Seduced by the Scot Page 9

  The game.

  The game.

  It was a game, wasn’t it? All this pomp and pretense. An entire Season devoted to finding a husband, when it was really all planned from behind closed doors. Who could marry whom. Who needed to be avoided at all cost. Who might cause a scandal so large it would rock the entire ton to its foundation.

  Why, Brynne had only to look to last year for what would happen if she strayed off the path that had been set for her from birth. Lady Henrietta Hartley, eldest daughter of the Duke of St. Albans and adored by all, had done the unspeakable. She’d fallen in love. With a baronet. And then–to make matters infinitely worse–she’d run off to Gretna Green and married him.

  The last anyone had heard, the newlyweds were living somewhere outside of Leeds. Penniless, ostracized from High Society, and disowned by her father, Henrietta could never return to the life she’d known. Once a diamond of the first water with the world at her feet, now she was nothing more than another example of what happened to a young lady when she followed her heart instead of obeying her head.

  “I may never be allowed to see you again,” she told Lachlan, sweeping a troubled glance at him from beneath her lashes.

  “Aye, ye will,” he said, an arrogant smirk capturing his mouth as Lady Crowley, all icy indignation and thinly veiled fury, finally reached them.

  “Lord Campbell,” she said between clenched teeth, “you are wanted on the other side of the room.”

  “Somehow I expected I would be.” He levelled his grin at Lady Crowley, who sniffed and deliberately looked the other way. As his focus shifted to Brynne, his eyes softened, and the tiny hairs at the nape of her neck lifted in awareness when she glimpsed the possessive gleam in the depths of his gaze.

  “I’m sorry” she mouth again.

  Helplessly.

  Hopelessly.

  “Not tae worry.” He bent over her hand, and when he spoke, his low, rumbling brogue was for her ears only. “I said I know the game…I never said I had any intention of following the rules.”

  Chapter Eight

  Present Day

  Hawkridge Manor

  She saw Lachlan twice more that Season, Brynne reflected as she gazed blindly out the window. Once at a private dinner party for a mutual acquaintance, and again by sheer happenstance in Hyde Park. At least, at the time, she’d assumed it was coincidence that their paths happened to cross. Now she knew that it had most likely been an intentional act, as her husband never did anything by accident.

  He was not a man to leave things to fate or chance.

  Every last detail was planned.

  Including their marriage.

  As a chill seeped through the glass and settled in her bones, she turned from the window just as the door to the parlor creaked open. Tension ratcheted through her, a drawing rein pulled too tight, only to ease when the housekeeper entered the room.

  “Mrs. Grimsby,” she said on a relieved exhalation of breath. “I thought…I thought you might be someone else.”

  “And who might that be?” Attending to a mountain of pillows piled high at the end of a divan, the housekeeper gave them a sturdy thwack with the side of her palm to settle the newly stuffed feathers into place. “The person responsible for your Episode yesterday?”

  Crossing the sideboard where a fresh tea service always sat at the ready, Brynne poured herself a cup with remarkably steady hands given her strained nerves and opted to stand, rather than sit, behind an ornate sofa trimmed in rosewood.

  “I do not care to discuss it.” Or him, she added silently.

  Perhaps, if Mrs. Grimsby wasn’t the closest thing to a mother Brynne had ever had, the servant would have left it at that. But she was, and she didn’t.

  “Large Scottish husbands do not disappear simply because you wish it of them, dear.”

  Tea sloshed over the rim of Brynne’s cup as her arm jerked in surprise. “You…you know?”

  “Here, eat a piece of bread with jam and rest your feet. You’re pale, and those circles under your eyes indicate that you didn’t sleep well. Not that I can blame you.” Fussing over Brynne like a mother hen, Mrs. Grimsby refilled her tea, pressed a plate into her hands, and spread a blanket across her lap. “There we are, dear.” She sat opposite in a chair set on brass castor wheels, and as her kind brown eyes filled with understanding, Brynne’s inexplicably filled with tears.

  “I apologize,” she gasped, setting aside her tea to dab at the corners of her eyes with a linen handkerchief procured from a hidden pocket stitched into the skirt of her gown. “I…I do not know what has come over me.”

  Generally speaking, she prided herself on controlling her emotions. It was a hallmark of every Weston; their uncanny ability to disguise what they were really feeling behind a cold smile and empty eyes.

  Her brother had perfected the art following his return from Eton, and had been a veritable walking, talking glacier before Evie Thorncroft melted him into a puddle. It had taken Brynne a little longer to learn how to effectively shield her innermost thoughts (as a woman, she was charged with the unique task of always being approachable while holding everyone at arm’s length), but with a little practice she’d managed to erect a wall around herself and her feelings. A wall that had grown immeasurably taller after the complete and utter collapse of her marriage. Which was why she was dismayed to find that it was failing her at the moment she needed it the most.

  “I cannot claim to be an expert on such matters,” Mrs. Grimsby began, her humble, soothing tone a steady balm on the raw, exposed nerves that pricked and burned just beneath the surface of Brynne’s composed countenance. “Mr. Grimsby and I have been blessed with a quiet, uneventful life. An impatient word spoken here and there, true, but for the most part, we have loved each other day in and day out since he stumbled his way through a proposal when we were both hardly more than children.”

  Brynne managed a wisp of a smile. “That sounds very nice.”

  “It is,” the housekeeper nodded. “It is indeed. But I can imagine that a secret elopement, and whatever drove you to return to a place you’ve never been terribly fond of, and then the reappearance of the man who, if memory serves, you asked me to have shot on sight, would be enough to drive anyone to a few tears, if not worse.”

  “How long have you known?” She crumpled her handkerchief into a ball, but didn’t return it to her pocket as she sensed she may have need of it shortly. “That Lachlan…that Lord Campbell and I…that we…”

  “Are wed?” Mrs. Grimsby said gently.

  She nodded past the lump in her throat.

  “Long enough, dear. Do not forget your toast.”

  Obediently, she took a bite, then dusted the resulting crumbs off her lap. It really should have come as no great shock that Mrs. Grimsby knew about her marriage to Lachlan. Servants were often privy to information that was not widely circulated. Especially a housekeeper, who had the eyes and ears of every maid and footman in the manor.

  “He wasn’t supposed to come here.” Bitterness chased away her tears as she made herself sit up straight, Miss Hardgrave’s lessons (“young ladies do not slouch, young ladies do not speak out of turn, young ladies do not fraternize with boys of ill repute”) as much a part of her as the color of her hair. “When we…when we ended things between us, I made it clear that I never wanted to see him again.”

  “What did Lord Campbell have to say to that?” Mrs. Grimsby asked.

  “He was not inclined to agree.” To put it mildly. “But I did not give him a choice.”

  “I see.” Lapsing into thoughtful silence, the housekeeper made an act of removing a small silver figurine off the table beside her and rubbing it to a shine with her apron. She replaced it carefully, then regarded Brynne with a calm, measured smile. “If Lord Campbell has come all this way, I can only presume that he should like to make amends for whatever transgressions he committed.”

  “I am not interested in any sort of reconciliation, and I have already asked him to leave.”


  “And here I just had him settled in the East Wing.”

  Brynne stared blankly at Mrs. Grimsby. “You did what?”

  “He is your husband, dear. Estranged or not.”

  “He is a rogue!” What remained of her toast fell to the floor as she surged to her feet. “And a liar besides. I want nothing to do with him, and you’ve–you’ve put out the welcome banners? Mrs. Grimsby, how could you?”

  The housekeeper clucked her tongue. “I had a room prepared for a family member, my lady. The same as I’ve done a hundred times before.”

  “Lachlan Campbell is not my family.” As anger boiled and betrayal slapped, Brynne’s natural defenses shored themselves up, encasing her behind a towering partition of ice. “You are excused, Mrs. Grimsby.”

  “My lady–” the housekeeper began, her brows knitting.

  “Out,” she whispered, jabbing a finger at the door.

  “Very well.” Stiffly, Mrs. Grimsby stood. But she did not immediately quit the parlor. “I shall say this once, Lady Brynne, and not again. I probably should not say it all, but I’ve known you since you were a girl. I’ve rocked you in my arms when you had bad dreams. I’ve stood guard over you when you were terribly ill with fever. I’ve mended your cuts and tended your bruises, and long have I considered you to be one of my daughters, even though there is no blood between us and I am your social inferior. Which is why I hope you heed my words when I say that in my experience, it is rare that a person has done something so grievous that it cannot be undone with time and forgiveness.”

  Guilt filled Brynne. Every word the housekeeper spoke was true, and she felt terrible for her harsh tone. It was a basic human instinct to cause hurt when you were hurt. To alleviate your pain by invoking pain in others. But it wasn’t right, and it wasn’t fair, and she owed Mrs. Grimsby more than the curt dismissal she’d given her.

  “I apologize,” she said. “I…I have not been myself. Not since Lord Campbell arrived. I wish forgiveness was as easy as that. Truly, I do. It would make everything that much more simple.” As a smile, sweet and fleeting, stole across her lips, she hugged her arms to her chest. “Lachlan and I…we did love each other. Once. But now…now it’s better for everyone that we stay apart.”

  Mrs. Grimsby raised a brow. “I never said anything about forgiveness being easy, dear. And love is many things, but simple is not one of them. It is, however, the third most important thing worth fighting for.”

  “And the other two?” Brynne asked.

  Mrs. Grimsby may have never attended a ball in London or met the queen at Kensington Palace or sat in a box at the Royal Theater, but she was an indispensable source of wisdom nevertheless. Her common sense view of the world had often served as a guide for Brynne over the years. Certainly, the housekeeper had given her better advice than any nanny or governess, and while she hadn’t the same experience with the ton as Lady Crowley had, her guidance was just as invaluable.

  “The second most important thing is your children. Should you be a mother someday, you will defend that innocent babe whether they are small enough to fit in the crook of your arm…” Mrs. Grimsby gazed at Brynne with great affection. “Or old enough to run off with a striking Scot. Heavens, dear, and may my Mr. Grimsby forgive me saying this, but your Lord Campbell is a sight to behold, isn’t he?”

  “He isn’t my Lord Campbell,” Brynne said automatically. Then the side of her mouth quirked in a reluctant half-smile. “But yes, yes he is a sight to behold.” Lowering her arms, she adjusted a pleat on her skirt that had folded over when she’d sat down on the sofa. “What of the last thing worth fighting for?”

  “Yourself.” Mrs. Grimsby clasped her hands together. “You must always fight for yourself, first and foremost. Now finish your tea before it goes cold. I’ll have a maid bring in a platter of fruit to get some color into your cheeks, and then a walk to get some fresh air into your lungs, I should think.”

  It was, Brynne noted wryly, nearly the same advice she’d given to Sterling.

  “Mrs. Grimsby,” she called out as the housekeeper finally turned to leave.

  “Yes, dear?”

  “Thank you.”

  After spending a restless night in the same room he’d occupied during his first visit to Hawkridge Manor, Lachlan rose with a newfound sense of determination and purpose.

  It was painfully apparent that Brynne did not want him here. She couldn’t have made her disdain for him any clearer. A blind man could see it. But then had he really expected anything less, given how things had ended between them?

  In tears and torment, rage and wrath. With both saying things they didn’t mean, and holding on to stubborn pride when they should have held on to each other.

  He had regrets.

  A bloody ocean’s worth of them.

  But that was why he was here.

  Not to start over. There was too much history to begin anew. But they could go back to their foundation. Build it stronger. Hardier. So that the next time the winds howled and the rain spat, they would be able to withstand the storm.

  Brynne thought they were over. She believed they were a thing of the past. Something to be locked away and forgotten, like bloody pantaloons or powdered wigs. Except their love wasn’t a damned fashion statement gone hideously wrong. It was long, and it was lasting, and even now–after all that had happened–he felt the spark of it. And he knew that, deep down, Brynne did as well. Or else he would have been greeted with apathy instead of anger. Because the opposite of love wasn’t fury.

  It was indifference.

  “Aye, and we’ve none of that, do we?” Asking the rhetorical question of his mare, Aislyn, a chestnut of sturdy build and mind that he’d raised from a wee filly after she was rejected by her dam–he cinched off her girth and drew the reins over her head before swinging himself up and into the saddle.

  He wasn’t nearly so fine an equestrian as his brother, Robert, but he enjoyed a daily ride, and Aislyn enjoyed stretching her legs. Holding her to a trot until they were clear of the manor, he set his heels into her barrel once they had nothing but open field in front of them, and crouched low over her neck as they tore off through the tall, rippling sea of grass.

  Overhead, the sky was a clear, seamless blue, and the air was crisp with the scent of autumn. The trees were heavy with leaves yet, but some had already begun shifting colors and it wouldn’t be long before the branches clacked and the snow fell.

  By then, he hoped to be sitting in front of a roaring fire at Campbell Castle with Brynne by his side, wearing a blanket of fur…and nothing else. He remembered, keenly, their first winter in the drafty old keep of wood and stone. How they’d laughed and played in the snow like children during the day, then warmed each other in front of the hearth by night. Four months of newly wedded bliss in the frozen Highlands…when they were too lost in each other to even notice the cold. Then spring came, and the weather wasn’t the only thing to change.

  If he could go back…if he could do it over again…but living in the past was a fool’s errand, and the straightest path forward was always the one untraveled. He’d taken his first steps by coming here. Every day that he remained, he’d take a few more. And eventually, with persistence and truth and a little luck thrown in for good measure, that path would carry him and Brynne home again.

  He was sure of it.

  He had to be.

  “Easy,” he murmured in Aislyn’s flattened ear as the mare’s breaths began to labor and her stride shortened. “Easy now, lass. Ye dinna want tae overdo it.”

  He stood in the stirrups, bracing himself against the wind and the pull of Aislyn’s forehead as he firmly guided the mare back down through her paces. A gallop to a canter, a canter to a trot, a trot to a walk. Loosening the reins, he gave her her head, and she guided them to a nearby stream where crystal clear water rushed over smooth rocks covered in moss.

  Dismounting, he slapped Aislyn’s sweaty shoulder and then slipped off her bridle so that she could quench he
r thirst and then nibble at the tender grass shooting up along the bank in clumps of vibrant green. Pulling off his jacket, he threw it on the ground and then sat on top of it, arms looping around his bent legs as he gazed thoughtfully at the bubbling brook.

  Further up, shielded from the meadow and the road beyond it by a heavy thicket of wild elderberry, the stream widened into a pool. He had discovered the spot while exploring during his second summer at Hawkridge Manor, and he and Weston had spent many an afternoon drowning worms there.

  It was also where he’d caught his first English trout. A pitiful specimen, hardly the length of his hand. But he had still been immeasurably proud of it.

  It was where he’d encouraged Weston, far too serious by half, even as a young man, to shake off the responsibilities of an earldom.

  And it was where he’d kissed a pretty blonde lass who would one day be his wife.

  Chapter Nine

  Four Years Ago

  Hawkridge Manor

  “Can I take it off now?” Her voice breathy with nervous anticipation, Brynne tugged at the cloth Lachlan had tied around her eyes.

  “Almost,” he said as he continued to guide her closer to the stream and the blanket he’d set out beside it. The sun was heavy at their backs and a warm evening breeze tickled the air, carrying the faintest sounds of raised voices and laughter from the garden party underway at the main house where two dozen guests, Lachlan among them, had been invited to spend a month at Hawkridge Manor.

  The Westons’ annual house party was as renowned as the Westons themselves. First held by Brynne’s grandfather, the Duke of Caldwell, and then–briefly–by her father, the Marquess of Dorchester, they had since been delegated to her brother, the Earl of Hawkridge, which was who Lachlan undoubtedly had to thank for his unexpected invitation.

  The letter had found him all the way at Campbell Castle, where he had resided for the past two years. Dividing his time between caring for his younger siblings and trying like hell to resurrect his great-great-grandfather’s distillery, he’d skipped the past London Season with no set plan to attend another. Dull and dreary, the barrage of balls and social calls had been as appealing as nails on a chalkboard. The only bright spot was Brynne. Dancing with her, talking to her, just gazing at her…it was like holding sunshine in the palm of his hand. He could have basked in her light for the rest of the evening and every day beyond it, but Lady Crowley had cast a long, ominous shadow.