A Scandalous Scot (6 page)

“Yes?”

“May I assist you, Your Lordship?”

What a remarkably melodious voice she had.

“I’m not lost,” he said.

She smiled, revealing lovely white teeth, as well as a dimple to the left of her mouth.

“Of course not, Your Lordship.” Her curtsy was gracefully executed. “I merely wished to be of assistance.”

Even though her pose was perfectly demure, her eyes twinkled at him. She wore a spotless white apron over her blue uniform dress. Her shoes were polished, her blond hair had been artfully braided and peeked beneath her lace cap, and she smelled of rosewater and soap.

The top of her head barely came to his shoulder, unlike her sister, who was a tall, gangly thing. In terms of beauty, Catriona was easily the match of the women of London.

He was no longer the boy he’d been, or the naive young man off to London. Instead, he doubted everything, challenged all he heard and most of what he saw. If he’d been that boy, he would have seen her actions as innocent. He knew better, and a part of him grieved for the world-weary man he’d become.

No one else was in the corridor; there wasn’t a reason for anyone to be there, unless it was to ensure that the gaslights were lit. She’d been waiting for him, that was easy to see.

He disliked being waylaid, especially by women. Most especially by women who wanted more from him than a chance to be of service.

“No,” he said. “I don’t require anything.”

She allowed her face to fall into an expression of disappointment, just for a moment, before smiling brightly again.

“I’m Catriona,” she said.

“I haven’t forgotten your name,” he said.

Irritation danced across her face. Evidently, Catriona was used to affecting a man with her smile. Did she run the male staff in circles?

She was beautiful, charming, and no doubt filled with the knowledge of her own allure. He knew her type well. He’d been married to a woman similar to Catriona.

Did she realize her tactics were wasted on him?

Catriona folded her hands together in front of her and smirked. No doubt the gesture was meant to be a demure smile, but she didn’t look the innocent type.

When she showed no signs of giving way, he stepped to one side.

“Which guest room is Mr. Prender in?” he asked.

“I believe Mrs. MacDonald has put him in the Green Suite, Your Lordship,” she said, curtsying once more.

Was he supposed to note the trimness of her ankles, the swanlike grace of her neck, as well as the dancing light in her arresting blue eyes? Very well, he noted all three, and was so supremely unimpressed he didn’t even bother to thank her for the information.

He made his way to the second floor without encountering another maid. Some of the staff disappeared into the woodwork, since several closets were concealed along the wainscoting. More than once he saw the door softly close as he walked past.

His knock was answered immediately by a smiling Andrew, who looked disappointed at the sight of him.

“Were you expecting someone else?” Morgan asked. “A certain blond maid?”

Andrew only laughed.

The last thing he wanted was a domestic crisis. Andrew was more than capable of planting his seed in any available garden, witness the number of children in London with his distinctive nose. Not to mention his own brood safely ensconced in the country with his wife of ten years.

Yet anything he might say to Andrew would be answered with a smile and some jest. Andrew was an unrepentant hedonist, with the wealth to do exactly as he wished.

On the way to the dining room, Morgan pointed out several items of interest—the sword used by the first Earl of Denbleigh, the carpet loomed and installed before the Queen’s visit, and the plaster relief in the entranceway.

Andrew nodded, said all the obligatory guest remarks, but his attention was halfhearted.

Dinner was a desultory affair. Granted, the food was superb, equal to anything he had tasted in Edinburgh or Inverness. His cook, thank God, was Scottish and not English. He could only salute the difference. The salmon, alone, was worth returning to Ballindair.

He and Andrew didn’t speak often, and he noted his friend was drinking more of his dinner than he was eating it.

“You should pace yourself on the MacCraig whiskey,” he said. “That single malt will put you under the table.”

Andrew only nodded, took another sip from the etched crystal, then set the glass down. He waved at the footman stationed at the door, and a moment later the man had taken his plate and replenished his glass.

“What is it?” Morgan asked. “You’ve been uncharacteristically quiet. I can always count on your cutting wit. Unless, of course, you’ve found everything to your satisfaction. I doubt that’s the case.”

“I’ve been thinking about Lillian,” Andrew said.

Morgan stiffened.

“Oh? And why would you be thinking of Lillian?”

“She’s the reason you’re here, isn’t she? After five years?”

“It hasn’t been five years since I’ve been back in Scotland,” Morgan said.

“But the first time you’ve been back to Ballindair,” Andrew countered.

Morgan clenched his glass tighter in one hand, looked straight at Andrew and said, “You might as well tell me. Why is Lillian on your mind?”

“I regret I ever said anything,” Andrew said. “If I hadn’t, you’d still be married, still in London.”

“Did you think I didn’t know?”

Andrew looked surprised.

Morgan took a sip. “You weren’t the only friend to come to me and report my wife was having an affair. Or another affair. It got to the point I couldn’t enter a room without wondering how many of the men there she’d bedded.”

“Do you still hate her?”

Morgan sat back, studying his friend. “Why, exactly, are you so concerned about Lillian? I divorced her, Andrew. I didn’t kill her.”

“No, but you wanted to.”

For a long moment Morgan didn’t say a word. Slowly, he took another sip of his whiskey, then answered his friend.

“Perhaps I did, once. She survived my murderous impulses, however.”

“Marriage is actually very calming,” Andrew said.

“I’ve never found it to be so.”

“Perhaps, one day, you’ll marry again.”

“Not bloody likely,” Morgan said. “I never want to repeat that experience.”

“My own wife is a dear sweet soul.”

“Your wife is a broodmare,” Morgan said.

Andrew didn’t take offense. In fact, he only smiled proudly, no doubt reflecting on his five children, none of whom he saw very often. One day he would be faced with all of them grown. Morgan knew he wouldn’t be surprised if his friend took the males off clubbing and the females to one of his many mistresses for advice on dress and manners.

“Is that why you’re here, Andrew?” he asked, keeping a check on his temper. “To make sure I’m no longer angry? Time has done that. I no longer care what Lillian does, with whom she sleeps, where, or how. It’s none of my concern.”

Andrew studied the liquor in his glass, took a sip, then said, “She’s here, even though she isn’t here.”

Morgan smiled, genuinely amused. “Lillian never came to Ballindair. Scotland was beneath her. But, I will agree, as long as my solicitor sends me correspondence, it’s impossible to completely forget her.”

Andrew looked surprised.

Before the other man could ask, Morgan said, “She wants the Paris house, and despite the fact that we’re no longer married, she thinks that repeated demands will make me change my mind.”

“Really? Why not give it to her?”

Morgan’s good humor vanished. “Because she’s not getting another thing belonging to me,” he said. “She took my reputation, I’ll be damned if she gets anything else.”

He stood, nodded at Andrew, and left the room, unwilling to discuss his marriage or Lillian any further. Sometimes, the boundaries of friendship needed to remain strictly in place.

M
ary MacDonald hesitated at the entrance to the kitchen.

Could this day have been any more disastrous? What had Jean been thinking? Not only had she been terribly afraid that she wouldn’t be able to save her niece, but her own position might be in danger.

Jean, sensible, hard-working Jean, had acted completely out of character.

What was she going to do about this situation? Other than counsel Jean on how to act as a proper maid, she didn’t know what else to do. She couldn’t even go to the earl and ask for a little compassion for the girl. What would she say?
Your Lordship, she’s had a terrible time of it. They both have. Please overlook her utter stupidity
.

No, he’d want to know about the girls’ past. God forbid anyone should discover it.

For the first time, Mary wished she’d taken Mr. Seath into her confidence. She’d been afraid the steward would forbid her to hire her nieces. The actions of their father had been horrible, true, but neither Jean nor Catriona had inherited any of his tendencies.

Now, foolishness, that was another thing entirely.

Look at Jean, back to being her silent self, sitting with the other maids but not speaking. More than once she’d tried to advise her niece about such things.

“You must try to get along with them, Jean.”

“I do, Aunt. We just have nothing in common. No one wants to discuss books or things I’m thinking.”

“Can you not try to find common ground? Catriona seems to do well enough.”

“I am not Catriona, Aunt,” the girl had said, getting that mulish look.

No, she wasn’t. Life would be so much easier for Jean if she were more like Catriona. Everyone liked Catriona, sought her advice and laughed at her jests. Jean just sat there like a mound of overcooked cabbage.

Today was the only time she’d acted differently, and it had been with a shocking lack of decorum.

Mary moved away from the doorway, knowing she couldn’t solve the problem tonight. Instead, she sought her suite of rooms, where she could close the door on Ballindair and all its problems.

Chapter 6

RULES FOR STAFF:
Never make eye contact with your betters, offer a smile or any other expression.

M
organ couldn’t sleep, especially after Andrew’s comments about Lillian. Perhaps he should thank his friend. For months, no one had mentioned his wife, but her presence had been felt nonetheless.

At his last meeting with Lillian, he’d been able to let her words flow over him like water. A few of the droplets, however, had the effect of acid on his skin.

“You’re the most hideously boring man I’ve ever known, Morgan. A pity, since you don’t look exceptionally boring. You’re quite a handsome man. But it’s a well wrought package containing nothing of any interest.”

He hadn’t known what to say to that remark so he remained silent. A judicious approach to his wife’s verbal assault.

“You’re so bloody gentlemanly. There’s a time to be a gentleman and a time to be something else more exciting.”

“A satyr?” he asked.

“Even a mythical creature would be better than you.”

“You surprise me, Lillian. I didn’t know you even knew the meaning of the word. So it’s my fault you went from one bed to another, is that it, my dear?”

“I didn’t always need a bed, Morgan, something you might have once considered.” Her smile was mocking, her beautiful, heart-shaped face twisted into a mask of derision.

“Because I was exceptionally boring,” he said, pushing back his rage, “you were forced to seek out the company of other men.”

“Yes!”

Her blond hair swung from one side to another. For this confrontation, she’d chosen her attire carefully, a peignoir set no doubt from Paris. Of the palest yellow silk, to better set off her beauty.

Was it a last, desperate, attempt to seduce him? He was so far from being seduced he might as well be in the Canary Islands.

Where, exactly, had their marriage faltered? The only fortunate aspect of the entire union was they’d had no children. If Lillian had borne him a child, he would have doubted its paternity.

At last count, Andrew had five children. And him? Nary a one. No progeny to inherit the earldom. No boy to take fishing or little girl to capture his heart.

It was just as well.

One less person to shoulder his dishonor.

C
atriona made a sound in her sleep. A murmur of pleasure that had the effect of annoying Jean tremendously. Was she dreaming of the Earl of Denbleigh?

Jean was heartily tired of hearing about the man.

Catriona sighed again, and Jean placed the pillow over her head. If the Earl of Denbleigh was as wealthy as he was rumored to be, surely he could purchase better pillows. Something made in London, perhaps, and hinting of lavender, as the pillows on his own bed. These were thin and lumpy and smelled of mildewed hay. Of course, if she had any time at all, she would have stuffed the pillow herself, choosing pine needles or dried flowers.

She would add it to her list of chores to be done when she had a free moment.

Catriona murmured again. Jean threw off the pillow and sat up on the edge of the bed, staring across the small room. If she woke Catriona, she would be subjected to a barrage of complaints. Better to simply fall asleep herself, nature’s way of tolerating the intolerable.

Except, of course, she’d been abed for two hours and hadn’t slept yet.

She leaned back against the wall, her legs straight out in front of her. The cotton nightgown had been well laundered. In fact, it was over three years old and was a bit higher on the calves than it should be. It fit Catriona perfectly, but made Jean feel like a poor child who’d outgrown her donated attire.

After several minutes of staring at her sister—an action that had no effect on Catriona’s pleased murmurs, Jean stood.

She knew better than to leave the room in her nightgown and wrapper, so she donned the uniform she’d worn today, dispensing with any stays. She looked proper enough. During the day, she kept her corset as loose as she could, in order to give herself room to move while she worked.

Who decided that a woman had to be so tightly confined when she was reaching, stretching, bending, and pulling all day? If she were a society matron, she could see herself sitting on a sofa doing nothing but needlework or reading, perhaps, staring into the fire considering how she might spend her millions of pounds. As a maid, a corset was a torture device.