Rory’s initial reaction was relief. He had no desire to
waste an evening making polite conversation with the same people who would have
seen him hanged for a Jacobite. But as Rory watched the rise and fall of her
breasts in that shimmering gown, his next reaction was purely jealous. He’d be
damned if he’d let her out of the house like that unless he were at her side to
black the eye of any man daring to look too closely.
“I’ll be ready shortly.” He swung out of the room toward the
chamber he used as his.
Alyson stared after him with amazement. To have Rory
glowering at her all evening was enough to cause alarm, but even worse, she
could not contain her excitement at having him at her side. This past week, he
had spent the evenings out of the house, and she feared he had found a mistress.
At least this night he would be with her and not the other woman.
Unwilling to sort out such complex emotions, Alyson
retreated behind her wall of vagary.
Despite Rory’s attempts to keep her at his side, she dived
into the swirl of dancers, enjoying the popularity she’d never experienced at
home. Rory glared at the effusive compliments her companions simpered, but
there was little he could do to stop her from dancing.
Rory finally quit the dance floor and occupied his time with
a halfhearted game of cards. The conversation at a neighboring table kept him
amused as some half-drunken young man quoted Macpherson’s so-called Highland
poetry. He recognized Samuel Johnson’s rasping voice wittily criticizing the
spouted nonsense. Unfortunately, neither was sufficient to distract him from a
second conversation behind him.
“Who would believe all that beauty would possess so much
wealth? Had I known, I would have been tempted to abduct her myself.”
Drunken laughter met this idle jest. “Lud, for all that
wealth, I would even endure a fool. Have you noticed how she looks right
through you, as if you wasn’t there? I almost thought a ghost had appeared over
my shoulder. Deuced spooky, if you ask me.”
Rory’s hands tightened around his cards. He wasn’t known in
these circles, and he doubted that the speakers would even recognize his name,
but they had certainly identified Alyson as clearly as if they had used hers.
He clenched his teeth and held his peace.
“You must be losing your touch, Trevor. I knew a time when
you wouldn’t let a woman like that out of your sight until you had her in bed.
Are you telling us a heathen Scot has more to offer than you?”
Raucous laughter filled the air. Rory folded his cards and
laid them on the table. When he glanced up, he found the elder statesman of
literature watching him with cynical curiosity. Johnson didn’t say a word as
the table of young rakes continued their drunken conversation. The other card
players at the table simply counted Rory out and proceeded with their gambling.
“I’ll wager you’ll not get any further with her than I!” the
first young blade declared hotly. “She’s daft as a Bedlamite. You could call
her a blue-eyed mule, and she wouldn’t bat an eyelash. I’d like to know how
that heathen husband of hers talks her into bed, or if he even bothers. As
heavy as his pockets are now, he could buy ten mistresses and not notice the
cost.”
More laughter greeted this sally, but the second young rake
took him seriously. “You’re on, Trevor. I’ll wager I can have Our Lady of the
Melting Eyes in my arms within the hour, and in my bed before the week’s out.”
Rory turned in his chair to observe this self-confident
speaker as the wagers were thrown on the table amid much jesting. Rory’s lips
curled in disdain at the sight of the overdressed peacock who fancied himself
as Alyson’s lover. It wouldn’t even be amusing to run him through with his
sgian dubh
—the dandy’s veins would
probably bleed water.
Rory started to rise, but a heavy hand rested on his
shoulder. He turned a skeptical look to the stout old man bracing himself
against the table. “Sir?”
“You wouldn’t be about to do something rash, now, would you?
I understand the Scots are a barbaric race, but you look a gentleman to me.”
Rory watched as the young bucks rose en masse to follow
their leader in pursuit of new amusement. He lifted a sardonic eyebrow. “Dr.
Johnson, am I correct?” At the man’s nod, Rory offered his arm. “I understand
you enjoy a good wager. I’ll gamble fifty guineas that young dandy won’t persuade
my wife any farther than off the dance floor. Care to join me?”
Chuckling and wielding his walking stick, the man of letters
followed him out. “Your wife Scots too?”
“Half, by birth. All, by temperament.” Rory stalked his
prey, keeping well behind them as the foolish dandies spread out along a wall
of windows overlooking the terrace and the garden beyond.
The peacock homed in on Alyson. Rory could see her checking
her dance card with a puzzled frown, then gazing blankly as the young man
persuaded her next partner to give up this dance.
“Lovely, she is. I always had an eye for a pretty face. I
understand it’s another language entirely in Scotland. I’ve been wondering if
it wouldn’t be worth looking into.”
“The old language is still spoken in the farther regions of
the Highlands,” Rory said. “Education is not yet available to us all, the same
as in England. I understand the Cornish often speak a dialect not found in your
dictionary.”
The English ignorance of his homeland never failed to amaze
Rory, but he was willing to be patient while he waited for this dance to end.
The steps of the minuet were harmless enough. He could afford patience, though
he would very much like to eliminate the smirk on the face of Alyson’s partner.
The desultory discussion of language ended with the music.
Gauging the direction in which the dandy led Alyson, Rory followed in his wake,
not caring if his elderly companion followed or not.
The couple strolled toward a wall of glass doors opening onto
the terrace. Not far from the doors rested a jardinière of ferns on a tall
pillar. Rory leaned unobtrusively against the pillar, hidden by the velvet
draperies over the wall of glass. Crossing his arms, he waited as the bewigged
and bejeweled rake led Alyson toward the terrace doors.
She appeared bewildered at whatever nonsense the man spouted.
Rory’s lips curved as he watched her lovely hands flutter out of the impudent
man’s reach. His smile broadened when Alyson noticed him by the ferns. Her
bewilderment disappeared, replaced by that heart-stopping smile she always bestowed
on him. It crippled Rory with longing, even though she meant nothing by it.
What her smile did to her companion was worth watching. Rory
waited to see what happened.
Instead of following her partner out the door he held open, Alyson
drifted past the dandy. His self-confident smile slipped away in confusion as
she turned her smile toward the ferns rather than on himself. He attempted to
redirect her to the garden but Alyson shook him off.
“There you are, Rory. I thought myself completely deserted.
Is Deirdre ready to leave?”
Rory stepped from the shadows to take her hand. He heard
Johnson chuckling behind him, but his senses were filled by a cloud of soft
perfume and the shine of blue-gray eyes. Gentle hands clasped his arm while she
ignored her protesting partner and waited for Rory to introduce his friend.
“Dr. Johnson has an interest in language, lass, if you would
speak with him a moment.” He gave her hand up to his companion. “My wife, Lady
Alyson Maclean.”
Without further explanation, Rory stepped away from the
pillar to intercept the dandy and his approaching cohorts. “Sir, I would have a
word with you.” Rory’s cold tone made it clear that his was more than a polite
request.
The dandy gazed insolently at Rory’s unadorned plain navy
coat and unpowdered queue and sneered. “I’m certain you would, but I have more
pressing business.”
He attempted to push past, but Rory caught his shoulder. “The
only business you will need pressed is your clothes when I am done with you.” With
a negligible shove, he sent the man reeling through the open door to the
terrace.
Fully aware of their onlookers, Rory took his time and held
his anger in tight rein. “I would take offense at your using my wife as a
subject for speculation, but you weren’t worth the challenge. But just in case
you think I take the matter lightly, I will leave you with one reminder.”
Rory had backed the man against the terrace wall. Ignoring
sputtering protests, he caught the peacock’s embroidered lapels in both fists
and lifted the dandy into the air. Before anyone could interfere, Rory tipped
him over the wall and into the shrubbery below.
Dusting his hands off and straightening his coat, Rory raised
a quizzical eyebrow at the elegantly garbed gentlemen staring at him. Over the
cries of the furious dandy below, he announced, “As a heathen Scot, I reserve
my claymore for the field of battle, but I would be happy to meet any of you
gentlemen there, should you abuse my wife’s name again. Now, if you will excuse
me . . .”
He stalked past his audience, leaving them to stare in
amazement at the scene just inside the windows where Rory’s supposedly daft
heiress was in animated conversation with the intellectual Dr. Johnson.
As he joined his wife, Rory heard one of the peacock’s
friends crow: “That’s ten quid, Neville. The lady has a penchant for heathen
Scots and dirty old men. You’ll not get near her again.”
The curses below multiplied with the sounds of laughter
above. Rory merely offered his arm to his wife without looking back.
In silent agreement, they bade farewell to their hostess and
ordered the carriage around.
Alyson sent her silent husband a sidelong glance as he
waited for the carriage to appear. She wasn’t quite certain what he had said to
the obnoxious young man he had taken outside, but she could see no anger in him.
She simply enjoyed this opportunity to be with her husband and act as if they
were a normal married couple.
Once inside the carriage, it was another matter entirely.
Deirdre’s equipment was narrow and confined, and even though Rory sat across
from her, their knees were constantly bumping. This proximity was too similar
to their first encounter. Alyson sought a topic of conversation to ease their
ride through the darkened city streets.
“Have you known Dr. Johnson long?” she tried tentatively.
“Just this evening. I thought perhaps you might be familiar
with some of his works.”
“I fear he is a little above my head, but I would like to
see his dictionary. Imagine trying to write down all the words in the language
and their meanings. It would take a lifetime.”
Rory made no reply to that, and Alyson pursed her lips and
stared at the street also. The one carriage lamp did little to define his
shadowed features, but she knew his face well. It was infinitely preferable to
stare at the street than to confront her emotions when she looked upon her
husband.
“I have not seen Cranville since the day we arrived.” Alyson
broached a subject she had contemplated uneasily for some time. “Do you think
he has returned to Cornwall?”
“If he has any sense at all, yes, he ought to be in Cornwall
by now.”
Alyson scanned his face in the darkness. He was watching
her, waiting for her to ask the next question. Annoyed that he offered nothing
unless she pried it from him first, she contemplated asking nothing, but her curiosity
was too strong.
“What did you threaten him with?”
“Debtors’ prison. I bought up all his debts, then offered
him a quarterly stipend from your grandfather’s trust if he would go back to
Cornwall. He protested, but I believe Mr. Farnley convinced him I am not quite
the blackguard he envisioned, at least where you are concerned.”
Alyson tried to sort out this information, but she
understood only that her cousin would not bother her again as long as he was
well paid. She wrinkled up her nose. “I think I would rather see him in prison.”
“I gathered that.” Rory gave her a wry smile. “But it would
in all likelihood entail my joining him if he chose to return the charges, and
then he could file suit against the will. I didn’t think you’d object to the
first, but the latter would cost you more in legal fees than you are currently
paying the villain.”
He had not consulted her in this use of her money, but it
was his money now, she understood. He could do whatever he liked with it. She
could only be grateful that he didn’t choose to pension her off as he had
Cranville.
“I trust you have collected on my voucher and destroyed it
by now. I would hate to have you holding that threat over my head again,” she
said with anger.
Quietly he replied, “I gave the voucher to Mr. Farnley. You
need not worry more about it.”
He made no excuses and no apologies, Alyson noticed. He had
just stepped in and taken over her life, and expected her to accept it without
question or complaint. And so far, she had. Closing her eyes in an agony of
despair, she fought back the tears. All she had wanted was a home and someone
to love. How had it come to this?
The carriage wheel hit a large hole, throwing them together
with a jolt. Rory braced his feet and caught Alyson by the waist. The intimate
placement of his hands sent a nervous chill down her spine. She shivered and
tore her gaze away from the dark desire heating her husband’s eyes. Not again.
Never again. She shrank back against the seat.
Rory yanked his hands away and shoved them in his pockets.
The sooner he left her, the better it would be for both of them.
The seamstress frowned as she tried to lace Alyson’s gown
so the final fitting could be made. “If madam would hold her breath a little
more . . .” she suggested.
Absently staring at the window beyond her mirror, Alyson
tried to oblige. The modiste stepped forward, enraged, to box the servant’s
ear.