Authors: Highland Spirits
The new Lady Kintyre looked particularly lovely, he thought, in a gown of white lustring with elbow-length sleeves, the whole embroidered and betasseled with silver, its petticoats elegantly festooned over pannier hoops. With her golden curls unpowdered and loose beneath a lace cap, she looked childlike, innocent, and vulnerable. As small as she was, with her tiny waist and her small, fragile-looking hands in their short white gloves, he felt like a giant beside her. Listening to her gentle voice as she repeated her vows, he had felt a need stronger than any he had experienced before to protect her and keep her safe from harm. Even now, as she stood chatting with friends and family, she looked like a sprite dressed in silvery-white moonbeams—as fascinating as any moon creature could be.
“Michael, dear.” His aunt’s voice sounded as if it were far away.
He blinked, then smiled at her. “Ma’am?”
“Your bride is beautiful,” Lady Marsali said. “I wondered if you had lost your senses, but she is a dear young woman and, I think, quite worthy of you.”
“I just hope that I may prove as worthy of her, ma’am.”
“There is naught amiss with you that settling your affairs will not cure,” Lady Marsali said. “I trust that you have arranged all with Sir Renfrew Campbell.”
“I sent word to him Wednesday of my intent to repay him before next week is out,” Michael said, “but I have received no reply.”
“It would be exactly like that aggravating man to have journeyed out of town just when you have gained the wherewithal to repay him.”
“Chalmers delivered my message directly to Campbell’s lodgings, into his servant’s hand,” Michael said. “I should think that if he had gone out of town, the servant would have said as much.”
“Aye, that’s true. Do you think he means to be difficult, dear?”
“I don’t know.” It was precisely what he feared, but there was no point in saying so, not to her and not at a moment when it could accomplish nothing other than to spoil her pleasure in the day.
Lady Marsali regarded him speculatively for a long moment, but when she spoke, it was not to press him further about Sir Renfrew Campbell. Instead, she said, “Cousin Bella and I mean to take Bridget with us to see
Hamlet
at Covent Garden, and then to put in an appearance at Lady Coulter’s cotillion ball.”
Michael nodded, not really caring where his sister went, so long as he did not have to deal with her just yet.
“She has not behaved well,” Lady Marsali said. “I mean to speak to her.”
“If you are hoping, ma’am, that by doing so you will save me the trouble, you can spare your breath. That I have not already made my feelings on the subject plain to her is due only to the solemnity of this occasion.”
“My dear, she is merely jealous, I think. She has had you all to herself for so long that it is not odd if she should resent sharing you with your bride.”
“She wants beating,” Michael retorted, “and if I had my way, she would certainly go nowhere tonight but to her bedchamber. Indeed, I should like to pack her right back to Mingary.”
“I do not really think it would be wise to order her home to George Street just yet, however,” Lady Marsali said with a worried expression.
“No, that would be unfair to Miss Mac—” He broke off, realizing that Penelope was no longer Miss MacCrichton.
Lady Marsali chuckled. “For months after our marriage, your late uncle introduced me as Lady Susan anytime he did not simply say ‘my wife.’ It happens to most men, my dear. You are quite right, however, not to saddle dearest Penelope with Bridget and her megrims before they have been sisters for one whole day.”
“I agree, ma’am, so I thank you for keeping Bridget out of my way. She will not be pleasant company for you, I believe. She is not overfond of Shakespeare.”
“Well, I overheard Mr. Coombs saying that he and MacCrichton mean to attend the play, so I dare swear she will agree in a trice to go with us. Perhaps we might even ask the young gentlemen to escort us.”
Foreseeing that his aunt would have his sister well in hand, Michael turned his attention back to his bride, who had wandered away, chatting. As he made his way through the guests toward her, she saw him and smiled.
Moving nearer, he reached a hand toward her bare shoulder, then realized he might startle her, even embarrass her. Letting the hand fall, he bent close instead and said quietly, “It is nearly six o’clock, madam; time to take our departure.”
She turned her head, and her eyes twinkled. “You are the first to call me ‘madam,’ sir. Sir Horace was first to call me Lady Kintyre, and I must say, it is odd to hear people calling me by another name, for I feel like the same person I was when I woke up this morning.”
“Well, it is your name now,” Michael said lightly. “You had better grow accustomed to hearing it.”
“So we have been telling her,” Lady Rothwell said. “Is your carriage at the door, sir? If it is, I had better fetch Mary and Balcardane.”
“Aye, ma’am, it is,” Michael said. Offering his arm to Penelope, he said, “Will you come away with me now, madam wife?”
“Aye, sir, I will,” she said with another warm smile.
He knew she must be nervous, for what bride was not, but she looked calm and self-possessed. She placed a hand on his arm, resting her other hand on the swell of her pannier; and he escorted her to the grand stairway and down. Much of the company had managed to precede them, for they waited below.
Penelope hugged her brother and Lady Balcardane, then the dowager, before she turned to Balcardane and held out both hands to him. He drew her into an embrace, and to Michael’s astonishment there were tears in the other man’s eyes.
The earl relinquished her to Michael but said grimly, “Mind, you take good care of her, lad.”
“Aye, sir, I intend to,” Michael said.
The footman brought her mantle and draped it gently over her shoulders. Then her tiring woman appeared, carrying a small portmanteau; and a moment later, Michael, his bride, and her woman were in his coach, on the way to George Street. The day had seemed long, yet two hours remained before the sun would set.
They sat without speaking until the coach turned into Piccadilly. Then he said, “I did warn you that my cousin’s house is small, did I not?”
“Aye, sir,” she said. “Tell me about Mingary.”
He began by describing the castle, and before long, he was telling her about the people and the precious forested hills rising from the sea. She listened silently, but he could see that she was interested. “I hope you’ll like it there,” he said at last.
“I’m sure I will, sir. It sounds beautiful, does it not, Doreen?”
“Aye, mistress.”
When the coach drew to a halt in front of the house, Michael opened the door himself and put down the step. As he was helping Penelope to the pavement, Sal opened the front door and peered out, curiosity plain in every line of her body.
“Welcome, my lord,” she said as they approached, “and my lady.”
“This is Sal,” Michael said. “She is one of Cousin Bella’s servants. This is Lady Kintyre, Sal, and her woman, Doreen, who is to share your bedchamber.”
Sal grinned at Doreen. “Aye, me lord, we met when she brought some of her ladyship’s clothing and such to the house. Doreen, ye’ll be wanting to get your lady settled, I shouldn’t wonder. Come along with me, and I’ll show ye where we’ve put her things. Will ye be coming along up, your ladyship, or…” She paused tactfully.
Penelope looked at Michael.
“You may do as you like,” he said. “Cousin Bella insists that you treat this house as your own.”
“Then, if it please you, sir, I should like to change out of this dress into something more comfortable.”
“I like that dress,” he said.
She twinkled. “I hope that does not mean you want me to continue wearing it. The panniers are squashed from riding in the coach, and I’ve had my fill of hoops for the day. I’ve got a lovely
robe à l’anglaise
upstairs. Did I say that right?”
“Quite right,” he said.
“Well, I am never sure of French phrases,” she said. “I can read French well enough, but I’ve rarely had opportunity to speak with a Frenchman.”
“I like the way you speak.”
Her cheeks grew rosy. “Shall I go up with the maids, sir? I own, I feel a little strange invading your bedchamber.”
He arched his eyebrows, quizzing her. “Would you feel less strange about it if I were to accompany you?” He heard the teasing note in his voice and wished he could unsay the words. He did not wish to embarrass her.
To his surprise, she chuckled. “I suppose I asked for that,” she said. “If you do not mind, I shall go with Doreen and Sal now and hope that you left the room looking presentable. If you are anything like Chuff, and your man has not had time to tidy up after you, I shall have trouble finding my way about.”
He shook his head. “Not in that room, you won’t. It’s scarcely big enough to swing a cat.”
She wrinkled her nose at him, making him smile again.
“I believe I shall also make myself more comfortable,” he said. “I’ll go upstairs with you and see what arrangements Chalmers has made. I expect he will have relegated me to my dressing room, so you can have the bedchamber to yourself whilst he brushes this damned powder from my hair. I doubt that it will take as long as it will take you to change, but Sal can show you down to the drawing room. Perhaps, now that I think of it, you might like some wine, Miss Mac—”
“Yes, please,” she said, her eyes filling with laughter again. “Also, I did not eat much, sir, so perhaps if someone could find some bread and butter, or…” She paused hopefully.
Sal said, “I’ll see to that whilst ye dress, my lady.”
Michael followed them upstairs, marveling as he had before at the ease with which ladies with hoops and wide skirts managed the steps. He had been amazed at the speed with which most Londoners tripped up and down numerous flights of stairs many times a day. He was not unaccustomed to stairs himself, of course. Mingary possessed many, but one was not obliged frequently to run up and down them each day. Here in London, it seemed that whatever floor one was on, the thing one wanted was on another. He found the inconvenience annoying, but Cousin Bella seemed to think nothing of it. Clearly it did not dismay his bride, either.
He found himself looking forward to seeing how she would look in a
robe à l’anglaise.
The only time he had seen her without hoops was in her riding habit, and with its voluminous skirts, she might as well have been wearing a farthingale.
Upstairs they found Chalmers awaiting them outside the bedchamber door. “Begging your pardon, my lord,” he said after Michael had introduced Penelope, “but Miss Munn and I thought that perhaps you would like to use your dressing room whilst her ladyship uses the bedchamber. We have arranged a dressing table for her. I hope that will meet with your approval.”
“Yes, that will do very well,” Michael said. To Penelope, he said, “My dressing room is a pea-sized closet behind that next door. Another door leads from it into the bedchamber, but I shall leave you to Miss Munn for now and meet you downstairs at your convenience.”
Her lips twitched, and when he raised his eyebrows, she said, “It sounds strange to hear you call Doreen ‘Miss Munn.’ How her stature has increased! She will soon grow to be as high in the instep as Mary’s Ailis is.”
“I do not think you need worry about that,” he said, opening the door for her.
Twenty minutes later, when Michael entered the drawing room, he found the curtains drawn, candles burning in every wall sconce, food and wine on a side table, and a cheerful fire crackling on the hearth. Sending silent thanks to his aunt and Cousin Bella for their tactfulness in letting him and his bride have the house to themselves for the evening, he poured himself a glass of wine from the decanter on the table, and another glass for Penelope, then carried his to the fireplace.
Poking up the fire, he stood again and looked down into it, letting his thoughts about the day catch up with him. He told himself that it was not at all unusual for a man to marry for money, that wise and noble men did it every day of the week, that a sensible man did what was necessary, that it had certainly been necessary for him, and for Mingary.
Surely marrying Penelope for her money was no worse than when he had considered giving Bridget to Sir Renfrew Campbell or wedding her to young MacCrichton. That he had accepted her refusal to marry the former, and that she had convinced herself she was in love with the latter, hardly altered the fact that he had been willing to exploit her to repay a debt. If it made him uneasy to think he had married Miss MacCrichton—Penelope—to repay his debt to Campbell, would it not have been as bad or worse to have sold his sister for the same purpose?
With these thoughts for company, it was no wonder that his mood bordered on morose by the time his bride joined him in the drawing room. Hearing the rattle of the doorknob, followed by her gentle voice dismissing Sal, he turned and set down his glass, still half full of wine, on the mantel.
In the flickering candlelight, the soft, pale-yellow robe Penelope wore glowed like springtime sunshine spilling through a window. She paused inside the room, looking around at the jumble of furniture and gewgaws that Cousin Bella had collected. He waited for her reaction.
“My, this is quite cozy,” she said. “What a lot of interesting things your cousin has.”
“Would you like to see the rest of the house?”
“Not now, thank you. I’ve been standing a good part of the day, you know, and in truth, my shoes pinched dreadfully. They have the pointiest toes I ever saw, and though they are quite à la mode, I am glad to have them off my feet.” She put one dainty foot forward, revealing a wispy sandal. “I’m very glad that we did not accept any invitations for tonight. I believe I am quite worn out.”
“Come closer to the fire, then. Your feet will soon turn blue with cold.” He fetched her glass of wine from the table and handed it to her, feeling himself stir when her warm fingers touched his.
Pinkie’s breath caught in her throat, and she was glad he did not say anything or ask her to speak. When his fingers touched hers, it was as if a spark leapt between them, burning her—not painfully, like fire would burn, but in a different way, a nice way. She did not take the glass at once, so for moments—seemingly long moments—they held the glass together.