Mine Is the Night (52 page)

Jack offered his arm, hoping she might join him. “As Bell Hill has no mistress, I’d be honored if you would stand beside me to greet my guests.”

Elisabeth exchanged glances with her mother-in-law, then boldly took his arm. “If you wish it, milord. After all, it
is
a special night.”

If any visitors were shocked to see Elisabeth by his side, they hid their disapproval, smiling and bobbing and fluttering their fans. But he steeled himself when the Murrays of Philiphaugh stepped through his door.

Last week Sir John had reminded him of the generous dowry that would accompany Rosalind’s hand in marriage. “Even you, Admiral, must admit ’tis a worthy sum.” Jack had agreed that it was, then quickly changed the subject. His heart was not for sale at any price. Did the Murrays think of nothing but wealth, property, and advancement?

They stood before him now, dressed like peacocks, right down to the feathery plumes in Rosalind’s hair. “Admiral,” she said demurely, then sank into a deep curtsy. Yet for all their fine manners, none of the Murrays acknowledged Elisabeth. And when Charbon made an unexpected appearance, Rosalind lifted her hem with a look of dismay, then gave the cat a none-too-gentle nudge with her foot and hissed, “Be gone.”

Jack felt Elisabeth stiffen, even as he clenched his teeth, lest he say the
same to Rosalind Murray.
Be gone, madam
. Only when she followed her parents into the drawing room did Jack relax enough to greet his next visitors, the Currors of Whitmuir Hall, who not only spoke warmly to Elisabeth, but also reached down to pet Charbon.

“They may stay,” Jack murmured, bringing a smile to Elisabeth’s face.

Not every woman needed a dowry to make her appealing.

The sky was black and the candles blazing when the supper hour arrived. Jack escorted Elisabeth into the dining room with some three dozen friends and neighbors following in their wake. Laughter and conviviality filled the air as they found their seats up and down the long table, the place cards neatly lettered in Mrs. Pringle’s hand.

When he reached the head of the table, Jack glanced down at his plate, then looked again.
A carrot?
Gibson had a large forked one. Michael Dalgliesh had one too. All three were tied with red ribbons. A swift perusal of the table provided no clue, for none of the other plates were so decorated.

Very odd
.

Still, solving the carrot question would have to wait.

Jack stood before his guests, arms open. “Ladies and gentlemen, if we might join in giving thanks.” He prayed earnestly for the hours ahead, for the meal and the music and the dancing, keeping his eyes closed lest he catch sight of the enormous carrot and laugh aloud.

The moment he took his seat, Elisabeth leaned across the table. “ ’Tis a gift for Michaelmas,” she said softly. “I plucked it for you from Mrs. Thorburn’s garden.”

He stared at the root vegetable, scrubbed clean but uncooked. “Am I meant to eat it?”

“You are meant to keep it. For good luck.” She blushed when she said it, then hastily reached for her napkin, putting an end to the discussion.

If this was her surprise, Jack was not about to disappoint her. He dutifully
placed the carrot to the side, then signaled to his footmen to commence serving the first course.

Carrot soup, as it turned out. Seasoned with coriander.

The evening’s feast was a great success, with a dozen tantalizing aromas competing for their attention—among them, pan-baked trout, stewed lamb with mushrooms, and baked apples stuffed with currants. The Michaelmas goose was given pride of place at the center of the table, surrounded by smaller fowl, necessary to feed so many mouths.

“Do you know the saying, milord?” Elisabeth asked him when the poultry course was served. “Eat a goose on Michaelmas Day; want not for money all the year.”

“Is that so?” He noted the small serving on Elisabeth’s plate, the substantial one on Marjory’s. “You don’t believe in such things, do you?”

Elisabeth smiled. “Of course not, milord. Every blessing comes from the Almighty. But then, so do carrots.”

By the time plates of rich almond cake were served, the Michaelmas feast was declared a success. Jack stood, eager to get on with things. “If you will kindly repair to the drawing room, you’ll find our musicians waiting for us.”

As the guests rose and headed for the door, Jack offered Elisabeth his arm.

“Milord,” she said, leaning close to him, “perhaps you might prefer to retire to your study.”

He arched his brows. “And miss the pleasure of dancing?”

Her shocked expression was worth every painful hour with Mr. Fowles.

“
You
, milord?”

Jack merely smiled as he guided her into the drawing room, where two lines were already forming. Since the young Widow Kerr was not permitted to dance, he needed her mother-in-law’s approval and so sought out Marjory.

“Mrs. Kerr,” he said respectfully, “I wonder if I might request a very great favor. In honor of Michaelmas, would you allow your daughter-in-law, just this eve, to—”

“Aye!” Marjory said, grinning at him.

Had the woman sipped too much claret? “You’ll not mind, then, if we—”

“Nae!” Marjory assured him, standing opposite Gibson, waiting for the opening notes.

Elisabeth blinked at him, clearly astonished. “Am I to understand you wish to
dance
with me?”

“If you’ll have me, madam,” he said with a bow.

She took her place at once. “Depend upon it, milord.”

lisabeth hastened down the empty servants’ hall, the candle in her hand flickering wildly. Her heart too was doing a merry dance, though not nearly so merry as Lord Buchanan’s clever footwork on display earlier that evening.

“I engaged a dancing master,” he’d said blithely as they’d spun round the polished floor. His invited guests were unaware of his newfound talent, but his household staff had watched him in astonishment.

How the admiral had looked at her as they’d moved in tandem! His brown eyes gleaming, his mouth curled into a permanent smile. Elisabeth had heard him counting his steps now and again, but that only made his efforts all the more endearing. Not once had he landed on her instep or swept her into another dancer’s path. For a man of his stature, he was surprisingly graceful, like a skilled fencer or an expert horseman. As it happened, his lordship was both.

“I did this for Michaelmas,” he’d insisted.

Elisabeth knew better.
You did this for me, dear Jack
. She’d complimented him profusely and thanked him at the end of each set, urging him to choose other partners, though he never did. Rosalind Murray had shot daggers at her whenever she swept past. Elisabeth almost felt sorry for the young woman.
Find another
, she wanted to say.
This one is mine
.

Now the clocks were creeping toward midnight, and a hush had fallen over Bell Hill. Lord Buchanan had retired to his study after the last guest had departed. Eyelids drooping, his smile still in place, he’d entrusted her to
Marjory and Gibson, then murmured in parting, “I shall see you on the morrow, Bess.”

“You shall indeed, milord,” she’d answered.
Sooner than you know
.

Breathless, she darted into the workroom. Her satin gown was precisely where she’d left it, hanging on the back of the door with a bedsheet draped over the pale, shimmering fabric. Marjory had promised to join her in a half hour but presently remained in the servants’ hall to guard the door while Elisabeth bathed her body and brushed her hair. Aye, and prayed.

She closed the door, then lit a few candles, brightening the room. Hot water simmered on the hearth—Marjory’s doing. Elisabeth quickly undressed, dipped a clean linen cloth in the water, then rubbed it with her mother-in-law’s fragrant soap. Would his lordship even notice the scent? She bathed in haste, grateful for the warm fire, then pulled on her chemise and laced her stays as tightly as she could. Marjory’s silk stockings felt like feathers against her skin, and her brocade shoes, dyed to match the gown, slipped on her feet as if she’d worn them every day.

Standing near the fire to keep from shivering, she groomed her hair with slow, even strokes, waiting for Marjory to tap at her door.
Let me not be afraid, Lord. Let me speak from my heart. Let him not be dismayed
. A moment later Elisabeth ushered her mother-in-law into the workroom, then bolted the door once more. “What news from upstairs?”

“Everyone has retired for the night,” Marjory informed her in a low voice, “including Mrs. Pringle and Roberts. I overheard Dickson saying he’d left Lord Buchanan nodding over a book in his study. All is in readiness for you.” Marjory smoothed a hand down Elisabeth’s hair. “ ‘I will even make a way in the wilderness.’ So the Almighty promised, and so he has done for you this night.”

“You are certain this is his will and not ours?”

Marjory did not hesitate. “Have we not prayed for his leading? Have you not searched the Scriptures and your heart, seeking an answer? I have no doubt Lord Buchanan is the husband God intends for you.”

Buoyed by her mother-in-law’s faith, Elisabeth swept her hair onto the crown of her head, then let Marjory add the silver comb where it might best be seen.

Last of all, her gown. When the lavender satin brushed against her shoulders, Elisabeth reveled in the cool feel of the fabric against her skin. She touched the bodice, with its tiny gold sequins, and the sleeves, trimmed in fine Belgian lace. “Your son was very generous with me,” she said softly.

“You were far more generous with him,” Marjory reminded her, slipping the matching satin reticule over her wrist. “Now go, my bonny Bess.” She kissed her brow. “Gibson is waiting in the entrance hall to walk me home. I’ll trust his lordship to see you safely to town or provide a bedchamber for you here if the hour grows too late. My prayers are with you, dear girl.”

Moving on tiptoe lest her heels clatter against the flagstone floor, Elisabeth navigated the long servants’ hall, then the turnpike stair, lifting her gown to keep from stepping on the hem. So far she’d not seen or heard a soul. More to the point, no one had seen her. The first-floor hall was bathed in shadows with a single sconce to light the way. As she neared Lord Jack’s study, she lifted up a silent prayer of thanks. No footman stood at the entrance. And the door was slightly ajar.

Please be with me, Lord. Guide my steps. Guard my words. Keep my thoughts and actions pure
.

She knew not what else to pray and so took a deep breath to calm her nerves, then approached the door, prepared to tap on it, announcing her presence. But when she peered into the room, she discovered Lord Jack was sound asleep. Seated in his favorite chair by the fire, he’d propped his feet on a cushioned footstool with a plaid draped across his long legs. She waited while her eyes adjusted to the meager firelight, then moved across the study, grateful for thick carpet to muffle her steps.

Then she heard a loud purring. Charbon jumped down from Lord Jack’s chair and padded toward her, greeting her with a plaintive meow.

“Hush,” she whispered, scratching his head, which only made him purr
louder. She scooped him up and held him close, hoping he’d not give her away until she’d done as her mother-in-law had instructed.
Present yourself to him
. She carried Charbon into the hallway and, with a whispered apology, left him there, quietly shutting the door behind her.

With the curtains closed, not even the waning moon shed its light on the scene before her as she tiptoed to his lordship’s side. Surely he would hear the loud beating of her heart or catch a whiff of her perfumed soap or feel the warmth of her presence and so awaken. But his breathing was steady, and his rugged features relaxed. She smiled down at him, secretly glad she’d found him sleeping. Even in repose, his physical strength was evident.

Elisabeth eased to the floor, spreading her elegant gown round her in a circle of silk, then rested her head on the large footstool. She’d wait until he roused. Surely it would not be much longer. Whatever the hour, and no matter the consequences, she was determined to speak the truth.

ack vaguely heard the first chime of the mantel clock, as if from a distance.
Two. Three
. His limbs were too heavy to lift, and so he remained in his chair, not stirring, still counting.
Five. Six
. What had he been reading that he’d drifted off so quickly?
Eight. Nine
. Perhaps his need for sleep had more to do with the feasting. And the dancing.
Eleven. Twelve
.