Her Scottish Groom (5 page)

Diantha swallowed a lump in her own throat and forced herself to smile. “Don’t be silly, you know I won’t.”

They gripped each other tightly on that last walk from her room to face the crowd waiting to see them off. At the head of the stairs, that disorienting sense of unreality descended once again. Her mother’s artificial smile matched those of the guests crowding the foyer below. Diantha got the distinct impression that they wanted the bride and groom gone so they could return to the ballroom for more dancing.

“What are you doing in that ensemble?” Her mother hissed the words as she brushed each cheek with cool lips. “I selected the blush pink serge for you to leave in.”

Her grandmother sniffed. “That pink monstrosity you picked makes Dina look like an overblown rose. This is a gift from me.”

“Neither of you have the least idea of what is fashionable! Blush pink is the
dernier cri
, and Miss Fish wore a blue going-away dress just last month!” Diantha willed herself not to flush with shame. She would not miss her mother’s tirades. “How could you do this to me?”

“Fiddlesticks! She looks much prettier in this than that getup you ordered for her.” Mama’s face turned an alarming shade of red, but she bit her tongue in front of their guests. “And I imagine her husband thinks so too.”

Diantha twisted her neck to scan the crowd and instantly felt foolish. He waited for her at the bottom of the steps, one large hand resting on the marble banister. He stared at her with a surprised smile and she tamped down a flash of irritation. She wasn’t that plain, for heaven’s sake!

Her brow puckered as a vague image of telling him something about the carvings swam into her head. Odd, she must have dreamed it.

Even without the blush serge, she received all the appropriate compliments at the bottom of the stairs, including a kiss on her still ungloved hand from her husband. She freed herself from his grasp, resenting the insincere demonstration. Her mother fawned on his lordship one last time. Some of her brothers’ friends shouted a few risqué remarks that left her cheeks burning.

Her father shook his new son-in-law’s hand without sparing Diantha a look. “We’ll see you tomorrow at the dock. Off you go.”

The headache that had plagued her all day returned full force as they were escorted to their coach by the more boisterous elements in the crowd. Looking back, she saw her grandmother at the top of the steps, wiping away tears. Trying to match her husband’s stoicism, she took a shaky breath and lifted a hand in farewell.

Her vision blurred as she turned away to go down the steps. She missed her footing once, but
saved herself almost immediately by clinging to the firm arm linked with hers.

Tilting her head back, her gaze met her husband’s. To her surprise a reassuring smile touched his lips as his fingers interlaced with hers and squeezed gently. Unfortunately, one of the newspaper photographers hired by Amalthea chose that moment to take their picture. She hissed in pain as the blinding light jolted through her aching head.

In seconds, she found herself rushed into the carriage, followed by his lordship. She scarcely had time to seat herself before he banged on the roof to tell the driver to start.

He leaned back and exhaled deeply, as though he had just completed a great task. His eyes flicked a glance at her. “Do you still have a headache?”

She cocked her head at the sympathetic question. “It’s quite wretched at the moment, but how did you know I have one?”

His lips twitched and a twinkle appeared in his eyes. “After the amount of cognac you imbibed last night, it would be amazing if you did not.”

Distracted by the first sign of warmth she had detected in him, his words did not sink in at first. When they did, she gulped weakly. “You—you
know
about last night?”

“Know about it? My dear girl, please remember who helped you to your bedchamber.”

“I beg your pardon?” She regarded him, brows furrowed, for several seconds. Then the odd visions she had had all day fell into place and utter mortification replaced her confused state.

“Oh dear God.” She buried her face in her hands. “I cannot imagine what you think of me.” She huddled
on the seat, waiting for the explosion of wrath. The sound of spluttering came from the opposite seat. Her shoulders tensed. Her new husband’s fury had apparently robbed him of the power of speech. Another, even more horrible thought struck her.

“Does Mama know?” She looked up again as she spoke, to see her spouse keeled over on the leather cushions, holding a handkerchief to his mouth while silent paroxysms shook his body.

“Lord Rossburn!” She took an arm to try to pull him upright, but he hardly budged. She grasped his lapels, determined to move him. “Please, you can’t have an apoplexy now! My mother will kill me.”

Her entire body went weak with relief when he finally took a gasping breath. Then she stiffened as he fell to his side again, clutching his stomach as he fought to catch his breath between gusts of laughter.

“Damme, this is the best joke I’ve had in a year.”

Stunned, she balanced herself and caught her own breath as further howls of mirth erupted from him. When she could speak at last, her voice trembled with rage.

“Am I to understand that your lordship found the situation entertaining?”

Ignoring her frigid tone, he nodded once before bursting into another round of belly laughs. By the time he righted himself and mopped the tears from his eyes with the cambric square, Diantha had resumed her seat once more. Her frigid regard only served to amuse him further, judging from the suppressed chuckle he gave on meeting her eyes.

“Are we quite finished now?”

He nodded, an insouciant smile still twisting his lips. She wished she had a book in her reticule to
bury herself in. When his face lost its hauteur, it looked alarmingly friendly. Unnerved, she resorted to sarcasm. “I am so pleased that I amuse your lordship.”

“Me too.” At her outraged exhalation, the smile expanded into a grin and he settled back against the squabs. “You should be pleased, my dear. Very few ladies have a sense of humor, you know.”

“I beg your pardon but we most certainly do!” She sniffed. “However, as a lady, I have not been bred to engage in disgusting displays of—of snorts and shouts.”

“Snorts? Really, I must draw the line there.” He sat up straighter. “I assure you, gentlemen do not snort.”

With his eyes twinkling and a grin twisting his mouth, he did not appear remotely cold or forbidding. She could not resist his teasing. “I beg to differ, my lord, as you decidedly did snort just now. Several times.” Only a tiny twitch of her lips marred the dignified delivery. Catching herself succumbing to his charm, she pokered up. “A good view of the docks is coming up on your right. By all means enjoy it.”

“Eventually you’re going to have to say my name.” He lounged in the corner, eyes half closed.

“The opportunity has never arisen before now.” She laced and unlaced her fingers in her lap.

“Why are you so uncomfortable with me, Diantha?” He asked the question quietly, but the use of her given name gave it unexpected intimacy. Her head twinged painfully as she struggled to form an answer.

“It’s just that I’ve never been alone with you
before now.” She knew how foolish the words were as soon as they left her mouth, and tried to explain. “I’ve never been alone with any man besides my own flesh and blood. And now we’re married, and I am expected to carry on conversations with you in private when I’ve never had any practice doing so!” She broke off as she remembered another aspect of married life.

“And another thing! How on earth am I supposed to carry out my wifely duties when everyone refuses to enlighten me as to what they are!” She glared at him impersonally. “I haven’t the least clue as to what is expected of me, and Mama always tells me I am hopeless in society.” She stopped, considering. “Although that is not quite true. I am nervous, of course. But I always earned first marks in deportment when I was at school in Paris.”

   Her last words barely penetrated Kieran’s shocked mind. The only women he had ever heard refer so openly to sexual matters were his mistresses, women he had chosen for their forthright appreciation of the pleasures of the flesh. Of course, they had never waxed indignant on the subject. He repressed another laugh at the sight of his new wife crossly exclaiming at her lack of knowledge.

He considered the possibility that remedying her ignorance in this area might not be the chore he had expected it to be. Milky virgins held no appeal for him, but the flashes of spirit he had seen last night and just now intrigued him.

And for once, she wore something that suited
her. That blue rig she wore did something to make her eyes look deeper, and her skin didn’t look so sallow. With her hair pulled back into a glossy chignon at the nape of her neck, she looked quite elegant.

For the first time, he wondered how it must feel to be ordered about so constantly. His family treated their servants better than the Quinns treated their daughter. The image of his sturdy Scottish retainers faced with his mother-in-law’s pretentions brought a smile to his face.

   The Quinn family yacht ferried them across the Hudson River to New Jersey, where they entered a second carriage, decorated with greens and flowers to match those in the church earlier. Several miles later, they arrived at one of the least fashionable Quinn mansions.

Diantha craned her neck to see Cliff Heights through the avenue of trees lining the drive. Her mother had wanted to build a grand home on Long Island, but her husband, in a rare show of sentiment, selected a location in his home state. She and her brothers had always loved it.

The carriage pulled to a stop. Kieran stepped out, assisting her to the ground before he gazed up at the house. Situated on a hill, it overlooked the Hudson, and beyond it, Manhattan Island.

Beside him, Diantha couldn’t hide a grin. “It’s quite dreadful isn’t it?”

“How many different architectural styles am I
looking at?” He murmured the question under his breath as the butler sailed forward to meet them.

“I counted six once.” As she replied, Diantha resigned herself to a tedious speech. She tensed as her husband assumed his usual air of cool hauteur.

She turned her attention to the white-haired servant. After greeting him, she managed to deflect most of his welcome speech and they soon sat down to dinner in a room that would not have looked out of place in a baronial hall in Europe.

   Despite Mrs. Quinn’s assurance that they would be served only a modest repast, the footmen presented them with julienne soup, followed by stuffed cod and braised goose. Accompaniments consisted of potatoes Marie and carrots in dill sauce. Kieran mentally shook his head at the stupidity of serving a full meal to people who had spent most of the day eating. Across the table, he noticed his bride accepted only token offerings of each dish and hardly touched those.

In the presence of the footmen behind their chairs, the butler and the wine steward, he could hardly ask if she still suffered ill effects from the night before. However, he did take a small risk as he watched her toy with a dish of stewed plums.

“Do you not care for sweets?” So absorbed was she in swirling the fragrant pieces of fruit about that he had to repeat the question.

“Oh!” She focused on him as though remembering he sat across from her. “Forgive me, I must have been in a brown study.” She gave him a rueful
smile. “My mother will tell you I am all too fond of desserts, sir. I am just not very hungry this evening.”

Despite the smile and tranquil tone, she regarded him with an air of nervousness. As she bent to her food once more, he noted the pale lips and trembling fingers. He confirmed his suspicions by nodding to the steward. “I believe I will take a brandy while Lady Rossburn retires.”

A harsh clatter rang through the room as the spoon dropped from his wife’s fingers into the figured porcelain bowl. She stared at the tablecloth where a splatter of the syrup made a rose-colored splotch on the fine damask. Under his eyes, she collected herself and allowed the footman to pull her chair back from the table.

“If you will excuse me, my lord.” With a small curtsey, she followed the footman out of the room, exhibiting all the enthusiasm of one mounting the block to the guillotine.

He watched the dark paneled door close behind her before accepting the proffered snifter. He waved away the bottle. The poor girl had had a devil of a day. He took a deep pull on his glass. No need to keep her in suspense.

   Her mother had assigned the master suite to the newlyweds. After they helped her change into her nightgown of satin with lace inserts, the giggling maids brushed out her hair and settled Diantha into her mother’s gilded bed. Diantha dismissed them as soon as they finished putting away the velvet traveling dress. Refusing to sit there like a sacrificial
lamb, she climbed down to pace the floor in front of the fireplace.

She whirled at the creak of the door, only to find the housekeeper waiting to ask if she needed anything.

Only the carriage
. She bit back the words unsaid and assured the woman that she was fine. Raising a single eyebrow, the woman curtsied and left the room. The click of the shutting door echoed in the girl’s mind like a tolling bell.

Gripping her hands in front of her stomach, she tried to pull herself together. “Women have survived whatever it is for eons. You will too. Now stop being such a coward.”

“I’ve never thought you cowardly.”

Lord Rossburn stood in the connecting doorway between their rooms.

Diantha swallowed hard and took in his appearance.

He shifted on his feet, which she noticed were bare, no doubt the reason she had not heard him enter. Looking up toward his face, the triangle of bare flesh below the hollow of his throat riveted her gaze. She gulped as a wave of warmth suffused her body. His hair had loosened from the brushed back style he had worn it in. For the first time she noticed it had a distinct wave. To her relief, he did not wear a nightcap.