Alasdair felt something like panic churning in his stomach. “Isabel, don’t,” he interjected. “Quin is—well, a bit of a rogue, you know. He won’t be faithful.”
Lady Kirton teased him with her eyes. “Oh, Alasdair!” she whispered. “There is no better husband than a scoundrel who has been reformed by a good woman. Miss Hamilton will have him wrapped round her finger in a fortnight. Besides, he is still quite young. What, not even thirty, is he?”
“Just nine-and-twenty,” Alasdair admitted.
Lady Kirton’s eyes brightened. “Perfect! Though she hardly looks it, Miss Hamilton is twenty-two. Really, Alasdair! We are quite a team, you and I. Every time we’re together, we manage to do something ingenious. Shall I invite the four of them to the theater next week? Oh, Rowena will be so pleased we thought of this!”
Alasdair set down his wineglass, striking the rim of his plate. The panic had gripped his throat. Good Lord!
Quin?
That was the last thing Esmée needed.
Quin was devilish fun to carouse with, and the sort of fellow one was happy to account a friend—but one wouldn’t wish him to marry one’s sister. Certainly one would not wish him to marry the woman that one…oh, hell and damnation! Quin was a roué and a rake and a hell-bent bounder. He had cut his teeth on some of the most wicked pastimes greater London could offer up. And he had a weakness for the worst sort of women imaginable. Any bit of muslin would do; the more base the better. Quin had no standards. And as far as morals went, he was no better than Alasdair.
Oh, Quin was a little younger—well, a good bit younger. And his title was very old and very grand—in other words, very English. But he was no richer. No better-looking. On the other hand, Quin did not yet have that hardened look about the eyes. His gaze was not yet so wicked and world-weary that mothers yanked their daughters from his path. Well, not always.
But what business was it of his? Esmée was not his problem, damn her. He had not invited her into his life—hadn’t even invited her into his bed, no matter how frequently the idea had begun to cross his mind. Surely to God she’d know to steer clear of Quin? And if Lady Tatton had disapproved of
him
so thoroughly, she would like Quin little better. Well, good luck to the lot of them! Whatever the hell happened, it certainly wasn’t his problem. Thus resolved, Alasdair snatched up his glass and drained it.
“Alasdair!” The whisper came from far away.
“Psst, Alasdair!”
He turned to see Lady Kirton staring at him. She was motioning discreetly at his place setting. “Alasdair, dear boy!”
“What?”
Lady Kirton smiled. “I fear you have just finished off my wine.”
“Really!” said Lady Tatton as she pulled on her gloves the following morning. “What has become of society whilst I was away? Sir Alasdair MacLachlan! At Elizabeth’s dinner party! I thought it quite shocking.”
Esmée looked up from her morning paper. “Aye, ’twas a surprise indeed.”
Lady Tatton eyed her hat in the pier glass and tilted it a tad to the left. “And there was Isabel, such a clever, sensible woman, practically fawning over him during dinner! And that friend of his—Lord Wynwood—he used to be thought a scoundrel, too! Still, I
do
like his mother. One could not wish for better bloodlines. But Wynwood himself—? Why, I am not at all sure that Elizabeth and Isabel are right to suggest…”
Esmée returned her gaze to her newspaper. “To suggest what, Aunt Rowena?”
“Oh, never mind!” She snatched up her reticule. “Are you sure, Esmée, that you won’t come along?” she said for the third time. “It is just a fitting, though
why
Madame Panaut wishes another one, and at such an early hour, I cannot think. But afterward, why, we could go down to Bond Street and look at those slippers you admired last week.”
Esmée laid aside her paper and stood. “Thank you, no,” she said. “Lydia is bringing Sorcha today.”
“Oh, I’d forgotten,” said her ladyship. “Do give the child my love.”
Esmée kissed her aunt’s cheek and saw her to the door. But Lady Tatton’s carriage had scarce disappeared from view before another very familiar carriage came spinning round the square from Upper Brook Street. Lydia was arriving earlier than usual.
Grimond, the butler, had vanished, and Esmée did not ring for him. Instead, she threw open the door herself and went eagerly down the steps. But it was not Lydia who emerged from the carriage with Sorcha in her arms.
“Good morning,” said Alasdair.
“Mae!” screeched Sorcha. “Look! Look! See dis doll? Pretty, see?”
Alasdair smiled dotingly and passed the child to Esmée. “Lydia was indisposed this morning,” he said. “I decided to bring Sorcha myself.”
“So I see,” said Esmée weakly. “Will you come in?”
With Sorcha on her hip, she returned to the morning parlor and offered him a chair. He took it, watching her almost warily with his heavy, hooded eyes. Esmée sat down and settled Sorcha in her lap, a little troubled by how glad she was to see him.
Sorcha, however, was happily babbling about her doll. “See dress, Mae?” said Sorcha. “See dis dress? Got blue dress. She got shoes, too. And pretty hair.”
“Heavens! So many new words!” Esmée kissed the child atop the head, taking care to avoid her injury. “Aye, ’tis a fine, fair doll. Is she new?”
“New,” agreed Sorcha, tugging off one of the doll’s satin slippers. “See stockin’s?”
Alasdair cleared his throat. “I thought it was time she had another,” he interjected. “This one came with an entire wardrobe. Sorcha seems to delight in dressing and undressing her dolls.”
Esmée smiled. “Aye, her fingers are quite nimble now.”
Alasdair cut Esmée an enigmatic glance. “How is it they grow so quickly?” he asked. “Just this week she began speaking in complete sentences.”
Esmée felt her chest suddenly constrict. “Aye ’tis worrisome, isn’t it?” she said quietly. “It seems she was just a wee babe when our mother died. And now I look on her, and I see a little girl. The swiftness of it frightens me.”
Alasdair smiled. “I begin to believe doubt is the curse of every parent,” he answered. “But we must remember that Sorcha is not an eggshell, Esmée. She is tough and resilient. You once said as much.”
Sorcha had the doll’s dress off now. “Shiff, Mae,” she said, flinging the dress into the floor. “See shiff? Take dis off. And drawers. ’Em off, too.”
Esmée gave him a muted smile. “Her vocabulary is growing apace, too,” she remarked. “She seems to have learnt all the words for ladies’ undergarments.”
He lifted one brow and flashed his irrepressible grin. “Ah, well. It was you, was it not, who said one should learn new skills at the feet of a master?”
Esmée looked at him chidingly. “Pray tell me about Lydia. I hope she hasn’t taken the quinsy which is going round Mayfair.”
“Worse, I fear.” Alasdair winced. “A badly sprained wrist.”
“Och! What happened?”
“The imp got away from her yesterday and bolted for the stairs. A tussle ensued, and I fear Lydia came out rather the worse for it.”
Esmée felt a moment of panic.
Bolted for the stairs?
Oh, Sorcha was too headstrong by half! She could have been injured, too. And poor Lydia! Perhaps she was not so capable of managing the child after all? Esmée did not know whether to feel reassured or worried.
Alasdair read her mind. “Sorcha is a handful, Esmée,” he said quietly. “For you or for Lydia. Indeed, a whole battalion of nurses would find her a challenge. But we cannot swaddle her in cotton wool.”
“Aye, you’re right.” Gently, she touched the child’s wound. “I was relieved when her stitches came out.”
“Dr. Reid feels the scar will not be noticeable when her hair thickens,” he said, as if reading her mind. “Do not worry over that.”
Sorcha had squirmed her way out of Esmée’s lap. She went careening across the carpet to her father, her doll in one hand, its shift in the other. Mere inches from him, however, her little legs stumbled and sent her flying.
In an instant, Alasdair had snatched her up. “Careful, minx!”
He set her on his knee, made a stern face, and gently chided her about the importance of not running in the parlor. Sorcha appeared to listen, her ice-blue eyes fixed on her father’s face, her chubby hand still clutching the half-naked doll. Esmée realized that Alasdair’s response—not to mention his reaction time—had become instinctive. Parental. He had become, somehow, a father, a truth which kept revealing itself in small, subtle ways.
No, she needn’t worry quite so much about Sorcha. But she needed to worry a great deal about herself, and her heart.
His scold finished, Alasdair stroked the fine hair back from Sorcha’s forehead. Sorcha turned and handed him the doll. “Take off,” she ordered. “Take off dis shoe.”
“This one is a little stubborn,” he agreed, gently easing it off.
Sorcha made a happy noise and wiggled her way off his knee. Gathering up her doll and its clothing, she toddled off to a spot beneath the windows which Lady Tatton had designated as her play area. The child pushed the lid from a large wicker basket and began to toss the toys inside it onto the carpet.
“She seems very much at home here,” he remarked.
“Aye, that one never met a stranger,” said Esmée.
For a moment, they watched her in silence. The basket now empty, Sorcha plopped down on her rump and began to play.
Esmée’s gaze remained fixed on Sorcha, but when she spoke, it was to him. “Alasdair,” she said quietly. “Why have you come here?”
For a moment, she thought he mightn’t answer. Indeed, when she looked at him, there was a hint of a challenge in his eye. “Doubtless your aunt will disapprove,” he finally said. “But she is my child, Esmée. I have a right to be with her wherever she goes.”
“My aunt is not at home,” she answered. “And that is not what I asked.”
His gaze faltered slightly. “I wished to give you something,” he said, reaching into his coat pocket. He withdrew a slender box of green velvet and passed it to her. It looked familiar. Uncertainly, Esmée took it.
“Open it,” he said. “Please.”
Curious, Esmée did so. A lustrous strand of pearls shimmered inside. She lifted the clasp, and gasped. It was fashioned of ornate gold and encrusted with six diamonds. The pearls were precisely sized, and good deal larger than the ones she had lost. “Oh, how lovely!” she whispered. “But I cannot accept a gift from you.”
“It is not a gift,” he responded. “It is a replacement. I know it is not the same as having your mother’s pearls back, but it was the best I could do in a hurry.”
“These are exquisite.”
Alasdair smiled a little regretfully. “I meant you to have them, Esmée, that very next morning. But when I got home from the jeweler’s, Lady Tatton was there, and everything seemed to go to hell pretty quickly. I did not think of them again until…until I saw you last night. Your throat was bare, and I thought that you might—ah, well. In any case, they are yours now.”
Esmée felt her cheeks flush. “Och, I cannot!” she insisted, closing the box and thrusting it at him. “I thank you. But I am quite sure Aunt Rowena would say ’tis improper.”
His eyes flashed angrily. “And I am quite sure I don’t give a damn,” he answered. “Take them, Esmée. Please. I want you to have them. Besides, who will know they aren’t the ones your mother gave you? One strand looks very like another.”
Eyes wide, she shook her head.
“I
would know,” she answered. “And I know you paid dearly for them, too. They are exceptionally fine, and perfectly matched.”
“And they are yours,” he said firmly.
Esmée laid the box in her lap. “Aye, then,” she said. “I shall put them away for Sorcha.”
“As you wish,” he snapped.
“Alasdair, please,” she answered. “Let us not quarrel.”
He gave a curt nod and let his gaze drift back to Sorcha, who was building a circle of wooden blocks around the naked doll.
Esmée opened the box again, and stared at the pearls, willing away the tears which pressed hotly against the backs of her eyes. Why did his gift make her feel so wretched? There was such an ache in her heart, even as the gift weighed heavily in her hand. Was this all they would ever share? These moments of strained contact? These careful, muted words? A mutual concern for the child they both loved? It did not seem enough. No, not nearly enough.
She closed the box and somehow regained her composure. “I hope Wellings and the rest of the staff go on well?”
“Well enough,” he answered.
“And Mrs. Crosby?” she pressed, her voice surprisingly steady. “I hope she is fully recovered?”
He did not take his eyes from Sorcha. “I have not seen her in a day or two,” he said. “But she seems much restored. Her color is good. She is putting on weight.”
“I’m glad to hear it,” she said honestly. “I was surprised to see you at Lady Gravenel’s last night. Did you enjoy your evening?”
“Not especially,” he answered. “Yourself?”
“I thought her very hospitable,” said Esmée. “And kind to have invited me.”
At last, he returned his gaze to hers, his eyes cool and unfathomable. “You seem to be invited everywhere,” he remarked. “I gather Lady Tatton has you burning your candle at both ends.”
“Aunt does wish me to go about in society a vast deal,” she agreed. “She wishes me ‘to take,’ whatever that means.”
Again, the strange, muted smile. “I think you know what it means,” said Alasdair. “It means she really is determined to marry you off.”
“Aye, ’tis what’s done in London, is it not?” asked Esmée coolly. “One’s family trots one out like a horse at Tattersall’s, then arranges a match with a suitable gentleman?”
His eyes were hooded, his mouth turned up at one corner in a sardonic smile. “So I’m told,” he answered. “But such worthy fellows rarely travel in my circles. At least the two of you are enlivening what would otherwise be a very dull time of year in Mayfair.”
Esmée’s eyes narrowed. “Faith, Alasdair!” she finally snapped. “What business is it of yours if we set the place afire? You disavow any regard for society. Indeed, you don’t even live here! And yes, Aunt Rowena wishes to see me happy, and to her that means marriage.”