“Really? Which plan for land management does he follow?” As he spoke the words, Ian realized how foolish they were. A lady of the
ton
would not interest herself in her brother’s estate management.
“He has read several essays by the American, Edward Elliot, and the former President, George Washington. Robert leans toward their view on land management rather than the popular thinking currently held among English estate owners.”
Interesting
. “I dinna ken if I have heard of this Edward Elliot you speak of.”
“You’ll have to discuss the matter with my brother. He is also experimenting with a fertilizer combining fish heads and marl to improve his crop yield.” She spoke in a tone that implied she knew he would find that bit of information interesting.
She was right.
“Fascinating.” He had not heard of fish heads. Marl, on the other hand, was quite common. “Please go on.”
This time she did not stifle her laughter and once again his body reacted in a very physical manner. Even the knowledge that she was laughing at him did not diminish it.
What was it about the clear, honest sound that affected him so strongly?
* * *
Ian reclined in a comfortable chair in Finchley’s library. He sipped at brandy he had brought from his cellars at Graenfrae. His grandfather had let the tenants starve, but he had kept the wine cellars stocked.
“Thank you for inviting me to stay with you. My trip to London was no expected,” Ian said to Finchley.
“Not at all. Glad to be of service.” Finchley cleared his throat. “The earl was a good man. He’ll be sorely missed.”
Ian nodded his agreement. Despite his current anger at his stepfather, the earl’s absence would leave a permanent hole in Ian’s life. The Englishman had taken on the role of father seriously and treated Ian as a natural son until his death. He could even accept that his stepfather had intended the codicil to his will as a way of helping Ian, regardless of how much he disliked the notion of taking on a wife.
Finchley took a sip of his brandy. “You may live like a Puritan, but you certainly know how to stock your cellars.”
Ian grimaced at the other man’s implication that Graenfrae was too austere. “Do you think a lady would find the surroundings too simple?” Finchley gave him a startled look. “You’re planning on getting leg-shackled?”
“Aye.”
“Who’s the lucky gel?”
“I dinna ken.”
The other man’s eyes opened wider. “You don’t know?” Ian laughed mirthlessly. “No.” He told his friend the details of his stepfather’s will.
“You don’t say. That’s infamous.”
“Aye, ’tis infamous indeed, but true nonetheless.” Finchley shook his head. “What are you going to do?”
“I dinna ken.”
“But you
are
going to marry?”
“Aye. My tenants’ needs are great.”
“And you say you must marry an Englishwoman?”
“Aye.”
“Your mother or brother could recommend someone.” Ian grew cold at the thought of going to his brother for help. Innate loyalty toward his family had prevented Ian from even telling his closest friend about his brother’s betrayal. “I can find my own bride.”
“Do you have any possibilities?”
Ian shuddered when he thought of the few English ladies he knew. They lived near his brother and would expect to keep the family connection with someone as important as Lansing. “Nay. ’Tis why I have come to London for the Season.” Finchley nodded. “Plenty of gels eager to marry, eh what?”
“Perhaps you wouldna mind giving me some advice.”
“Whatever you need,” Finchley replied.
“I’ve made a list of requirements for a wife. You can help me determine if ladies are suitable. I dinna have time to waste with them if they are not.”
“Of course, of course. What are you looking for?” Ian retrieved the folded foolscap from his waistcoat pocket and handed it to Finchley. “I have one more to add. The lass needs to be practical.” Beginning to read, Finchley took a sip from his brandy. Suddenly he started coughing and choking. Ian jumped up to pat his friend’s back. “Are you all right, man?” Eyes watering, Finchley gained control of his paroxysms. “Yes.” He coughed again lightly. “Quite all right. Brandy went down wrong. That’s all.” Ian nodded. “What do you think? Will it be difficult to find a lady with those attributes?”
“Attributes? Oh, eh, no, of course not. Matter of fact, I can think of one right off.
Lady Annabelle. You met her today. Good sort, but she’s got some funny ideas.” He had been right. Annabelle was all that she seemed. And his body reacted to her in an unexpected, but wholly pleasant way. “What kind of funny ideas?”
“She’s a blue-stocking.” Finchley said it as if he was confessing that Lady Annabelle was not all that she should be.
To Ian’s way of thinking, Annabelle’s intelligence was not a shortcoming. “I dinna think her mind is filled with a bunch of silly romantic nonsense.”
Finchley shook his head violently, or as violently as his high pointed collar would allow. “She’s not romantical at all, don’t you know.” Ian smiled. Perhaps this trip to Town would not be so bad after all. He would get to know Annabelle better and if she met his requirements, they could be married and return before the spring lambing.
* * *
Annabelle watched the glittering crowd at Almack’s and tried to ignore the leap of her heart every time a new arrival entered. She must stop acting like a silly schoolgirl.
The Scottish laird most likely would not come. For the past two weeks, he had singled her out for attention whenever they attended the same affair and on one such occasion, he had told her that he no more cared for this bastion of the
ton
’s doings than she did. Since her first Season when she had been labeled
the Ordinary
, Annabelle had detested the midweek soirees.
The unimposing building and less than stellar décor served as a backdrop to the
ton
’s most initiated hunt—that for the advantageous marriage. Her aunt insisted they come each week. Although the rest of the
ton
considered Annabelle, at the age of four and twenty, to be firmly on the shelf, Lady Beauford would not give up hope of seeing her niece wed. Annabelle could have refused to attend the season at all, but that would have curbed her own plans.
Stifling an unladylike urge to yawn, she tried to pay attention to her current companion’s meandering. A young buck enjoying his first season, Mr. Green still had the spotty complexion of youth. Experience had taught her that dancing with him required vigilance on her part to protect her tender toes. Safer to sit, sipping tepid lemonade and listening to his monologue. Unfortunately, it was not more enjoyable.
Annabelle’s mind drifted. So did her eyes, back to the entrance. Her heart skipped a beat. Laird MacKay stood in the doorway, surveying the room as if he was looking for someone. She could not tamp down hope that the person he sought was herself.
His gaze locked on her and their eyes met. His firm lips, lips that she had spent entirely too much time daydreaming about, tipped at the corners. It took all her self-discipline not to return his smile across the crowded room in a most unladylike manner.
He began moving toward her. He ignored bids for attention by lovely young debutants and their fond mammas.
Unbelievable as it seemed, Ian found her company more fascinating than the loveliest creatures of the
ton
.
It was extraordinary, but then so was Ian. He towered above his peers and walked with an air of authority that would have done Wellington proud. Annabelle no longer even made a pretense of listening to Mr. Green. She simply waited for Ian to arrive and stop the boredom threatening to overwhelm her.
Would he ask her to dance? She experienced the most extraordinary feeling whenever he touched her, as if her corsets were laced too tight. Although she lectured herself severely on being a modern woman of the nineteenth century who did not need a gentleman in her life, he invaded her dreams and the thoughts of her waking hours.
However, Ian never called on her. He did not send her posies and notes. He did none of the things a gentleman falling in love was supposed to do. She chastised herself for being a ninny and wanting him to. She had given up finding a love like her late parents had enjoyed. Hadn’t she?
Mr. Green’s monologue stopped abruptly. “I say. Do you know this gentleman?” Annabelle forced herself back to the present. Ian stood in front of her, a sardonic smile on his face. “Yes, indeed, Mr. Green. Lord Graenfrae and I have been introduced.
Do you know him?”
“We have not had the pleasure.” Ian’s voice filled her being and Annabelle wanted nothing more than to find a secluded spot and continue their latest debate on Greek antiquities.
Mr. Green looked pained. Ian had that effect on people. He could be quite overwhelming. Annabelle smiled at Mr. Green reassuringly and introduced the two gentlemen.
Mr. Green stood and bowed toward Ian. “Pleasure.” Ian inclined his head. “Same.”
Annabelle offered her hand to Ian and he bowed over it. “’Tis a pleasure to see you again, Lady Annabelle.”
Without releasing her hand, he turned to Mr. Green. “I believe the music for this set has ended.” Under Ian’s gimlet stare, Mr. Green hastily made his excuses to depart. Ian turned back to Annabelle as she vainly attempted to remove her hand from his powerful grip.
“My lord, if you will permit me.” The breathless sound of her voice shocked her.
He looked down at their joined hands and let hers go. “Sorry, lass.” Annabelle opened her fan and brushed it gently before her face. “You seem a bit preoccupied.”
He nodded absently. “Finchley was right. You are perfect. ’Tis an advantage so early in my hunt, don’t you see?”
No, she didn’t see. Her cheeks heated. She fanned herself more vigorously. His hunt for a wife? Feeling lightheaded, she watched the whirl of dancers forming the next set.
Ladies in high-waisted silk gowns danced with gentlemen in breeches and black coats.
The lights reflected garishly off the jewels adorning the beau monde.
Annabelle’s attention shifted back to Ian. Eyes the color of chocolate sauce bore into hers and she could not form a thought in her head. She had an inexplicable urge to touch the silky blackness of Ian’s hair. Grateful that he could not read her mind, she dropped her eyes to his waistcoat. Something about this man filled her with desires that had not plagued her before.
“May I have the pleasure?” Ian’s voice intruded on her thoughts.
She nodded her assent before she realized that the orchestra had begun a waltz.
Dancing with Ian never failed to set her pulse racing. Waltzing with his hard, muscled body so close to her own devastated her senses.
She had to swallow a sigh of pleasure as he pulled her into his arms. She tilted her head to maintain eye contact.
He asked, “This isn’t your first season then?” Disappointment coursed through her. Annabelle had grown addicted to the stimulating conversation she usually shared with Ian. Discussing banalities like this were a far cry from it. “No. It’s my fifth, but it should be my sixth.”
“Why is that, lass?” The thick Scottish burr of his voice caressed her.
“My parents died of the flu the year I planned to attend my first season.” His eyes filled with understanding and he nodded. “I’m sorry.” He whirled her around the room, his dancing as pleasing as the rest of him. “I suppose your first season would have been when you were seventeen?”
Understanding dawned. “If you are fishing to find out my age, I will gladly tell you. I am four and twenty.” Well past her first blush of youth as her aunt would gladly have told him.
“’Tis just as I thought.”
“Surely you could have asked Ceddy my age. We’ve known each other since we were in leading strings.”
“Aye. I wanted to hear your answer, though.” He winked at her and she winked back, surprised by her own audacity.
“Did you think I might lie about my age?”
“Nay.”
She almost asked him to explain, but there was something else she wanted to know more. “It’s your turn to answer a question from me.” Her knees went weak at his smile and she felt gratitude that his arms held her so firmly as he led her in the seductive steps of the waltz.
He said, “’Tis only fair, that.”
“What did you mean when you said I was perfect earlier?” The brown velvet depths of his eyes took on a deeper intensity. “’Tis quite simple. I am in need of a wife and you are perfect.”
Chapter Two
She must have misunderstood. “Did you just say I would make a perfect wife?” Her voice squeaked on the word
wife
.
“Aye.”
Air whooshed from her lungs. “Why, please?”
He smiled. “You fit my requirements.”
“Requirements?” She must stop squeaking.
“Your looks are not too grand and you are well past the age for marrying. You do not wear expensive jewels or gowns, which bodes well for future demands on my purse.” Annabelle’s elation vanished. She stared at him, her cheeks growing hotter with each sentence he uttered. He listed her particulars as if he were buying a horse at Tattersall’s.
Although the Marriage Mart was in many ways mercenary, she had never known any gentleman to be quite so blunt about it.
Her eyes smarted and she blinked at the tears, unwilling to make a spectacle of herself. She had finally met a man that stirred passion in her and he looked at her as nothing more than a dowdy spinster conveniently on hand when he decided to find a wife.
Ian gently squeezed her, the troubled concern in his eyes small comfort in the face of his words. “Dinna be distressed. You have all the qualities I’m looking for in a wife.”
“You already said that and it’s not a compliment.” Thoughts kaleidoscoped in her brain like bits of glass crushed and tossed in the air, left to fall where they may. Just like the rest of the
ton
, Ian saw only her plain looks. He did not see the heart that beat beneath her breast, the mind that longed to share thoughts and ideas with a kindred spirit.