Mad About the Marquess (Highland Brides Book 2) (41 page)

Home. Quince looked back across the vale to where the house stood like a rock outcropping, solid and immovable in the distance. As if she had not yet decided if it would be a punishment to stay at Cairn. As if she had not yet decided she could call it home.

But he had made inroads, he was sure. She was softening toward him, as well as Cairn, bit by tiny, inevitable bit.

Chapter Twenty-five

Her husband was courting her.

Quince was sure of it. Throughout the next few days Strathcairn was unfailingly polite, witty and amusing, parrying all attempts at argument, and avoiding all subjects intended to incite a row with remarkable calm and skillful tact.
 

He was everything utterly and delightfully charming. And just, dash it all, out of reach.

If he touched her at all—her hand as he led her through a tour of the dairy, her hair when the wind blew it across her eyes, the small of her back when he walked beside her—it was just for a moment, no more. Just enough to leave her with the fleeting impression of warmth and weight, and leave her yearning for more. Teasing her so subtly, so nonchalantly, so naturally, she doubted he knew he was slowly driving her mad.

But there was only so much casual intimacy a lass of her particularly impetuous and impatient character could take before she was driven mad. So she decided to do what she did best—take action. And do the unexpected.

Turnabout, as Strathcairn liked to say, was fair play.
 

And so, in an unprecedented but thoroughly provoking move, she let Mrs. Broom dress her in one of Plum’s just-ever-so-slightly-too-small gowns.

The provocation she chose was a fresh green printed silk, with a marvelously full silk skirt that whispered secrets when she walked, and more importantly, possessed an astonishingly low-cut bodice that displayed her manifest charms to perfection.
 

Quince quite purposefully left off the modest lace fichu, giving her husband a rather spectacular view of the pale tops of the magnificent wee breasts Alasdair had so admired.

Mama always said a man couldn’t think, or argue, or keep to himself, while looking at breasts.

“Good morning, Strathcairn.” She slipped into a seat opposite him in the breakfast room, instead of taking her chocolate in her chamber, as had been her wont.

Strathcairn looked at her over the top of his morning newspaper. And stilled. And cleared his throat. “That, my dear brat”—he folded the newspaper with a decided snap—“is a beautiful gown you’re almost wearing.”

By jimble.

“Do you like it?” She leaned forward just enough to be encouraging. “Mrs. Broom chose it out of my wardrobe, but then had to sew me into it, in the manner of the French. I have no idea how I am to be gotten out of it.”

He made a rude sound that indicated without words his disparagement of the French, and gowns that couldn’t be gotten out of.
She rewarded his lovely discomfort with a concerned frown, and a strategic little shift of her stays. “I am sorry, Strathcairn. I thought you of all people would appreciate the gown better than I, having lived among the French.”

He leaned back in his chair, as if he needed to put distance between them. “I find myself remarkably out of charity with the French this morning.”

“So long as you aren’t out of charity with me, my Lord Cairn.” She indicated herself by laying a hand across her bodice, drawing his eye. “Alasdair.”

Oh, no fool, Mama.

Alasdair put down his coffee cup with an audible clank. “Let me be sure I understand you, my Lady Cairn—are you flirting with me?”

She looked up at him from under her lashes. “I am
trying
, my lord.”

He stood so abruptly his chair tipped over behind him. “You are
doing
remarkably well.”

Quince welcomed the blaze of heat his voice and gaze kindled under her skin, letting it push her to standing as well. Heat blossomed under her bodice. And she liked it. She had finally pushed her un-pushable husband over his personal brink. “I’ve missed our lessons in kissing, Alasdair.”

“As have I, brat. And I’ve a mind to—”

“I say, Alasdair?” An unknown voice called out from somewhere in the house, interrupting and ending her hopes all in one moment. “Alasdair, where are ye?” The voice was followed by the sound of heavy footfalls striding up the corridor. “What are ye doing, auld mon?”

Alasdair’s voice was low and intimate, and for her ears alone. “Attempting to be seduced by my wee wife. My wee, half-undressed wife.”

Quince fished her fichu out of her pocket. “Who on Earth is it?” she asked. Besides someone with execrable timing.

“My auld and very good friend Ewan Cameron,” Alasdair explained, straightening his own clothing, “who is supposed to be in his own home with his dogs, or up on his moor shooting, or doing any number of harmless country pursuits that do not include barging in on my breakfast with my wife. But whom I cannot turn away. Yet I hope we may continue this discussion later, at a more convenient time, my lady?”

“I am at your disposal, my Lord Cairn.” Quince tugged her bodice to a more modest configuration, and tied her fichu around her neck in preparation to meet their guest.

 
When she was presentable, Alasdair raised his voice. “Go away, Ewan.”

“Ah.” The still unseen friend drew nearer. “Breakfast room, is it, McNab?”
 

“Aye, Your Grace,” came the steward’s overloud reply from just outside the door.

And then this friend was there—a giant of a man, filling the small room with his presence. “What ho, Alasdair.” The behemoth crushed her husband in a bruising embrace that owed more to a wrestling match than an introduction. “I came as soon as I heard. This must be your wife, the new Lady Cairn I’ve heard so much about.”

Quince was immediately engulfed in a similarly crushing embrace, full of warmth and genuine welcome. But despite the warmth, or perhaps because of it, she was immediately on her guard—despite Strathcairn’s assurances that neither he, nor Mr. Oistins would tell a soul the sad, sordid story of how she had become Lady Cairn, she was a realist when it came to all things rumor and scandal. She did not yet believe him. She braced herself for the worst.

In contrast, Alasdair was all relaxed, smiling enthusiasm. “It must be.” He played the gallant, reaching for her hand, looking at her from under his brows as he brought it to his lips. “Ewan Cameron, may I present my wife, Quince, Lady Cairn. Quince, I give you my good friend, Ewan, also known as His Grace, the Duke of Crieff.”

“My Lady Cairn.” His Grace made her a slow, measured bow. “What a singular pleasure to meet ye. We thought auld Alasdair would never be brought to book.”

“No, Your Grace?” Quince recovered enough of her usual aplomb to give the duke a ratchety little curtsey. “You underestimate your friend’s manifest charms.”

“Alasdair, charming? Auld cork like him?” His Grace of Crieff’s square forehead folded into a frown. “You’re joking.”

“I am not.” Quince’s smile was all for her husband, even as she hedged her bets. “I can’t even begin to tell you the lengths I was forced to go to in order to secure his hand.” After all, Alasdair said it was to be a
romance
.

Her husband was all smiling, amused appreciation. “Just so.”

Which left his friend gaping. “Good Lord. I wouldn’t have guessed stodgy auld Alasdair worth any effort.”

“Oh, you are quite wrong.” Quince returned to her seat, and indicated that the gentlemen might take theirs. “I account myself very well satisfied with my side of the bargain.”

It was not a gross exaggeration, and therefore not an outright lie. The truth lay somewhere in the middle—mostly because she was still looking forward to the fulfillment of her devil’s bargain. Which she was not going to be able to fulfill at present, and with a guest in her house.
 

What a waste of a dress.

Evidently her husband’s thoughts were much the same. “What brings you to darken Cairn’s door, Ewan?” Alasdair asked.

“The promise of breakfast,” was the big man’s answer. “I’m for Edinburgh, and thought I would call on my way.”
 

“Ewan’s estate, Crieff, lies some small distance to the north,” Alasdair explained. “Then you will not stay?”

“Nay.” For such a big man—the Duke of Crieff was easily twice her husband’s breadth, and nearly as tall—he took his seat with surprising grace. “The other chaps said best not to disturb a mon and his new wife, but once I got Alasdair’s letter, I couldn’t rest until I’d come and met the woman who made him change his ways. And I also wanted to make sure ye weren’t a figment of his poor imagination.”

Quince decided she rather liked his casual abuse of her husband. It reminded her of her own teasing style of conversing, which Strathcairn always seemed to enjoy. And here was the reason—he was quite at home squabbling so amiably with his friends. “I assure you, I am quite real, Your Grace.”

“Call me Ewan, please.”

“And you must call me Quince. I hope you shall take breakfast with us, and we should be delighted for you to stay as long as you like. Wouldn’t we, Alasdair?”
 

She signaled a footman to bring a plate of country ham and eggs, but in reality, she was not exactly delighted. It was hard enough trying to capture Alasdair’s undivided attention in a house and estate as large as Cairn without the additional diversion of a friend. But she was Marchioness of Cairn now, with the run of the house, as Alasdair had told her, and standards must be upheld, and friendships maintained. She was nothing it not unfailingly loyal.

Luckily, the Duke of Crieff stuck to his plans. He accepted the plate of country ham and eggs, but not the invitation to say. “I thank you, my Lady Quince, but I must be off within the hour if I am to make Edinburgh in good time to meet with my solicitors.”

“Not that I am encouraging you to stay, you understand, but you seem to be in an uncharacteristic rush,” Alasdair observed.

“Aye, I am,” the Duke agreed. “I’m getting married.”

Alasdair’s fork and knife fell to the plate with a clatter. “What now? After all these years? You’ve been engaged to be married for what seems like forever.”

“For eight years,” Crieff clarified. “I have been betrothed to Lady Greer Douglas since the age of eighteen.”

“So what on Earth brought this on now?” Alasdair demanded. “Why the unseemly rush?”

“Says the mon who told no one of his own impetuous, lightning-quick wooing and wedding. It is time,” His Grace said simply, looking from Alasdair to her and back. “It is time I was married.”

“Let us be the first to wish you happy, Your Grace,” Quince put in, lest Alasdair’s shock be interpreted as disaffection, or worse, dissatisfaction with the married state—though her husband had perhaps more reason than most to be dissatisfied. “Congratulations.”

“Thank you, Lady Cairn. And if I may trespass on an auld friendship, I should very much like a quick consultation with your husband on a few matters legal before I go.”

“Certainly.” As His Grace’s tone was more confidential than condescending, Quince didn’t mind leaving them to their coffee and private talk.
 

But it did make her think of her own matters legal—her marriage settlements to be exact, about which she knew next to nothing.
 

But there was in the house someone who doubtless did know about such things. And now was as good a time as any to speak to Alasdair’s secretary, Mr. Oistins—to make her amends while she was feeling fresh and optimistic, and could mind her uneven temper.

“If you’ll excuse me, gentlemen.”
 

The gentlemen stood, and Quince was happy to find Alasdair’s gaze followed her from the room. She would need all the confidence and courage she could get before she bearded the lion of the library. Mr. Oistins, she had found through careful listening, was greatly esteemed by the rest of the staff, but also a little feared—his stoic, reserved demeanor kept the other servants at a distance.
 

But Mr. Oistins was not a mere servant—he was Strathcairn’s friend. And she judged, his protector.

Quince made sure to check that her appearance was everything demure, wifely, and correct in one of the mirrors decorating the corridor before she entered the library, where she found Mr. Oistins attending to his work at one side of a huge desk.