought you meant to attempt a match between Miss Balfour and Lord Sinclair.”
“No, although if they ever chanced to meet under better circumstances, one never knows what might . . . ” Her grace’s gaze unfocused and once again she seemed to be staring at something no one else could see.
“Margaret?” Lady Charlotte asked.
“Yes, dear. I was just thinking. Perhaps I will amend my guest list for the house party a bit.”
“But why? You said you’d invited the liveliest young men and women you could think of.”
“So I did.” The duchess leaned back in her chair. “But we must do what we can.” Her gaze landed on MacDougal. “MacDougal, forget the demmed tea. Bring a decanter of port.”
“But yer grace, ’tis only eleven in the morning and the doctor says ye should not—”
“I know what Doctor MacCreedy says, but I need port. Lady Charlotte and I have some very important letters to write and a new guest list to draw up, and we’ll need inspiration.”
“Yes, we will.” Lady Charlotte smoothed a knot from a strand of yarn. “A lot of inspiration.”
MacDougal bowed and returned to the door, the pugs trotting behind him. He had to gently shove several of the more determined mutts out of the way before he could close the door.
In the vestibule, he shook his head. “She’ll ne’er quit scheming until they put her in the ground. And mayhap no’ even then.”
“I beg yer pardon, sir?” asked one of the footmen who’d sprung to attention when MacDougal had appeared. “Was her grace in a mood this morning?”
“Aye, a scheming one. God help those as come into her path, fer she willna show them any mercy.” Shaking his head, he left to fetch the port.
• • •
The sixth Earl of Sinclair glanced in the mirror and gave his cravat a few deft touches. After a silent study, he nodded. “That will do.”
His valet, a small man named Dunn with silver hair and a dapper air, gave a sigh of relief. Dunn never allowed anyone but himself to touch his lordship’s clothing, preferring to press and mend it himself. He was especially vigilant with his lordship’s boot blacking, using a special mixture known only to him that included such mystical ingredients as champagne and beeswax. Belowstairs, he was known in respectful tones as “Mr. Timothy Dunn, a true stickler for fashion.”
He placed upon the bed the two freshly starched cravats that he’d been holding at the ready and turned to regard the earl’s efforts. “A brilliant knot, my lord. The gentleman with whom you’ll be playing faro tonight will be blinded by your efforts.”
“I wilt beneath your approval,” Sin said drily.
“You’ve earned that approval, my lord,” Dunn said, not acknowledging Sin’s sarcasm. “That’s the most beautiful cravat knot you’ve accomplished yet. It’s a pity no one of worth will see it.”
“What’s wrong?” Sin asked, amused at his nattily dressed valet. “Is the company too low for you?”
Dunn sniffed.
Sin grinned. “There will be one or two people ‘of worth’ at Lord Dalton’s.” Especially fair Lady Jameston. Her husband was in London dealing with the weighty question of the Regency, as were many other lords. Their absences had opened many opportunities.
“My lord, pardon me for saying so, but I find both Lord Dalton and his company rather low.”
Sin shrugged. “He’s a bit common, but he welcomes any and all to his house. He’s a generous host.”
“Generous hosts do not try and strip all of the coins from their guests’ pockets at games of chance.”
Sin smiled in acknowledgment. He turned to the silver tray on the dresser and selected a cravat pin. As he did so, two letters that had been placed to one side fell to the floor.
Dunn instantly retrieved them. “I’m sorry, my lord, but I almost forgot to tell you; these came this afternoon while you were hunting. One is from Lady Ross, and the other from your great-aunt, the Duchess of Roxburghe.”
“Thank you.” Sin turned his attention to the placement of his cravat pin. “Put them on the dresser.”
“My lord, aren’t you going to read them?”
“Why? I already know what they say. Lady Ross wishes me to attend her in Edinburgh, as Lord Ross has been called out of the country on a diplomatic mission.”
“Ah. I take it that we’ve tired of Lady Ross.”
Sin shrugged. He and Sarah had enjoyed a mutually beneficial arrangement for the past two years, but lately she, and everything else about his life, seemed boring.
It was petty to be bored when one had so much, but he somehow couldn’t dislodge the feeling. Even being away from the bustle of Edinburgh for the last two weeks to enjoy some hunting and to view a prizefight had left him feeling listless. Sin raked a hand through his hair, ignoring the valet’s look of disapproval. Damn it, he had no right to feel anything other than pleased with life; he had so much—excellent brothers with whom he was close, a grandmother who, for all of her faults, had never ceased to offer her love and support, an estate that was more profitable every year, a time-honored title, manors filled with treasures of every conceivable kind, an assortment of friends and acquaintances, so many in fact that he was rarely alone—he had everything he could possibly want, and yet . . . and yet something was missing.
He met his gaze in the mirror. Something has always been missing. But what?
As usual, no answer came. He scowled at himself, unhappy with the maudlin turn of his thoughts. “Yes, Dunn, we’re tired of Lady Ross. Very tired.”
Nodding, Dunn placed the letter from Lady Ross upon the dresser, but held on to the other missive. “And your great-aunt? What do you suppose she wishes? Or should I ask?”
“What do you think?”
Dunn sighed. “She wishes for you to attend her ball and house party, fall in love with one of the hundred of young ladies she’s invited for that purpose—as she does every year—and get married.”
“So now you know why I’m not going to bother reading her missive.”
The valet pursed his lips. “The duchess has been quite kind to you, my lord.”
Sin didn’t answer.
“It wouldn’t hurt to at least read it.” Dunn paused. “Shall I do so while you’re getting ready?”
Sin met the valet’s gaze in the mirror. “If I say no, you’re going to continue to torment me about it, aren’t you?”
“Yes, my lord.”
“Then read the damn thing and be done with it.”
“Very good, my lord.” Dunn opened the letter. “Your great-aunt writes, ‘Sinclair, I hope this missive finds you—’ ”
“Dunn, I said that you could read the missive, not that you could read it aloud to me.”
The valet’s thi
n lips folded in disapproval. “Shall I at least summarize what the letter says?”
“Providing it doesn’t mention marriage or her confounded Winter Ball and house party, yes, although I’d be surprised if Aunt Margaret talks of anything else.”
The valet sighed and returned his attention to the missive, his lips moving silently a few moments. Finally he said, “The duchess is sorry that you didn’t accept her invitations, but she’s resigned herself to your stubborn refusal to enjoy civilized company.”
“Good for her. Of all my relatives, Aunt Margaret is the easiest to stomach.”
“She’s refreshingly honest.”
“Annoyingly so.”
“She says that it’s quite fine with her that you won’t be coming to her events, but not to expect to use her lands for hunting before you return to Edinburgh as you’d requested, for she’s had a change in her schedule and is planning some amusements for various goddaughters.”
“Goddaughters? I didn’t know she had any.”
“She must have quite a few, for she names seven and says they are the first batch she will be inviting to Floors Castle.”
“Batch? Bloody hell.”
“Just so, my lord.” Dunn tilted the letter toward the window to catch more light. “The duchess says she’s forced to entertain her goddaughters because of you.”
“What?”
“Yes. She says that as it seems unlikely that you will ever marry and produce an issue for her to dandle upon her knee, she will have to rely upon the kindness of her godchildren to do what her own blood family will not.”
“Dandle upon her knee? Does she really say that?”
“Yes, my lord. Dandle.”
“Ridiculous. What about my brothers? They’re both recently wed, thanks to her meddling, and either could be in the family way any day now.”
“It appears she’s forgotten your brothers, my lord.”
“That’s because she’s too busy trying to leg-shackle me to some empty-headed chit.”
“The duchess can be determined.”
“This time she’s bound to face disappointment. Let her invite her hundreds of goddaughters; I can always hunt at my brother’s new estate outside Stirling. Stormont’s asked me to visit for months now.” Sin picked up his coat and prepared to put it on.
“My lord!” Dunn dropped the letter upon the bed. “Please, allow me. You’ll crease it if you shrug into it.” He came to help Sin into his well-fitted coat.
After the coat had settled on Sin’s shoulders, Dunn took up a bristle brush to capture any infinitesimal bits of lint. With nothing to do, Sin absently looked down, his gaze drifting over his great-aunt’s letter. His eyes locked upon a name that was scrawled in the middle of a sentence, a name he’d thought to never see or hear again—Rose Balfour.
Instantly, his jaw clenched. “Damn it!”
Dunn turned a surprised gaze Sin’s way. “My lord? What’s wrong?”
Sin unclenched his hands and picked up the letter.
Since you will not oblige the family with an heir, I must assuage my desire to dandle children upon my knee by cultivating my godchildren. It pains me to take this step, but you’ve left me with no choice and your annual hunting party will have to be postponed. During that week, I plan on inviting my seven favorite goddaughters: Lady Margaret Stewart of Edinburgh, Miss Juliet MacLean of Mull, Miss Rose Balfour of Caith Manor in Aberdeenshire . . .
He turned to Dunn. “Pack our bags.”
The valet blinked. “Now?”
“Yes. We’re leaving immediately.”
“May I ask why?”
“No.”
“Then where?”
“To Floors Castle.”
“To visit the duchess? But you said you’d never attend her house party or ball.”
“I’ve changed my mind. I will attend them both if she’ll amend her invitation list.” Sin looked at the letter now partially crumpled in his hand.
Dunn looked even more bewildered. “My lord, I don’t understand.”
“You don’t need to understand. I’ll go down now and make my apologies to Lord Dalton. I’ll use Aunt Margaret’s letter as an excuse to tell him a family issue has arisen, and we’ll leave as soon as the phaeton is brought around.”
“Very well, my lord. I can have your portmanteaus and trunk ready within thirty minutes.”
“Good.” Sin tucked his aunt’s missive into his pocket and left, hurrying down the hallway. Blood thundered through his veins. Thanks to this new development, his earlier ennui was not only gone, but forgotten. Finally, after six years, I’ve found you. Rose Balfour, your day of reckoning is at hand.
Two
From the Diary of the Duchess of Roxburghe
It worked far better than I’d expected. Sin answered my letter in person and demanded that I invite Miss Balfour to my house party and Winter Ball.
Naturally, I protested that I didn’t know the gel well, and had just realized that she was one of my goddaughters. I pointed out that she might not be presentable and oh, a thousand other quibbles and qualms, but he would have none of it. “Invite her,” he demanded. “Today.”
I reluctantly agreed, although in truth I’d already invited Miss Balfour and she’s already accepted. Of course, that isn’t surprising; the gel was ruined after the little contretemps with Sin, and this represents an unusual chance to reestablish herself. I only hinted at that in the letter I sent, of course, but I’m sure it was foremost in her mind. Her enthusiastic note accepting my invitation indicated as much.
Thus far, my little scheme is working very well. Sin’s fervent insistence was promising, and I’m rather glad of the changes Charlotte and I made in the guest list. I think they will serve quite well.
The well-sprung coach rolled off to the stables, leaving Rose standing with her scuffed trunk and worn portmanteaus at her feet. She watched as the coach disappeared down the drive, the Roxburghe crest with its distinctive unicorn and threatening arm holding a scimitar disappearing from sight as liveried footmen appeared to collect her luggage. This is it, then. I’m here.
The main part of the castle rose before her, flanked by wings that extended forward on each side. Four stories tall, it was decorated with exquisite stonework, and the wide flagstone courtyard featured an ornate portico that could easily cover ten carriages.
She felt as if she had just stepped into the pages of a fairy tale. Though she had yet to go inside, she was certain that the castle didn’t suffer from the smoking fireplaces, threadbare rugs, creaky stairways, drafty windows, and sagging floors of Caith Manor.
Her throat tightened. As beautiful as the castle was, all she wanted was to have the groom saddle a horse, and ride across the moors until the pressure in her stomach disappeared.
But that was not to be. Although she hated wearing anything other than her serviceable riding habits and rarely wore her hair in anything other than a pinned-up braid, for the next three weeks she was expected to dress, eat, and smile like a lady of fashion.
Rose sighed. She didn’t have a choice. She’d promised her sisters that she’d take advantage of the duchess’s kind invitation and, come what may, she would do just that. I owe Lily and Dahlia this unexpected opportunity.
And unexpected it had been. Despite supposedly being Rose’s grandmama’s bosom confidante during girlhood, her grace hadn’t been the most attentive godparent. Over the years the duchess had dutifully sent Rose and her sisters an annual Michaelmas letter and a small gift, and a short, repetitious birthday greeting, but that was all. The duchess’s correspondence had been so predictable that it had become something of a joke at Caith Manor, with Lily pretending shock every time a birthday or Michaelmas letter was read aloud over tea, while Dahlia silently mimicked each line before it was even read.
For the hundredth time since the duchess’s invitation had arrived by liveried footman last week, Rose wondered what had prompted it. Not that it matters. I should be grateful for a rare opportunity to re-ent
er society, something I never thought to do again after That Night.
It hurt less to think of that time as That Night rather than as “Your Raging Scandal,” as Aunt Lettice always referenced it. Thank goodness Rose would be spared her aunt’s presence this week, at least. While she was fond of her aunt, one could take only so many sad sighs and long faces before one went stark, raving mad.
She’d rather remember other, better times. Like the half hour before things had gone awry, when she’d been basking in the attention of the handsomest man she’d ever met. If she closed her eyes now, she could see those sherry-colored eyes and that handsome face as he bent to press his firm lips to hers. A shiver went through her. Stop that! I should be thinking about Lily and Dahlia, not a handsome wastrel.
Because of her rash actions six years ago and the ensuing scandal, her sisters had been denied all that she’d foolishly squandered for a childish passion: a season in London, balls, scores of invitations, and—more significantly for Lily and Dahlia—the opportunity to meet eligible men.
Her sisters were growing into beautiful women, and they were wasting away in a countryside populated with few eligible male prospects. Lively Dahlia had even begun casting glances at their neighbor, a grumpy, taciturn widower fifteen years older than she was. If Dahlia could only meet younger men with charming manners and handsome grins, then she wouldn’t be content with—
“Miss Balfour?” A footman bowed and then gestured toward the wide doors centered beneath the ornate portico.
Rose took a deep breath and smiled. “Yes, of course. Thank you.” She walked toward the large doors.
Two identically liveried footmen opened them and stepped to each side.
Steeling herself, Rose crossed the threshold and stared in wonder. Never had she seen such an entryway. The high ceiling was painted with a beautiful mural that depicted the creation of the earth in delicate blues, golds, and greens. The walls were covered in robin’s-egg-blue Chinese silk painted with gilt and green flowers and decorated with gold sconces. The parquet floor sported a playful trompe l’oeil pattern, and the overall effect was breathtakingly beautiful.