Love Me Forever (3 page)

M
egan 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 trying 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—”

“That’s fine, fine—”

“It means we’re going to have a house full of guests again.”

“When have we ever not had a house full?” Devlin replied dryly.

She chuckled. With more than a hundred servants under their roof, a house full was a bit of an understatement. Yet he was referring to guests, and he was quite right. So many people had occasion to do business with Devlin, and since Sherring Cross was quite a ways from London, when Devlin was in residence, they came to him and all tended to stay over, some for weeks at a time, before heading back to the city.

“What I meant to suggest, before you attempted to ignore it,” she said with an admonishing look for his “fine, fine,” “is Margaret’s nephew is husband material, I believe. We could well avoid inviting the entire ton here, if he and Lady Kimberly take to each other—as long as
we’re going to have him in residence for a while anyway.”

“Excellent.” He smiled. “I trust you can see to it that they
do
‘take to each other’?”

“I suppose I can put some effort into that. Much easier than planning several balls and dozens of smaller affairs—all of which you would have to attend.”

He looked aghast at the very thought. “I believe I shall take up residence in London for the duration.”

She gave him a thoughtful look. “Now that you mention it, it would be easier to plan these things for London. Less likelihood of
everyone
staying over.”

He quickly changed his mind. “On second thought, I’ll remain here in the country.”

She smiled innocently. “As you wish. If you want to put up with thirty or forty people at our breakfast table each morning—”

The look he gave her now was quite sour. “You’re determined to involve me in this, aren’t you?”

“Absolutely.”

Devlin sighed. “I believe I’ll have a talk with Aunt Margaret about this nephew she acquired through her marriage. If he’s suitable, and I can’t see how he would be otherwise, I’ll put my own effort into matching him with the earl’s daughter.” He gave Megan a brief hug. “An excellent idea you had there, sweetheart. Let’s get this thing accomplished with all due speed, shall we?”

She hugged him back, not so briefly. “And then maybe we can have a vacation ourselves for a little privacy, just you, me, and the baby? After
all, we haven’t had any real time to ourselves since Justin was born. It’s been months now, and people are still showing up to get a look at your heir. Perhaps we could hie off to that cottage of yours near Bath?”

He chuckled. “That cottage is twenty rooms, with a full staff. Hardly conducive to privacy, sweetheart.”

She frowned, having pictured something much smaller. Scratching that idea, she suggested an alternative. “Actually, Sherring Cross is large enough that we could probably move to one of the unused wings and no one would ever know the three of us were there.”

He glanced down at her to determine if she were joking. Since her expression gave him no clue, he said, “Was that a complaint about the size of my home?”

“Not a’tall. Tiffany is the one who calls Sherring Cross a mausoleum, not I.”

Tiffany was Megan’s childhood friend, and, in fact, they’d both been children the first time they saw Sherring Cross. Tiffany really did consider it a mausoleum, but then, they’d been truly amazed at the size of the ducal estate.

“I’ve always considered it the perfect size myself,” Megan added, “even if I do get lost occasionally.”

“You do not,” he protested.

“Only once or twice.”

“Megan—”

“All right, only once, and not for long.” She grinned.

She adored teasing her husband, she really did. It worked well to get him out of the stuffy, pompous manner that had been his usual demeanor—
before he met her—which he sometimes fell back into from habit. She much preferred the hot-tempered, argumentative stableboy she thought she was marrying when they’d eloped to Gretna Green. Quite a surprise to find out that she’d married the very duke—sight unseen—that she’d set her cap for last year.

“You know,” Devlin said now, in response to her teasing, “I haven’t explored the back wings of Sherring Cross in some time. They were quite private, as I recall. You’re absolutely sure they still are?”

The look in his turquoise eyes told her exactly in what direction his thoughts had gone. A tiny thrill shot through her, as it usually did whenever he looked at her with heat in his eyes. A tryst, in the middle of the day, in an unused portion of the house, sounded quite enjoyable.

“Why don’t we go and find out?” she suggested, her voice a bit huskier than it had been.

“My thought exactly.”

I
t was the grandest edifice Kimberly had ever set eyes on. She’d been to Victoria’s palace to be presented to the queen the last time she had gone to London with her mother, so she was familiar with grand edifices of the royal kind. But this, Sherring Cross, the ducal estate of Ambrose Devlin St. James, outshone any palace in sheer size, stretching out over acre after acre of beautifully manicured lawns. It was intimidating to say the least, and she was already nervous enough.

The more she had thought about her reason for being here, the less she liked it. Imagine, asking someone of such consequence as the Duke of Wrothston to assist in finding her a husband. Her father’s gall knew no bounds. And His Grace, the duke, couldn’t be any more pleased about doing this favor than she was to reap the benefits.

Nor had it been a pleasant journey getting here. It wasn’t enough that she was bone-weary from three straight days of traveling, but during that time, the carriage also lost a wheel and she had
to stand around for hours while that was fixed. Then the weather turned even colder than normal for this time of year, and the little coal-burner she had in the carriage wasn’t enough to take the chill off.

Then she had a bad experience at one of the inns she stayed at, where a group of rowdy Scots in the room next to hers kept her up half the night. She had nothing against Scots herself. It was her father who denounced them all because he blamed them for the death of the woman he loved. A death that in her opinion, and the opinion of the courts, had been accidental.

Even having been reared with his sentiments—he’d never kept his undying love for another woman from his wife; it was something he brought up quite frequently, in fact—she wasn’t affected by his prejudices, likely because she felt no true closeness toward her father. Actually, she had on occasion felt that that other woman was lucky she had escaped a life with the earl, even through death. But those occasions were rare, and usually when she really detested something her father had done.

But she did have something against blatant public disturbances of the kind those Scotsmen had created that night at the inn. Three complaints to the manager and those men still didn’t quiet down. But at least her father hadn’t been there to cause a scene. As much as he hated Scots, it would have turned into an embarrassing situation, rather than just an annoying one.

It was bad enough that she had herself snapped at one of those Scots when she ran into him in the hall the next morning. The poor fellow had barely had his eyes open yet, but they were agog
by the time she flounced off, after having vented her spleen on him. It wasn’t until hours later, back on the road, that she regretted her rash words. She so rarely lost her temper. Being tired, and therefore irritable, was no excuse.

And her new maid was no help. Mary took to traveling even worse than Kimberly did. Her constant complaints at every little bump, delay, or drop in the weather would have tried a saint. But at least
she
had been able to get some rest each night in the rooms she shared with Kimberly. The girl slept sounder than the dead.

And if all that wasn’t enough, Kimberly had caught a cold. Her nose was likely as red as a cherry from all the sneezing she’d been doing. Her body ached from the jarring ride. Her head felt like it was splitting apart. And protocol insisted she put her best foot forward to make a good impression on Their Graces? That was a laugh. They’d take one look at her and wonder what they’d gotten themselves into.

Yet there was no help for it. She’d arrived at Sherring Cross. Footmen in fancy livery were already stepping forward to assist her out of her carriage. And the massive front doors were swung wide. There was really nothing to do but step through them.

Under the circumstances, she had hoped, prayed even, that she would be shown to a room and could be presented to Their Graces after she’d had sufficient time to recover. No such luck. The Duchess of Wrothston herself was standing in the large entryway to greet her.

Meeting for the first time, they were both, to a degree, dumbstruck, Kimberly because she’d had no idea that St. James’s new duchess was so petite
or so incredibly beautiful. But she should have guessed. She’d met the duke some ten years ago when he was but twenty, and even though a young girl would take little note of such things, she remembered him as being extremely handsome. So it stood to reason that his wife would be lovely. But this lovely?

Megan St. James defined beauty, albeit, a bit vividly. Her bright copper-red hair wasn’t a bit fashionable, yet it suited her perfectly. Her midnight blue eyes were warm, friendly. Her figure, after her first child, couldn’t have been altered much, it was so slim and ideally curved.

Beside her, Kimberly felt like a gangly dowd. Granted, there had never been much call to dress in high-fashion in her small town in Northumberland. And she had only just put away her mourning wardrobe, which meant what clothes she had left were several years old and didn’t take into account the weight she’d lost. Not that that was noticeable in the bulky winter wool coat she was traveling in; at least it hadn’t been until one of the footmen requested her coat, and wouldn’t go away until she shrugged out of it and handed it over.

As for Megan, now that her initial surprise was over, she was thinking that a new gown, cinched in properly, a new hairstyle that wasn’t so plain, and a little less color in the nose would do wonders for Lady Kimberly. She wasn’t going to be the season’s new reigning beauty, and that was too bad, but it couldn’t be helped. Not every young miss joining the marriage mart each year could be.

Things could be worse, Megan decided. At least the lady wasn’t downright ugly. Kimberly
Richards was just, well…average-looking came to mind. And she did have nice eyes of a pure dark green, really beautiful the more one looked into them. It just might take a little longer than they had imagined to get her married.

Kimberly, to make her first impression more memorable, sneezed quite loudly at that point. And worse, she discovered she had left her lace handkerchief in the carriage. She was about to panic as she felt her nose starting to run, when Megan’s dimples suddenly showed up in a smile so stunning, Kimberly didn’t even think to wonder about it.

“A cold?” Megan said, her tone on the hopeful side. “That expla—ah
is
a shame. But expected, with the dreadful weather we’ve been having.”

Kimberly did wonder about that smile now, and the tone accompanying it, which belied any sympathy implied in her hostess’s words. In fact she stiffened, somewhat offended. Then she decided that before she said something she would undoubtedly regret, she ought to give herself a few moments to consider that she just might be so exhausted from her trip that she was imagining things.

To that end, she said, “I’ll be right back, Your Grace. I seem to have left something in my carriage.”

Without further explanation and giving the duchess no opportunity to stop her, she turned to open the door that had been closed behind her. The carriage would still be there, since Mary was overseeing the unloading of their baggage. And that was all that Kimberly expected to find when she opened the door. That wasn’t the case, however.

Standing there, about to knock with a very large fist that was drawn back just before it reached her forehead, since she’d taken the place of the door, was a very fascinating man. He was tall, as in very tall, as in approaching seven feet tall. And if that wasn’t enough to hold Kimberly momentarily spellbound, he was also extremely handsome.

He had dark auburn hair, clubbed back to keep the rowdy wind from playing havoc with it. A brief ray of sunshine, come and gone in a flash, showed mere hints of red in those thick locks. There had been laughter in his light green eyes that didn’t last long as she continued to stare. And he wasn’t just tall, but brawny huge, with legs like tree stumps, and a barrel-wide chest, all tightly wrought in muscle rather than excess flesh.

“Instead of gawking, lass, why dinna you step aside tae let me in?”

His voice was deep, rumbling, and surprisingly lyrical in its lightly accented Scottish brogue, but at the moment, the tone was quite curt. He was a man who didn’t like being gawked at apparently. But how could anyone help doing so? Kimberly had never seen anyone that tall, let alone that handsome—well, with the possible exception of the Duke of Wrothston—and she doubted anyone else had either.

She was so flustered she didn’t speak or move, and when she felt the tickle on her upper lip that suggested her nose wasn’t going to wait for that handkerchief she’d been after, she automatically lifted her arm to wipe her sleeve across the area. It was a no-no of the worst kind, a mistake a child would make, not a grown woman, and she didn’t
even realize she’d done it until she heard him snort.

Her embarrassment was made a hundred times worse by that sound. And it was followed by his hands attaching to her waist and physically setting her out of his way.

But her hot cheeks, now as bright as her nose, went entirely unnoticed, due to the Duchess of Wrothston and the newcomer finally seeing each other, now that his path was cleared. Kimberly, still gawking at him, immediately noted his delight at seeing the duchess. Pleasure and joy fairly oozed out of him, his smile brilliant, the laughter back in his light green eyes. She expected him to dance a jig at any moment.

Megan St. James, on the other hand, was not. “Good God, the Scots reaver!” she said with a hand drawn up to her chest. “You haven’t come to rob us, have you?”

His smile turned abruptly sensual, and it had the oddest effect on Kimberly, sort of like a mild punch in the gut, just enough to make her lose her breath, but not enough to hurt. And it wasn’t even directed at her.

“If you’ll be letting me steal your heart, darlin’, aye, that I have,” he replied, then, “Faith—the bonniest lass in all of England living under the same roof wi’ my Aunt Margaret? I canna be that lucky.”

Megan was shaking her head in denial after hearing that. “
You’re
Margaret’s nephew? Impossible. We can’t be that unlucky. The relatives Margaret gained through her marriage are MacGregors, not Mac”—she paused to try and remember the name he had told her so long
ago—“Duell, wasn’t it? Yes, Lachlan MacDuell, you said you were.”

“Och, now, you dinna expect a reaver tae hand o’er his real name, d’you, when he’s in the process of reaving?” He asked that with an unremitting grin. “Nay, I’m a MacGregor,
the
MacGregor, actually, present laird of my clan—and the Lachlan was correct. ’Tis pleased I am that you remember.”

That was still blatantly obvious. He couldn’t stop grinning. Also obvious now was Megan’s displeasure at this unexpected turn of events.

“This won’t do a’tall, MacGregor,” she warned him. “Devlin will never permit you to stay in his home. He didn’t like you one little bit, if you’ll recall.”

“Devlin Jefferys? What’s he got to do with Sherring Cross?”

“Perhaps the fact that he owns it?” she said a bit dryly, before she explained. “And Devlin isn’t a Jefferys. Like you, he also had a fondness back then for using names that weren’t his own.”

The man suddenly looked appalled. “Wait a moment, you dinna mean tae say your blasted Englishmon is my aunt’s grandnephew, Ambrose St. James?”

“Shush, he really hates that first name of his, and yes, he most certainly is.”

Now he groaned. “Och, please, darlin’, say you didna marry the mon.”

“I most certainly did,” Megan huffed.

His groan turned into a growl, which abruptly ended with another smile and a shrug. “No matter. I’ve surmounted worse obstacles, that I have.”

Megan’s eyes narrowed on him. “If that means
what I think it means, you can forget it this instant. I
am
married, and
very
happily so,” she stressed. “Furthermore, I can almost guarantee you won’t be staying at Sherring Cross as you’d planned. And besides, I could have sworn Margaret said you were in the market for a wife.”

The look he gave Megan said clearly that he’d found the only wife he could ever want. It caused the duchess to blush. Kimberly, seeing that look, was annoyed for some reason, although it was no business of hers. She tried clearing her throat as a reminder that there was a witness to this very personal conversation that she definitely wanted to end, but she still went unnoticed.

“Whether I stay here or near here, I’ll be pursuing my heart’s desire. I’d be a fool not tae.”

“You’d be a fool if you do,” Megan replied, then added with a sigh, “Dense, that’s what you are,” and a shake of her head, as if she simply couldn’t understand it. “Just as dense as you were a year ago, when I told you I was spoken for, but you refused to listen.”

“Determined,” he corrected with still another grin. “And what’s one wee husband matter when two hearts were meant for each other?”

At that, Megan rolled her eyes. Kimberly, getting more annoyed by the moment, cleared her throat again, much louder. This time Megan heard her and glanced her way, though her look was totally confused for a moment, as if she couldn’t for the life of her remember who Kimberly was or what she was doing there.

And then it must have dawned on her, because she gasped. “Oh, my dear Lady Kimberly! Please forgive me for my distraction. You must be exhausted from your journey, and here I’ve kept
you standing there while dealing with this incorrigible Scot—” She paused to give Lachlan a reproving glare, which placed the entire blame where it belonged, at least in her opinion. Then to Kimberly again, she made a sincere apology: “I’m so sorry. Come along and I’ll show you to the room that has been chosen for you, and we’ll see to that cold you’ve caught as well. As it happens, I know that Duchy, Devlin’s grandmother, has some wonderful remedies—”

Lachlan interrupted at that point, as Megan started to lead a relieved Kimberly away. “Ah, darlin’, don’t be leaving me yet. “Tis been way tae long since I’ve basked in your glorious sunshine.”

Megan snorted beneath her breath, loud enough for only Kimberly to hear. She continued to lead Kimberly away for a moment, but must have thought better of it.