After bathing off the day’s grime and combing out her hair, she drifted to the window. For a time, she simply stood there, just looking out across the formal English gardens and wishing she was back in Scotland with her mother. A lifetime ago, Esmée had yearned to come to London to meet people and, eventually, to find a husband. But now that she’d accomplished both, it brought her no satisfaction. She had not counted on falling in love with a scoundrel—a scoundrel who did not, it seemed, love her back.
It was cold by the window, and Esmée still wore her shift. Absently, she reached for the shawl she’d worn on the drive and tossed it haphazardly over her shoulders. Just then, she heard a sound, and glanced over her shoulder to see her aunt coming briskly into the room through the connecting door.
“I’ve asked Pickens to press your dark blue,” she began. “Will that do, do you think?”
Esmée turned from the window. “Aye, nicely. Thank you, Aunt Rowena.”
Finally, her aunt looked—really looked—at her. At once, her face fell. “Oh, my dear child!” she said, hastening across the room. “Where are your stockings? In that shift and shawl, with your hair down, you put me in mind of an orphan.”
Esmée managed a weak smile. “I
am
an orphan, Aunt.”
Lady Tatton was already bustling her away from the window. “Not that sort of an orphan,” she declared. “Now put on your wrapper and sit down here by the dressing table, my dear. I shall comb out your hair whilst Pickens finishes the ironing.”
Obediently, Esmée sat. Lady Tatton picked up the brush and set to work. “Now you must tell me, Esmée, just what is on your mind,” she began. “You look perfectly wretched. Are you having second thoughts? It is quite natural to do so.”
“It isn’t second thoughts, exactly,” Esmée explained. “’Tis just that there seem to be a great many people here and such a fuss being made over this betrothal. And this house. It seems so large.”
“But your stepfather’s house was large.” Her aunt kept drawing the brush rhythmically through her long hair. “Most Scottish estates are quite comparable, are they not? For example, I understand that Castle Kerr is one of the finest homes north of York.”
“Castle Kerr?” said Esmée. “I never heard of it.”
In the mirror, she saw her aunt watching her assessingly. “It is the seat of the MacLachlans of Argyllshire,” she answered. “It is Sir Alasdair’s home. Did you not know?”
Esmée watched a faint blush creep up her cheeks. “He never spoke of it,” she responded. “But Scottish estates are not so formal, are they? Indeed, they do not seem so to me. But this house demands formality. I feel…I feel no
warmth
in it.”
Her aunt drew the brush through Esmée’s hair in a long, soothing stroke. “Esmée,” she finally said, her voice very quiet, “why did you accept Lord Wynwood’s proposal?”
Esmée jerked her head up and held her aunt’s gaze in the mirror. “I—I thought it was best,” she said. “I like him, and ’tis quite a good match. You said so yourself. And it will make things so much better for Sorcha.”
“For Sorcha?” Lady Tatton’s voice was arch. “What on earth has Sorcha to do with this?”
Esmée explained Wynwood’s argument. “Even you must admit, Aunt Rowena, that if we go on as we are, someone is bound to wonder who she is,” Esmée concluded. “At present, she visits infrequently, and most of the houses in Grosvenor Square stand empty. But in a few months, town will be abuzz, will it not?”
“Yes,” Lady Tatton reluctantly admitted. “I fear I cannot fault Wynwood’s logic.”
Esmée held her aunt’s eyes in the mirror. “But…?” she asked leadingly.
Lady Tatton laid the brush down with a loud clatter. “My dear child,” she began, “you simply cannot live your life for Sorcha. You have devoted entirely too much of yourself to the needs and whims of others. Rosamund kept you too long in the Highlands, holding you captive to her hysterics and fancies.”
“But Mamma did love me,” said Esmée, blinking back a sudden tear. “I know she did. She was just frightened, I think, of being alone.”
Her aunt’s eyes had darkened. “Rosamund wasted her life grasping at straws,” she countered. “She was always searching for someone to cling to; always certain that abandonment was just round the next corner. I vow, sometimes I think she willed widowhood upon herself. And the irony of it is, if she’d just married the first man she fell in love with, none of this would have happened, and you would not be in this mess.”
Esmée forbore to point out that had her mother married someone other than her father,
she
would not exist at all. “What first man?” she asked instead. “Who was he?”
But Lady Tatton was biting her lip now and looking very much as if she wished she had not spoken. “I don’t think Rosamund ever said,” she answered. “Indeed, she mentioned it but once or twice. Still, it weighed on her, I collect.”
Esmée was surprised. “This man, did he not love her? Did he not wish to marry her?”
“Why, I gather he did,” answered her aunt. “But he was the adventurous type—a seaman or an explorer or some such thing—and he would not give it up. Rosamund couldn’t have that. She needed security. She needed someone to dance attendance upon her. So I collect she decided that her adventurer was a bad bargain, and like to die of a tropical fever, or in a typhoon, or some such thing. So that was the end of it.”
Esmée let the irony of it sink in. “Aunt Rowena,” she finally asked, “why are you telling me this?”
“Oh, child, I have no notion!” Rowena reached over Esmée’s shoulder and tucked a stray curl behind her ear. “Well, I think that what I am trying to say is that the heart does not always steer us wrongly.”
Esmée’s eyes widened. “Does it not?” she asked sharply. “I always thought Mamma’s heart got her into trouble.”
“Oh, no! That was her brain!” said Lady Tatton. “Rosamund
thought
too much.”
“Did she?” Esmée considered it. “Aye, I wonder if you mightn’t be right.”
Lady Tatton hesitated a moment. “Oh, God, I do hope I don’t regret this,” she muttered, almost to herself. “I pray I have not steered you wrongly. But the truth is, Esmée, that sometimes we can let logic—or worse, our fears—guide us too far off course. Sometimes the heart knows best. You have not seemed yourself these past two weeks. Wynwood is a good catch, but I suppose it is possible that he is not the right one.”
Esmée shrugged. “Most women would think me mad not to want him.”
Lady Tatton smiled indulgently. “Well, just give it time, my dear,” she advised. “And promise me that you won’t do anything…well,
rash.”
Esmée felt the dreadful weight of guilt settle on her shoulders. Her aunt had worked so hard, and behaved so generously, in order to ensure a good future for Esmée. “Yes, I do promise,” she answered. “I shan’t embarrass you, Aunt, by doing anything impulsive.”
“No, you are too sensible for that,” said her aunt. “I oughtn’t even have mentioned it. And in time, you’ll be convinced of the rightness of this match, I hope.”
Esmée was very quiet for a moment. “I hope so, too,” she answered. “But…but what if I am not?”
Lady Tatton patted her soothingly on the shoulder. “Well, if you have really given it time, dear, yet in the end, he does not suit, why, we shall just throw our fish back into the sea,” she declared. “There will be talk, of course, but frankly, his reputation is not the best. I think we’ll weather the storm.”
“I cannot imagine doing such a thing to Wynwood.”
Lady Tatton smiled tightly. “It would not be ideal,” she agreed. “But better that than a marriage which will make you miserable. Now, Gwendolyn—well,
she
is quite another kettle of fish. I should be in her black book for a month or two. I might even have to grovel a bit.”
“Oh, Aunt, I should hate to embarrass you!”
“I should hate it, too,” said Lady Tatton briskly. “But I shall survive, and so shall you.
If
it comes to that, which I pray it doesn’t. Now, child, where are the pearls which your mother gave you? I vow, I’ve not seen them in an age.”
“My pearls?” Esmée’s gaze fell to the portmanteau beside the dressing table. She was still mulling over what her aunt had said about the head and the heart. “Why, my pearls are in a green velvet case,” she finally answered. “Just there, in the pocket of my portmanteau.”
“Excellent!” said her aunt, reaching for it. “Tonight I am going to ask Pickens put your hair up very high, in a style suitable to a young woman about to be married. And for that, you shall definitely want pearls.”
Esmée smiled. “Thank you, Aunt Rowena. Perhaps it will make me look older and taller?”
“Oh, to be sure!” Lady Tatton snapped open the green velvet case and gave a sharp exhalation. “Merciful heavens, child! Why did you not take these out sooner?”
Esmée thought of her mother’s first love, and of opportunities lost. “You know, I am not perfectly sure why I haven’t worn them,” she answered. “Perhaps it was foolish of me. Perhaps I ought to have been wearing them every day.”
“I should say so!” said her aunt. “Why, they are perfectly breathtaking. I had quite forgotten what Rosamund’s old pearls looked like.”
The following day’s journey was not an especially pleasant one for the MacLachlan brothers, neither of whom wished to travel into the wilds of Buckinghamshire, yet for entirely different reasons. Indeed, they had waited until the last possible moment to leave London, as if hoping divine intervention might strike. It did not. Worse, the November day was cold and overcast, and by the time they reached the border, the winter’s sun had all but vanished, and a chill had settled over the carriage—a chill which was matched by Alasdair’s mood.
“You aren’t making this miserable journey any more agreeable, you know,” said his brother from the shadows opposite. “Recall, if you will, that I am the moody, sullen one. You are supposed to be blithe and charming.”
Alasdair glowered into the shadows, unable to make out his brother’s face. “Bugger off, Merrick,” he grumbled. “There! Charmed, damn you?”
Merrick just laughed.
“Besides, you abhor these sorts of things.” Alasdair regarded him with suspicion. “Why are you even going?”
Merrick lifted one shoulder. “It is rather like watching a rioting mob or a hanging,” he remarked. “The horror of it all is perversely compelling.” Then, deftly, he changed the subject. “What is the time, anyway?” He tugged out his pocket watch, flicked it open, and tilted it toward what was left of the light.
“A quarter to four,” muttered Alasdair. “Am I right?”
“To the very minute.”
“Aye, and I’m counting every bloody one,” he complained.
“Alasdair,” said his brother sharply. “Why are
you
going to this dinner?”
Alasdair could not hold his gaze. “I’m damned if I know.”
The carriage turned, and the hedgerow fell away, allowing the feeble daylight to make its way through the window. Alasdair toyed with the thought of lighting one of the carriage lanterns, but he found the darkness oddly comforting.
Merrick had begun to absently polish his watch with his handkerchief. “Lord Devellyn reminded me of something the other day,” he remarked. “It was one of Granny MacGregor’s wiser adages.
The worth of a thing is best known by the want of it.”
“Utter drivel,” said Alasdair. “Or in this case, it is. And I know, Merrick, what you are getting at. Devellyn does not trouble to keep his opinions to himself.”
Merrick cocked one of his harsh black brows. “Does he not?”
Alasdair stared at his brother for a moment. “It did not require Esmée’s leaving me, Merrick, for me to comprehend her true value. She is well worth a man’s fortune. But I do not need you to lecture me about decorum or restraint, as I suspect you are considering.”
“I, lecture?” Merrick laughed again. “In this case, I might rather suggest that perhaps you’ve exhibited a tad too much restraint. I confess, I cannot fathom the attraction, but if you wanted the chit, why didn’t you just go after her?”
Alasdair considered denying he’d considered it. But what was the use? To Merrick, he had always been an open book. “I am too old and too jaded,” he remarked. “And she has seen too little of the world.”
“Oh, come now!” said his brother. “You haven’t yet seen forty. And Miss Hamilton is not exactly a naïve little miss.”
“Merrick, I had an
affaire
with the girl’s mother!” Alasdair felt his temper slip. “An
affaire
I don’t even remember, and I left her with child. A child which I’m now left to raise. Esmée’s sister, for God’s sake.”
“Did that bother Miss Hamilton?” Merrick pressed.
“Good Lord, Merrick,” he answered. “She is twenty-two years old. What does she know?”
“Oh, a vast deal, from what I have seen.” At last, Merrick seemed satisfied with the sheen on his timepiece. “Moreover, men often father children out of wedlock,” he went on, tucking the watch away. “I could name you a half dozen well-placed men of my acquaintance who are—if you’ll pardon the term—bastards. And yet all have done well in life. They have position and money. They have married well.”
“Men, yes,” Alasdair reluctantly admitted.
“Women, too,” his brother insisted. “Acknowledge the child, Alasdair. Spoil her. Pamper her. Trust me, the world will treat her as
you
treat her.”
“At present, Sorcha is too young to understand,” said Alasdair. “But when the time comes, I shall certainly acknowledge her. As to how she is dealt with, if the world treated her as she is treated in my house, the child would be Queen of England.”
The carriage slowed to take another turn, requiring Merrick to steady himself against the side. When he spoke again, his voice held an air of boredom. “I thought Miss Hamilton’s betrothal came rather suddenly,” he remarked. “Was she pressured into it, do you think?”
Alasdair fisted his hand, and wished for something to smash. “Quin swears not,” he answered. “I daresay that’s true. She does not bow to pressure especially well.”
“I wonder she settled so quickly, then,” Merrick returned. “It seems uncharacteristic, and Quin does not have an exemplary reputation.”