He could, of course, not show up for the service. That might have embarrassed Kimberly if she had been expecting him to make an appearance. But she wasn’t, so she really didn’t care if he did or not. As long as Lachlan was there…
With Christmas so close, Megan had suggested they enjoy the holiday first—she wouldn’t hear of them not staying for it—then have the wedding a few days afterward. And when the duchess made a suggestion, everyone pretty much agreed.
Kimberly saw nothing wrong with that arrangement. She had much to do anyway, shopping, difficult letters to write to her few closer friends in Northumberland, explaining why she wouldn’t be back. And a long, detailed letter to the Richards’ housekeeper, instructing her to pack all her belongings and send them on to the Highlands, as well as those things in the house that she considered hers.
Most important were the furnishings that had belonged to her mother, certain pieces that had become fixtures of the house after so many years. Like the mammoth painting that hung over the mantel in the parlor, the antique chinoiserie in the dining room, the Queen Anne walnut grandfather clock that had been handed down in her mother’s family since the mid-seventeen hundreds.
These were things that held no meaning for her father, but were treasures to her, and she would fight tooth and nail to take them with her. Which wasn’t necessary.
When she gave her father a list of the items she wanted, he merely nodded his agreement and turned back to what he’d been doing, dismissing her and the subject. And how familiar that was, exactly how he’d treated her most of her life.
Christmas arrived all too soon, and it turned out to be a really festive day, and one of the most enjoyable holidays Kimberly had ever experienced. She’d bought a little something for each of the St. Jameses, and gave her father a box of his favorite cigars. He’d never once, for any occasion, given her a gift from himself. Her mother used to tell her the presents she received were from the both of them, but once Kimberly was older and knew better she didn’t pretend anymore.
But that she received nothing from him that day was no more than she expected, so it didn’t bother her. Nothing, actually, could ruin that day for her, thanks to Lachlan, who teased her outrageously, and caught her beneath the mistletoe so often, everyone else was making jokes about it. And what was most delightful was that they’d both had the idea of giving each other gifts designed to be amusing.
Lachlan burst out laughing when she handed him a cane, remembering the day he’d mentioned one. And he warned her, “I’ll be taking this tae your backside if you try counting the hairs I have left before I’m at least—thirty.”
She studied his thick mane of auburn hair and replied seriously, “It’s going to fall out that soon, eh? Well, there are wigs, of course, and I’ll be sure to fix yours whenever it starts to fall off. Very messy, you know, when they fall in the soup—you do serve soup in the Highlands?”
“Nay, but we do serve sassy Sassenachs up for dinner quite frequently.”
She couldn’t hold a straight face any longer and chuckled. “I won’t taste good, I promise you.”
“Och, darlin’, now that’s a lie. I already know how good you taste.”
And he proved it by dragging her back over to the mistletoe, smacking his lips loudly, then giving her a half dozen quick kisses that had her giggling before he was through. And Duchy had looked up from the new stationery set she’d been examining to remark, “Good God, there ought to be a law against noise like that. Dev, m’boy, why don’t you show him how to do it right?”
And damned if the duke didn’t, pulling a protesting, though grinning Megan over to join them beneath the mistletoe, and soon the rest of them were all laughing, because they, of course, didn’t make a sound, and it didn’t look like they had any intention of stopping either.
But not much later, Lachlan topped her silly gift by pulling a parasol out of his coat and offering it with a flourish.
Kimberly saw the humor in the gift, and with a slight smirk, said, “Brave of you.”
“Aye, for you, darlin’, I’ll brave anything,” he said, and she could have sworn he wasn’t teasing in the least.
She smiled at him. He had a charming knack for saying all the right things, courting things. Then again, he said all the wrong things too, sensual, sexual things that shouldn’t be for her ears—yet, and caused her all those blushes.
She’d also bought him a rather expensive pair of diamond cuff links that got her yet another kiss, this one without any mistletoe, and of the warm, lingering kind. But then he surprised her with another gift also at the end of the day, one she really hadn’t been expecting.
It was in a small box, and while she opened it, he told her, “I bought that ’afore your da showed up.”
After the box was opened, revealing what could be considered an engagement ring, she realized why he’d volunteered that information. It was his way of apologizing because it was on the plain side.
Even so, it was a small emerald of good quality, and she knew he’d had no money to speak of to buy it, and still didn’t—yet. So she asked him, “How?”
He shrugged, trying to make light of it. “I sold my horse. I’m no’ much of a horseman anyway, so the nag won’t be missed. Mayhap I’ll accept those three the duke tried tae give me, just tae get us home, mind you.”
For some ridiculous reason, Kimberly was moved nearly to tears. He hadn’t needed to do anything like that. He could have waited until he could have afforded it. She would have understood. She knew his circumstances. That he’d gone ahead and bought her the ring anyway, simply because he wanted her to have it before the wedding as was traditional, made it all the more sweet, and she would treasure it far more than any of her own jewelry.
But to keep from crying and making a fool of herself, she latched onto what he’d mentioned about possibly accepting the three Thoroughbred horses from Devlin and told him, “I already did.”
“Did what?”
“Accepted them,” she answered matter-of-factly. “They’re a good investment. I happen to know about such things.”
“D’you now?” he replied, his tone skeptical, until he noticed her smile was positively smug, then he allowed, “Aye mayhap you do, and faith, I’m glad tae hear it, darlin’. The MacGregors havena had much luck in that area. I’m thinking we’re due.”
43
Kimberly was with Mrs. Canterby late the next afternoon, mere hours now before her wedding—she was counting the minutes too—when one of the servants came looking for her.
One of her new gowns had been ideally suited for a wedding—she was sure the seamstress had planned it that way when she’d made it—with just a few alterations and embellishments needed to make it perfect for the occasion, which the woman had been working on this last week. Kimberly was there for the final fitting and approval. But of course, she could find no fault with Mrs. Canterby’s designs, with her subtle, yet elegant tastes.
The servant who showed up was a young girl, one of the upstairs maids, who requested a private word with her. Out in the hall, she proceeded to tell her in a whisper, “I cleans yer father’s room, I do, and glad I am when ’e’s not—well, ’e’s there today, but ’e won’t let me in, won’t even answer me knocks. Yet I knows ’e’s in there, ’cause I could ’ear ’im crying on t’other side of the door.”
“Crying?”
“Yes, mum.”
“Crying?”
“Yes, mum,” the girl repeated, bobbing her head now in a hopeful manner, as if that might help to get Kimberly to stop doubting her.
It didn’t. Kimberly didn’t believe it and wouldn’t until she saw it for herself. What nonsense. It was probably no more than some cat that had found its way into the room and was now trapped and wanting out. Her father probably wasn’t even in the room himself. And this girl couldn’t tell the difference between a cat mewling and a human crying.
She sighed. “Very well, I’ll go and see what’s wrong as soon as I change clothes,” s
he told the girl. “And thank you for bringing this matter to me.”
Kimberly didn’t hurry. It was too absurd, really. And by the time she left Mrs. Canterby’s rooms, she had almost decided not to bother. Her father’s room was in a different wing of the mansion than hers, after all, and no short walk between the two. It would be a waste of time…but there was still the cat. She couldn’t just leave it there, when it was apparently desperate to get out.
So she headed for her father’s room, and upon reaching his door, she heard not a sound from the other side. She knocked gently, but still no sound. Then she opened the door a bit, expecting a cat to come flying past her feet. None did. So she opened it a bit more. And there he was, sitting in a chair with one hand covering his eyes. He was wearing a robe, as if he hadn’t dressed at all since he’d gotten up that morning.
She was surprised. And then she actually felt a smidgen of concern. If he really had been crying—it was still impossible to believe—but…
“Are you all right?” she asked hesitantly.
Her voice startled him. His hand fell away to reveal some very bloodshot eyes, but no tears, and no trace that there had been any. There could have been, though. He could have wiped them away.
“All right?” he blustered. “Certainly. Why wouldn’t I be all right?”
Kimberly blinked. Those words had definitely been slurred. And then she noticed the nearly empty bottle of spirits on the table next to him.
He was foxed. Incredible. Cecil Richards never drank to excess, just the opposite. One glass of wine at dinner and no more was all he’d allow himself. One glass of something at a party and no more.
She’d never seen him like this. She doubted anyone else had either. It was a unique experience, and so unexpected, but curious too.
Too curious not to ask, she said, “Why are you drinking in the afternoon?”
“Am I?”
She raised a brow. “I believe so.”
“So I am.” He snorted, then replied, “And why wouldn’t I be, when that wretch you’re planning to marry can’t make up his bloody mind?”
So that was it? The waiting had really gotten to him, worse than she’d thought. But still, a more typical response from her father would be to have a good blowup about it, instead of this. Unless he was worried about antagonizing Lachlan at this point.
“Reminds me of Ian,” he went on to mumble.
“What does?” she asked, thinking he meant Lachlan’s being indecisive.
“The drinking. He never could hold his liquor either, the sot.”
“Who’s Ian?”
He reached for the bottle, missed it, then promptly forgot about it as he answered, “My best friend, or he was, the bastard. You don’t know him, gel. He’s not worth knowing, so be thankful of that.”
Best friend? She’d never known her father to have any close friends aside from Maurice’s father, Thomas, and theirs had been more of a business relationship. His brusque attitude alienated people easily, keeping them at a distance. So this Ian he must have known a really long time ago. And perhaps he’d even had a more pleasant nature in those days, to allow for things like friendships. It was apparently the death of his true love that had turned him sour on the world, and that had happened before Kimberly was born.
But her curiosity had been satisfied as to why he was drinking. She wasn’t curious about his past. Actually, she was wondering now how she might delicately suggest he go to bed and sleep off the liquor he’d consumed, because she didn’t feel comfortable just leaving him like this.
So to get the same results, she asked, “What did Ian do when he drank too much? Sleep it off?”
He didn’t take the hint. In fact, it was the worst thing she could have said. He went red in the face, giving every indication that one of his temper tantrums was about to begin. And in his present condition, she imagined that could get really ugly.
So Kimberly was already taking a step backward toward the door when he exploded, “What did he do? What did he do? He stole my Ellie, that’s what, and killed her! May he rot in hell when he gets there!”
Good God, she’d never heard this before, only that the woman had been killed by a Scot, in Cecil’s opinion, which was why he hated them all now. But in the opinion of everyone else, it had been an accident. Killed by a Scot…?
“Ian was a Scotsman? You’re saying you were best friends with a Scotsman?”
He glared at her. “That was a bloody long time ago, but yes, I was foolish enough to make that mistake in my youth. I’ve never regretted anything more, and will never make the mistake of trusting a Scotsman again, either.”
“I don’t understand. Why would he steal her, if he was your friend?”
“Because he loved her, too. And he kept it a bloody secret, didn’t tell me until after she was dead. I wanted to kill him, I really did. I should have killed him. Always regretted that I didn’t.”
Kimberly had never heard exactly what had happened, just bits and pieces at different times, usually whenever her father was especially angry at her mother and throwing it up to her, that she’d been his second choice. She wondered if he’d tell her now?
“How did she die?” she asked carefully.
“Because Ian MacFearson was drunk, that’s how! He never would have had the nerve to run off with her if he’d been sober. And he stole her in the small hours of the night and sped with her across the border. She fell off her horse; died instantly. To this day, I don’t doubt that she jumped off deliberately, because she couldn’t bear to be dishonored by that blackguard. He claimed it was an accident, that her horse stumbled into a chuckhole and broke its leg, throwing her.” Cecil snorted. “Damned liar, just trying to place the blame other than where it belonged.”
“If he—loved her too, how did he take her death? He must have been as devastated as you were.”
“He blamed me, no doubt. Why else would he have wanted revenge?”
“Revenge?”
“Yes. I still needed a wife. Saw no reason to wait, since I didn’t think I’d ever love again. So I picked your mother. And Ian bided his time, waiting until we were engaged, then he set out to seduce Melissa into falling in love with him. He wanted me to know what it felt like, to love a woman who loves someone else. That was his revenge, because Ellie loved me, she didn’t love him. And it worked. I don’t doubt Melissa loved him till the day she died.”
Could that possibly be true? Kimberly had suspected there had been no love between her parents, knew there’d been no closeness, at least that she’d ever witnessed. They simply lived in the same house, went to the same functions together, but rarely spoke to each other. Through all those years, could her mother really have loved another man?
And then Cecil laughed, an ugly sound, and added somewhat smugly, “But the joke was on him, because I didn’t love her. I only married her because I needed a wife, and I didn’t care who. He moved back to Scotland, though, before I could tell him his efforts had been wasted. And I had the last laugh, because he didn’t even know he’d left you behind, the fool.”
Kimberly went very still, her breath suspended. “What do you mean, he left me behind?”
Cecil blinked, seemed surprised by her question. But then he shrugged, saying, “You’re going your own way, foolish enough to marry that Highlander. So there’s no reason for you not to know the truth now.”
“What truth?”
“You ain’t mine, gel. You’re all over his, same eyes, same hair, same mouth—same smile. I despise that smile of yours, you know, the way it reminds me of him. And anyway, your mother admitted it, took pride in admitting it, by God. But I called you mine. There was nothing else to do, after all. And I didn’t really care. Didn’t expect to be having an heir off her anyway, since I wouldn’t touch her, knowing she loved Ian. Couldn’t divorce her, much as I’d have liked to later. The scandal, you know. So I was stuck with her—and you.”
Kimberly slowly shook her head, so shocked she could barely get he
r next words out. “It’s not true. Mother would have told me.”
Cecil snorted. “When I made her swear she wouldn’t? Don’t be stupid, gel. Her promise was the only thing that kept me from kicking the both of you out and letting the world know about her shame.”
He wasn’t her father. He wasn’t her father. He wasn’t…The refrain kept running through her mind, trying to make sense, and then it really clicked, that this cold tyrant of a man wasn’t related to her at all. And that little knot of guilt that she’d always carried, for not loving him, for actually hating him for most of her life, dissolved suddenly. She almost smiled. Actually, she felt like laughing.
He wasn’t her father and she was—delighted.
And he’d never told anyone—until now. But knowing him as she did, Kimberly doubted that her mother’s promise had kept him silent. It was more likely his desire to not have it publicly known that he’d been cuckolded, she thought cynically.
“Is he still alive?”
“Who?”
He’d dropped his head back on the chair, closed his eyes. The drink was catching up to him. But she wasn’t about to let her question go unanswered.
“Ian MacFearson. Is he still alive?”
He struggled to get his eyes open again, then squinted them at her. “I sincerely hope not. I hope he’s rotting in hell already.”
“But you don’t know for sure?”
“You think to find him?” He smirked. “He won’t thank you for telling him he’s got a grown bastard daughter. He didn’t love your mother, you fool. He only seduced her because he thought it would hurt me. So why would he want anything to do with you?”
He was undoubtedly right. But if the man was still alive and out there somewhere, she could at least meet him, couldn’t she? She wouldn’t have to tell him that he was her father. She could keep that her secret. But at least she would know what he was like…and eat her heart out if he was nice and decent and everything Cecil Richards wasn’t? To know what she’d missed all these years if she’d had a real father raise her with loving concern?