A Borrowed Scot Page 6

  Yet of all the men in the room, he’d been the only one to step forward. Had the members of the Society been drugged as well? Or had it simply been a case of the strong victimizing the weak? At least the weak should have a fighting chance.

  He could not protect the world. He hadn’t even been able to protect his corner of it. Yet by his actions, he’d taken the niece of the Earl of Conley to protect and defend. Not just for a night, but for the rest of his life.

  God help her.

  Edmund’s carriage pulled away, lost in the activity on the street.

  A bird perched on the windowsill, then flew away, a metaphor, perhaps, for his secret wish. London was too congested. The city was never quiet, leading him to crave endless stretches of silence punctuated only by the murmuring of nature around him. He missed the sounds of water, the cicadas in the trees, and the gentle sough of the wind around Gleneagle.

  What had been almost a providential event was now a millstone around his neck. Instead of being simply Montgomery Fairfax, he was now the 11th Lord Fairfax of Doncaster. People expected him to be wise, prudent, resourceful, and caring.

  All he really wanted was to be left alone.

  Chapter 6

  “You look peaked, girl,” Uncle Bertrand said to her at breakfast two days later. “Didn’t you sleep well last night?”

  “I’m fine, Uncle, thank you,” Veronica said, staring down at the table.

  “I should hope so. Today is your wedding day.” He smiled at her, an expression he didn’t often send in her direction.

  The day before, she’d been the model of decorum. After all, she wasn’t entirely certain her uncle wouldn’t change his mind and banish her from the house on a whim. From his glowers when she’d encountered him, and from the tense atmosphere in the house, it was all too evident she’d sinned and sinned mightily. She’d dared put the reputation of the Earl of Conley and his family in jeopardy.

  On her wedding day, however, all was evidently forgiven.

  She concentrated on her breakfast, ignoring both her uncle and the glances from her cousins.

  Today, of all days, her parents should be here. Today, her mother should be bustling about with a smile curving her lips. Today, Veronica would return to her room with its white-painted window frames, pretty green curtains, and counterpane of green and pale pink. The vanity and stool had been a present for her sixteenth birthday, and it was there she’d sit and prepare herself for her wedding.

  Before the ceremony, no doubt held in the parlor just as this one would be, she’d stand at the window of her second-floor bedroom, and simply take in the sights of the lush glen around her and the mountains sitting like dragons’ teeth on the horizon.

  Her father would come into her room and hug her, whisper some reassurances, something to make her smile. He might have composed a poem for the occasion and would have to be summoned from his study, so immersed in his work he’d lost track of the time. He might have been persuaded to recite his effort for the assembled guests, or he might have chosen to give the poem to Veronica early, so she could read it alone in her bedroom.

  What would he have said? Something about love, no doubt, since it was clear her parents loved each other. Something about forever, the future, the deep and abiding union of souls.

  Would her dear father have understood expediency? Or that she was more than willing to trade a well-known prison for an unknown cage?

  But if her parents had been alive, she wouldn’t be getting married in London at all, and certainly not to Montgomery Fairfax.

  Her aunt sailed into the family dining room, took one look at her assembled brood, and beamed at them. Her smile dimmed when she caught sight of Veronica.

  “Oh my dear, that won’t do at all.”

  She braced herself, knowing what was coming.

  “You’ve done your hair yourself, haven’t you? We have certain standards in this house, and it’s not simply enough to grab a hank of your hair and wind it into a bun, Veronica.”

  A spate of laughter greeted her remark, and Aunt Lilly smiled again at her children.

  “Especially today,” she added.

  “Hester was otherwise occupied, Aunt Lilly,” she said, but her aunt disappeared into the kitchen again and paid her words no attention.

  Aunt Lilly wasn’t a cruel woman. She was a woman with a great many concerns and a great many opinions, most of them acquired from her husband. Her appearance was outwardly pleasant, masking a will of iron. Her face was puffy, as if she were a loaf of bread passed its first rising. She was plump in other places, too, even the fingers normally adorned with an assortment of rings. By afternoon, she would complain her fingers were hurting and remove all her jewelry. First thing in the morning, as now, she was bejeweled, impeccably dressed, not a hair out of place, and expecting everyone else to appear the same.

  When Veronica had lived at home, she’d never had anyone do her hair, and her results had been acceptable to everyone.

  Her morning had always begun with a smile and a kiss from her mother, and the same from her father. Their conversation consisted of ideas, thoughts, her father’s poetry, her mother’s garden.

  Ideas were not acceptable topics of conversation in her uncle’s household. Her uncle decided what everyone thought about politics, religion, or the news of the day.

  All of them freely discussed other people, however. What people wore, how they behaved, the things they said were all fodder for conversation. Occasionally, someone uttered a compliment, but mostly the comments were critical.

  No one was as good as the fair cousins.

  As much as they loved to gossip among themselves, they relished sharing information with their friends. Veronica could only imagine the talk if the real story of what had happened the night before last became known. Or perhaps they’d be too afraid that society would judge them as harshly as they judged others.

  Her breakfast finished, Veronica stood. Her aunt returned from the kitchen and regarded her with some displeasure. Yet the emotion Veronica felt from her aunt was not irritation as much as it was resignation. As if she had exhausted all of Aunt Lilly’s patience.

  “I’ll tell Hester to help you dress, Veronica,” Aunt Lilly said, the look in her eyes daring Veronica to argue. “If there’s time, she’ll redo your hair.”

  Her aunt was going to win the battle because Veronica simply didn’t care. She could enter the parlor in little more than two hours naked and clad in the brown wool robe, and she wouldn’t care. They could shave her head bald, and she wouldn’t care. Nothing could dim her joy. Nothing could alter her gratitude to Montgomery Fairfax.

  “Thank you, Aunt Lilly.”

  “Shall we help as well?” Amanda asked, sending a look toward her mother, a sweet smile curving her lips.

  “Thank you, cousin,” Veronica said hastily. “I shall manage. In fact,” she said, allowing herself to look a little uncertain, a little shy, “I would welcome the moments alone to contemplate.”

  “As well you should, Veronica,” her aunt said, glancing at her husband. Both of them nodded in tandem.

  She left the room, praying that the moments raced by, so she would soon be free of that house, her aunt, uncle, and all the cousins.

  Stepping behind the screen where the washbasin was located, she knelt and removed the loose floorboard. Slowly, she retrieved a small lockbox, the only possession she’d brought from Scotland.

  She stood, carried the lockbox back to the window seat, and twisted the knob. Although it had always been kept in her father’s desk drawer, she’d never known it to be locked. No one in their household would’ve thought to steal from her father. She couldn’t say the same in her uncle’s home.

  Inside was the totality of her inheritance. If Amanda had known the extent of the lockbox’s contents, no doubt her requirements would have been larger over the past two years. As it was, Veronica could afford to pay her cousin some small amounts from time to time in an attempt to be spared Amanda’s petty cruelties.<
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  She closed the lid of the lockbox and held it on her lap. This lockbox, along with her two remaining dresses, two pairs of stockings, a robe, two nightgowns, and a spare corset, was the extent of her belongings. Her dress for the wedding was borrowed, as well as her shoes.

  Gone was the silver she’d put away in her wedding chest, as well as all those carefully embroidered garments for her trousseau. Her copy of Mrs. Beeton’s Book of Household Management had been stored in her chest as well, and on nights when she couldn’t sleep, she’d pored over the recipes, planning for the day when she’d prepare them for her own family.

  Her female cousins had never given any thought to doing such things. They’d been reared to believe they’d always have cooks and housekeepers. Now, so would she.

  How odd she’d never given a thought to marrying a peer. Although her mother was the daughter of an earl, she’d married a Scot with no aspirations but to write. They’d lived simply, and happily, in obscurity. Her mother had been content to manage their small staff of four, to spend her days caring for her father, being his audience as he read to her his latest work.

  Had they ever discussed Veronica’s future? Not in specific terms. She’d known she would wed, but her mother’s comments had been geared toward wisdom and maturity. “It isn’t always important to understand everything your husband does as much as it is to support it, Veronica.” Or, “Kindness is a virtue everyone can afford, Veronica.”

  If her mother were here, what advice would she give?

  Be patient, Veronica. Be understanding. Guard your words. Mind your actions.

  Her mother would not have understood the visit to the Society of the Mercaii. A foolish deed performed for a good reason. She’d never had the opportunity to ask the questions she’d wanted to ask. Instead, her entire life had changed, and for the better.

  Veronica stood, placed the lockbox in the bottom of her valise, already packed for her departure from her uncle’s house, and walked to the vanity. These moments were the last of her spinsterhood. In a little less than two hours, she’d be married, a wife. She would no longer be an oddity among a group, a solitary kitten amid a litter of puppies.

  The knock on the door signaled Hester’s arrival. But it wasn’t the maid at all but her aunt.

  “I wanted a little time with you,” Aunt Lilly said, sitting on the end of the bed and gesturing that she was to join her.

  “Today begins the rest of your life, my dear,” Aunt Lilly said. “Tonight, your husband will come to your bed, and you must accept him because it is the lot of all women to do so. God has decreed that we are vessels.”

  Veronica sat perched on the edge of the bed, hands folded in her lap, her eyes not quite able to meet those of her aunt.

  “You must not move while it is happening, my dear. You must remain silent. Nor must you ever remonstrate to your husband for his cruelty and use of you. These things are simply what God has given woman to endure.”

  She didn’t know what to say to that, so she remained mute, behavior evidently pleasing Aunt Lilly if the pat on her hand was any indication.

  “You must think of more pleasant things, Veronica. The Empire. The change of seasons, our poor dear Queen.”

  In her childhood imaginings, when she was dreaming of her future, she’d never thought of passion or desire. Nor had her knowledge accumulated appreciably over the years. She knew how the act was performed. She wasn’t an idiot, after all. The emotion behind it, however, was something she’d never felt from anyone.

  Anguish, joy, anger, those were easy to sense with her Gift. Passion must be a little more subtle.

  When her aunt was blessedly gone, leaving her to contemplate the sacrifice of marriage, she stared at herself in the mirror.

  The formidable Montgomery Fairfax would be her husband.

  She’d felt pain and anger from him. The anger had been easy to understand, but why was he in pain?

  Now that he was going to be her husband, she’d have ample time to discover, wouldn’t she?

  Montgomery Fairfax would be her husband.

  How odd to watch oneself blush.

  Chapter 7

  The first time Montgomery saw Veronica MacLeod, he’d noticed her beauty. The circumstances of the meeting at the Society of the Mercaii had, however, overwhelmed any further observations. He’d been too intent on rescuing her to note her hair wasn’t truly brown or her eyes weren’t really green. Instead, her hair had brown and gold and red in it. Her eyes were a greenish hazel with gold flecks.

  She stood quiet and still beside him, dressed in a pale blue dress that didn’t flatter her coloring. She smelled of something reminding him of spring, something womanly and fresh. Her face was too pale, however, and her lips nearly bloodless.

  If he’d known her better, he would have bent and whispered something nonsensical in her ear to make her smile. He would have commented about any of the many people who crowded into the Earl of Conley’s parlor, or told her an anecdote about Virginia. Because he didn’t know her, because she was suddenly his wife when he didn’t want to marry, he merely stood silent beside her, finding himself amazed that this day had ever come.

  In the last hour, they’d been married by an ancient minister who’d taken so long to perform the ceremony Montgomery thought it would never be over.

  In the last day, he’d given more than a fleeting thought to returning home, thereby extricating himself from the situation. His honor, however, wouldn’t allow him to renege on his word, however grudgingly it had been given.

  The parlor in which they stood was filled with bric-a-brac, nonsensical fringe, deep purple and crimson upholstery. The crimson velvet drapery defeated even the bravest sunbeam, but somehow the ferns and plants occupying every available surface were flourishing. The result was a crowded and oppressive room.

  He wanted to be away from here almost as much as he wanted to be unmarried.

  What would Alisdair and James have thought of this day? No doubt they’d have made some ribald comment about his bride, her beauty, and Montgomery’s obvious impatience to be gone from this place. If they’d been alive, he wouldn’t have been there at all. Alisdair was the oldest, followed by James. One of his brothers would have been the 11th Lord Fairfax of Doncaster. Montgomery would have remained at Gleneagle, content to be about the business of ensuring that the plantation was profitable or practicing law.

  Instead of his brothers standing beside him, he’d been accompanied by his solicitor. Edmund had left after witnessing the ceremony, claiming the press of work, an excuse Montgomery wished he could emulate.

  Too many people milled around the small parlor. The air was stuffy with the various scents of perfume clashing with the dried flower arrangements and the aroma of breakfast lingering in the air.

  Someone spoke at his elbow, causing him to flinch. He covered the movement as smoothly as he could with a practiced smile. He didn’t like people approaching him without warning. He didn’t like standing close to another human being. Arm’s length was near enough, or even farther. Rifle distance was probably the best.

  One cousin or another fired a volley of questions at him. He attempted to answer each in as cursory a fashion as possible.

  The British had a strange way of talking. The more elevated a man was in their society, the more precise his speech. In the last two months, he’d been told, on more than one occasion, that he spoke like an American, a comment made with such derision there was no doubt it was meant as an insult.

  “How are you finding London?” one of the cousins asked.

  “I’ve learned a great deal since I’ve been here.” There, that didn’t give away his antipathy to London, did it?

  “Tell me all about America,” asked another one of Veronica’s cousins. Amanda? Anne? He hadn’t paid enough attention to their introductions.

  “I’d rather hear about England,” he said, forcing a smile to his lips. For the next fifteen minutes, she proceeded to regale him with tales of shops, balls, and
her many admirers.

  Montgomery had never been so bored.

  When Veronica left to change her dress, a task evidently requiring all three of her female cousins, he stood with his back to the wall, away from the other members of Veronica’s family.

  He couldn’t stand it any longer. He had to get away. He couldn’t go outside because it was raining, and it would look too much like escape if the bridegroom stood out in the rain and refused to come back inside.

  Montgomery moved to the side of the room, entering the corridor and slipping into the Earl of Conley’s library. Thankfully, the room was vacant. He walked to the window, stood staring out at the rainy day, wishing he were somewhere, anywhere but here.

  You’re a married man now, brother. James’s voice. Responsible and mature.

  It’s the right thing to do, Montgomery. How odd that, of the three, he could always hear Caroline’s voice more clearly. Perhaps guilt had something to do with it.

  “Caroline, get out of my mind.”

  “Who’s Caroline?”

  He turned to find Veronica standing there. She’d changed into an ugly dark blue dress similar to the one she’d worn to the Society of the Mercaii. It flattered her even less than her bridal gown.

  “When can we leave?” he asked.

  She looked surprised at the question or perhaps simply the abruptness of it.

  “Anytime you wish,” she said.

  “Now,” he said, walking to the doorway, brushing past her in his haste to leave, only to come face-to-face with the Countess of Conley.

  “Have we overwhelmed you with our numbers, Montgomery?” she asked. “Here you are, hiding away, when everyone wants to know about you.”

  The woman’s fawning affection was cloying. The whole family was cloying. Within five minutes of his arrival, Montgomery had known he wouldn’t be able to bear their company more than an hour or two.

  In two minutes, it would be three hours since he’d arrived.