Lachlan actually blushed, because that was perfectly true. He’d asked Megan to wed him within minutes of meeting her, had ridden off with her to give her more time to reconsider when she refused him out of hand. And he might have swayed her to his proposal if her fiancé hadn’t given chase to retrieve her from him so quickly. But she was a true exception. He wasn’t likely to find another lass as bonny as she was.
Faith, they were talking about a wife here, a female he’d be stuck with for the rest of his days. Granted, a laird was expected to make some sacrifices for the benefit of his kin, if sacrifices were needed, but this one seemed a bit too much in his opinion. Especially since he’d always imagined that he’d be marrying someone to his liking, not just to the clan’s liking.
He said as much in a very clear grumble. “You’d expect me to wed just any ol’ heiress?”
“Nay, no’ a’tall,” Gilleonan assured him. “Ye’re thinkin’ o’ Scottish lasses and how few rich ones there be. Set your mind tae thinkin’ English and the abundance they have. Wi’ so many tae choose from, why couldna ye find yerself one tae love?”
That word love made Lachlan think of Megan again. Had she married her Sassenach fiancé? Not all elopers to Gretna Green, as she’d been, actually tied the knot. Some came to their senses in time. But a year had come and gone. If she hadn’t married that one she came to Scotland to marry, she’d likely married another by now. Then again, what if she hadn’t? What if she were still available? That alone was worth going to England to find out.
But still, he had to point out, “You’re overlooking the fact that I’m no’ a prime catch.”
Ranald snorted at that. “Ye’re as bonny a lad as they come. There be more lassies moonin’ o’er ye than ye ken.”
It was true Lachlan was fair to look upon. His hair was darkest auburn, with only mere hints of red appearing in certain light. His eyes were pale green and more often than not, filled with laughter. And his features were put together rather uniquely—at least they’d caused many a lass a heartfelt sigh.
“I think he was referrin’ to his great size, Ranald,” Gilleonan added hesitantly. “’Tis a bit frightenin’ tae a wee lassie.”
The extremely tall, brawny size of his body that he’d inherited from his father was and always would be a sore subject with Lachlan. “’Twas the fact that I havena a penny tae my name that I was referring tae,” he growled.
Both his friends snorted at that, with Gilleonan expressing both their thoughts in a thoroughly indignant tone, “Ye’re Laird of Clan MacGregor, mon. That’s all ye need be tae be a prime catch for any lass.”
Lachlan sighed at that point. He had turned to reaving at the advice of his kinsmen and had gotten nowhere fast. He wasn’t going to jump into marriage just because it sounded like a good idea—to them. Yet it was worth considering and even putting some effort into seeing if it were possible, because he was bone tired of worrying about it all.
“Verra well, but I’m no’ going to England wi’out some aid tae get this thing done right and done quickly, if it can be done a’tall. I’ll write tae my aunt there and see if she’d be willing tae assist and recommend. But as long as I’ll be having tae put up wi’ being surrounded by the Sassenach on every front, you two can blasted well come along tae suffer wi’ me. And that’s the MacGregor telling you that.”
In other words, it was an order they couldn’t refuse.
2
“You will leave within the week, m’girl,” Cecil Richards, the present Earl of Amburough, said to his only child in a tone that would brook no argument. “Their Graces are expecting you at Sherring Cross, and will put you forth in a grand style. Mark my words, you won’t have any trouble a’tall finding a husband in that top-lofty crowd.”
Kimberly Richards stared blankly up at her father, who had come into the parlor where she was sewing to make his startling announcement. Cecil was in his mid-fifties, a bit portly, quite florid cheeked, with nondescript brown hair and grey eyes. Kimberly had inherited nothing from him in looks or temperament, a fact for which she was grateful.
She shouldn’t have been surprised by his announcement, even though she had only ended her period of mourning a mere few days before. For one full year she had veiled herself in sorrow, her grief over her mother’s death genuine. She had shunned all entertainments, and her social congress had been restricted to going to church on Sundays. She had also lost her lifelong fiancé because of her year of mourning, for he had been unable, or unwilling, to wait a mere six months more for them to wed.
Yet she had known something like this would be forthcoming, since she had been aware for some time now that her father wanted her out of his house. He certainly made no secret of it, nor of his desire to wed the Widow Marston, who had moved to their small town in Northumberland several years before. She was well aware the widow refused to share a household with another woman.
So the sooner Kimberly was married and gone, the sooner Cecil could remarry. He certainly hadn’t mourned for a year over the loss of his wife, Kimberly’s mother. Her death had merely been an inconvenience for him.
Kimberly continued to give her father no visible reaction to his announcement, said merely in reference to his mention of the Duke and Duchess of Wrothston, “How did you manage to enlist their aid?”
“A favor owed, and a big one,” he replied in a grumble. “I never imagined I would call it in on something so trivial as this, but there you have it.”
She raised a brow to that. Trivial was obviously a matter of opinion, and this trivial was damned important to him. But she didn’t point that out. This wasn’t something that she cared to argue with him about, not when she was just as eager to be gone from the only home she had ever known. Unfortunately, it was no longer a home now that her mother was gone from it, but instead a dreary, dismal place that she simply bided time in.
“And don’t be taking months to decide,” Cecil added sternly. “The duke has been fully apprised of my wishes on the matter, and you know them as well. Don’t waste your time on a man you know I won’t approve of.”
Or he’d disown her. The threat was implicit in his tone. And she’d heard it enough times to recognize it. He even came near to disowning her six months ago, when she’d refused to put aside her mourning for her mother. Though at that time Cecil had backed down. But she could in fact marry without his permission. At twenty-one she was certainly old enough now to do so. And being disowned by Cecil Richards, the present Earl of Amburough, was no great disaster in her opinion, especially since she knew it wouldn’t harm her financially. Her mother had seen to that, to her father’s utter and recent fury. However, it would be a social disaster, a scandal, as it were, and she would as soon avoid that.
The marriage mart. Kimberly shuddered at the very thought. She wasn’t supposed to have ended up on it. She’d had a fiancé since the day she was born, Maurice Dorrien, the son of her father’s good friend, Thomas. They’d been only three years apart in age. She’d always gotten along fine with him during their visits at either of their respective homes. They’d never been close friends, yet they came from the same backgrounds, and that had seemed enough.
But they had never managed to set a date. When she’d reached the age to marry, he’d reached the age to go off on his grand tour, and even her father was adamant that he couldn’t miss such an important rounding off to his education merely to get married. So she’d been content to wait the year, which was the typical time allotted for such things. The trouble was, Maurice hadn’t just taken one year, he’d taken two, because he’d been having such a jolly good time in his travels.
Did anyone ask if she’d mind waiting still another year for him? Of course not. She’d merely been informed that Maurice was extending his trip and the wedding would have to wait.
She was twenty by the time Maurice returned from abroad. The wedding plans were finally made, invitations sent out—and then her mother died and she’d gone into mourning. She’d loved her mother dearly
, and she wasn’t about to cut short the traditional year of mourning just because her wedding date had already been postponed for two years, and the mourning period would extend that to three. She had waited on Maurice. Fair was fair. He should have had no problem waiting on her, when she’d just lost the only family member she’d ever been close to.
That wasn’t the case, however. As it happened, Maurice had incurred considerable debts due to the extension of his tour and the gambling he’d done on it. He was in desperate need of the settlement money and property that would come to him upon their marriage.
She’d never been thrilled with the idea of Maurice for her husband, had merely accepted it as a foregone conclusion, but at least she’d always been sure that he wasn’t after her wealth—until six months ago. When his financial situation came out in the open, he’d quickly ended their long engagement when she refused to wed him immediately. She’d actually been shocked at the time, it was so unexpected.
And her father had been furious, with her, not with Maurice. With Maurice, he’d merely blustered and mumbled a bit, but what could he really say? Maurice was his own man now that his father Thomas was deceased. He needn’t honor an engagement made by parents that he’d had no say in, not in this day and age anyway. To give him his due, he had been willing to still wed Kimberly, just not willing to wait another six months for her mourning period to finish.
When she’d been foolish enough to point out that Maurice apparently only wanted her money, Cecil hadn’t been even a little bit sympathetic; he’d said merely, “So? ’Tis the way of things. D’you think I loved your mother? The only woman I ever loved died because of those bloody Scots up north, curse and sunder ’em all. Your mother was a second choice for me because she came from money, but we did well together.”
Did they? Kimberly would always remember her mother as being miserable, cringing whenever Cecil raised his voice. She was a gentle, almost timid woman, and they didn’t suit at all. She’d needed a kind, understanding husband, not a blustering border lord. But more to the point, she’d needed a husband who loved her, which she hadn’t found in Cecil Richards.
But though in tolerance they were much alike, Kimberly was not timid like her mother. She could endure much before she actually lost her temper. And there was no point in losing her temper over the present situation. She had to find a husband, and soon. And she was agreeable to that because she wanted out of her father’s house and his control just as much as he wanted her gone. But after her experience with Maurice, she had to wonder how she could ever know for certain if a man would choose her for wife because he really wanted her for wife, or just because he wanted what money and property came with her.
That was something that had never concerned her before. Not that it was the least bit pertinent, as her father would be the first to point out. It was merely important to her in a purely selfish way. She’d just prefer to have a husband who actually cared for her.
When she’d been stuck with the prospect of Maurice for a husband, it hadn’t mattered—she’d been resigned to her fate. She had never even considered that she could have something better. But she was no longer stuck with Maurice. And she saw no reason why she couldn’t have a man she could be happy with, as opposed to merely “doing well together.”
Finding that man wasn’t going to be a simple matter, though. She wasn’t exactly a raving beauty, capable of making men fall in love with her. Her mother might have always claimed she had a fairy smile capable of casting joy, but that was just something mothers told daughters. Kimberly had never seen anything special about her smile, though it was rather hard to work up a genuine smile when one was staring in a mirror at rather plain features.
She had nothing much to recommend her other than some standard accomplishments, a passing fair voice for song, a little skill at the piano, a neat stitch when it came to sewing, and the ability to run a large household smoothly. That she was a genius at numbers, accounts, and choosing highly profitable investments was something she’d only recently discovered, and not something that a husband would appreciate or utilize, finances being considered a man’s domain.
As for appearance, she was slim of build, actually a bit on the skinny side due to her height. Her hair was fashionable enough with its dark blond curls, though light blond would have been more desirable. Her features weren’t remarkable by any means, though she did have a somewhat square jaw that hinted at the stubbornness she rarely showed, but was quite capable of. She did have really nicely shaped eyes of a pure, dark green that people remarked upon occasionally. But then most people she knew were rather nice and they needed something nice to say to her to be nice.
She set her sewing aside and stood up now to look down on her father. Her height of five feet, eight inches, inherited from her mother’s branch of the family, gave her the advantage over him by an inch. It was a thing that thoroughly irritated her father and had since the day she’d attained her full height; it was a small weapon that gave her a bit of pleasure simply because it did irritate him. Otherwise, her ungainly height was an embarrassment, because it made her stand out in a crowd of average women.
“I have no intention of wasting time, Father, but don’t expect immediate results, because I also have no intention of accepting the first man recommended by Their Graces. You won’t be the one forced to live with the gentleman for the rest of your days, I will, and if I can’t feel a certain compatibility with him, my approval won’t be forthcoming.”
He’d gone red in the face before she’d quite finished, but she’d expected no less. He really hated it whenever she put her druthers forth and stood by them.
“You will not drag your feet to spite me—”
Kimberly cut him off, asking, “Why ever would you think that? Hasn’t it become apparent to you that I don’t like living here? Or, like everything else about me, have you simply not noticed?”
He had no answer for her, but then what could he say? He did tend to ignore her unless he needed something specific from her. Nor did he have the grace to even be embarrassed by her comment.
He merely mumbled a bit before he reiterated, “Just see that you don’t drag your feet,” and then stalked out of the parlor.
Kimberly sat down again with a sigh, but she didn’t reach for her sewing. Nervousness came, now that she could really think about what she was facing. She’d be traveling alone, when she never had before. She’d be dealing with a continuous stream of strangers, when she’d lived all her life among people who were familiar to her. And she had to choose a husband, one that both she and her father could agree on. That was the most difficult part, because she couldn’t imagine very many offers coming her way. One or two possibly, and that certainly wasn’t much to choose from, for someone that she was going to have to spend the rest of her life with.
3
Megan St. James, the new Duchess of Wrothston for all of one year, glanced up over the letter she had just finished reading. When her husband handed her the letter, he’d remarked that he hoped she enjoyed matchmaking. His comment now made sense and she was none too happy about it.
She raised a brow at Devlin, her foot suddenly tapping to indicate her annoyance, if the raised brow didn’t quite make her point, and demanded, “And how did it come about that I end up with the responsibility of finding this girl a husband, when you are the one who owes the favor to her father? This letter is addressed to you, is it not?”
“Indeed,” Devlin replied. “But matters of matrimony and matchmaking are a female’s domain.”
“Who says so?”
“I do.”
He smiled as he said that, because he knew it would irritate her even more. And she gave him the reaction he was expecting, an unladylike snort.
“You know very well that Duchy is better able to see to something like this,” she informed him. “She knows everyone who is anyone, so she’d know exactly who is in the market for a wife, and who isn’t. I, on the other hand, am still muddling through just tryin
g to remember the names of this earl and that viscount, and to keep abreast of the current scandals. I haven’t even begun on the histories of all these lords and ladies you expect me to become better acquainted with.”
“By the by, love, you are doing superbly in that respect.” A compliment was just what she needed at that point, but then he knew that, which was why he threw it in. “And it’s true, Duchy might be more knowledgeable in this area, but my grandmother isn’t up to the entertaining and socializing that will be required to see this thing done right. By all means, enlist her aid and Aunt Margaret’s too. They’ll be glad to give it. But the favor was asked of me, sweetheart, and so it falls to you, as my wife, to deal with it.”
He was right, of course. He was a duke. He shouldn’t be required to involve himself in something so trivial. On the other hand, she was a duchess, and in her opinion, the same held true for her. Perhaps there was a way out of this.
With that thought, Megan asked, “Is it absolutely necessary that you do this favor?”
“Absolutely,” he assured her. “The favor I owe is a serious one. This is nothing compared to what could have been asked of me, and quite a relief that this matter can be disposed of so simply.”
She felt like snorting again, but restrained herself this time. Simple for him, certainly. He’d already delegated the responsibility, washed his hands of it. That’s what he thought. If she was required to do a lot of entertaining above and beyond the normal required of her to get this girl matched to some worthy fellow, she’d see to it that Devlin would attend said entertainments.
Then again, she suddenly recalled that they were soon to have a guest aside from Lady Kimberly. Maybe it wouldn’t take long at all to find the lady a husband…
“Your Aunt Margaret mentioned something about her nephew-by-marriage coming for a visit—”