The Capture of the Earl of Glencrae by Stephanie Laurens
“I’m hoping that by then they’ll be seeking elsewhere.”
“Griswold said he’ll hold himself ready to accompany you tomorrow morning.” As if unaware of any temerity in thus organizing his day for him, she went on, “If you manage to gather all that’s required for my disguise, and Jessup and Thomas are successful in their quest, then by lunchtime tomorrow we’ll have everything we need to slip past my brothers and cousins and successfully reach Edinburgh.”
Her confidence—shining in her eyes, in her expression—was contagious. He felt his lips ease. “With luck, we will.”
While Mulley cleared the table, and Brenda carried in a flummery and served them, Angelica blithely informed him of her preference in colors, the quality of fabrics, and sundry other details he was, apparently, required to bear in mind when shopping for her disguise. He contemplated telling her he would remember none of it and recommending she tell Griswold instead, but didn’t. By and large he had a better memory than his valet, and . . . he was unabashedly intrigued by how she—and apparently Griswold, too—imagined they were going to effectively disguise such a vibrantly, elementally feminine person as a youth. He had to believe they knew what they were doing, that they would pull it off, at least well enough for their purposes, but as she talked and waved her hands, with eyes, expression, and gestures all so innately female, he suddenly realized that no matter how brilliantly effective her disguise, he, and his libido, wouldn’t be fooled. Not in the least.
And he, and his increasingly overactive libido, would be sitting next to her all the way to Edinburgh.
His inner frown must have shown in his eyes. She stopped talking and looked questioningly at him.
He shifted, pushed back his chair. They’d both finished their dessert. “I . . .” Rising, he looked down the table at her. “There are documents I need to deal with in the library.”
Laying aside her napkin, she smiled and rose, too. “Yes, of course.”
He’d assumed that, as she had after luncheon, she would part from him in the corridor and go off somewhere, perhaps to the sitting room upstairs, but no. Blithely talking about Scotland in general, informing him she’d never been further north than Edinburgh, she led the way to the library, opened the door, and swept in ahead of him.
He halted on the threshold, then, lips firming, stepped inside and shut the door.
She’d paused to glance around the room. Now she picked up the candelabra left on the table by the door and started strolling down the shelves, deeper into the room, scanning the books’ spines.
He inwardly sighed. “What are you looking for?” He would help her find it; the sooner she did, the sooner she would leave.
“I’m just looking.” Without glancing back, she waved him away. “Don’t mind me. I won’t disturb you.”
The look he cast her held equal parts disbelief and resignation. He hesitated, then walked to the desk. The contracts and orders he’d been working on through the afternoon lay waiting. He adjusted the flames of the desk lamps Mulley had lit earlier but had left turned low, then he sat and attempted to focus his mind on the intricacies of running the Guisachan estate and the numerous businesses associated with it.
Somewhat to his surprise, he succeeded. At first.
When the clocks chimed, and he realized half an hour had passed, he glanced up—and discovered Angelica curled sideways in one of the armchairs across from the desk, a footstool she must have unearthed from under one of the holland covers propping up her small feet. Her gaze was fixed on the pages of a massive red leather-bound tome she was holding balanced on her lap.
Her absorption was complete; she didn’t notice or react to his gaze.
Which left him free to indulge in a perusal he’d been reluctant to attempt before. Slowly, he let his gaze travel from the crowning glory of her hair, noting the coppery-red glints gleaming amid the gold, over her face, features relaxed and . . . angelically perfect. Visually, she was well named. Her finely arched brown brows elegantly framed her eyes, large and well set, presently downcast as she read, the fringe of her long, lightly curling lashes casting lacy shadows across her delicately molded cheekbones.
Her nose was small but uncompromisingly straight, her lips the very opposite; lush, the upper well-bowed, the lower distractingly full, those lips were temptation incarnate, promising all manner of sensual delights.
Overall, her face was an oval, her chin, presently in repose, a sculpted curve, but he’d seen that chin firm, knew it could.
His gaze drifted lower, down the long sweep of her throat, over the links of her curious necklace to the ripe swell of her breasts . . .
He told himself he should view her dispassionately, that he could be excused for being curious enough to gauge her attractions against those of the highland, lowland, and society beauties he’d bedded . . . but all those others had faded from his memory; he couldn’t dredge up any visions to compare to the angel curled in the armchair.
And dispassion wasn’t a state to which he could lay claim, not while viewing her.
Resisting the urge to shift in his chair, to ease the discomfort that only increased as his gaze, beyond his control, skimmed further down, over the indentation of her waist, largely hidden by the drape of her gown, past the evocative swell of her hip and down the sleek length of her thigh, both outlined beneath the fine silk pulled taut by her position, he reminded himself that she’d committed herself to his plan, to their now shared enterprise . . . which meant that, ultimately, regardless of any quibble over timing, she would be his.
For the first time, he allowed that realization to fully form, to rise in his consciousness, then sink to his bones.
His instincts, still wary but now watchful, too, calmed.
Mentally shaking free of the spell, the entrancement she’d unwittingly cast, it occurred to him that perhaps he was more like his father than he’d thought.
Celia’s daughter fascinated him in a way no other woman ever had. She was in truth like a bright and sparkling angel; she swooped and glided, and amused, entertained, and intrigued him. He couldn’t recall ever before feeling a need to divine how a particular woman thought.
That left him wondering if the old saw “Like father, like son, like mother, like daughter” actually held true. He couldn’t deny that the attraction he felt toward Celia’s daughter held elements of enthrallment; he had no intention of falling victim to it, yet he knew the propensity was there.
A wise man acknowledged his weaknesses, at least to himself.
He was about to drag his gaze from his most recent weakness when the question of what subject had held her attention so thoroughly that she hadn’t sensed his prolonged appraisal made him angle his head and focus on the gold lettering on the book’s spine.
Robertson. The History of Scotland.
He looked at her face, confirmed her concentration, then looked down at his papers. Picked one up and pretended to read it.
Of the hundreds of tomes in the library, she’d chosen the Robertson. Without any fanfare, she’d set out to learn about the world he was taking her into—the world, he suspected, she intended to make hers.
That was one element of her character he shouldn’t forget.
The damned woman was intelligent.
Ergo, dangerous, especially to him.
Late the next morning, Dominic returned from his shopping expedition with Griswold, a pair of boy’s riding boots under one arm. Griswold carried several brown-paper-wrapped parcels. It had taken three hours of tramping London’s streets visiting tailors and outfitters catering to the youth of the ton, but they’d managed to acquire every item on Angelica’s Youth’s Clothes list.
Dominic held the rear garden gate—the only entry they were presently using—for Griswold, who was balancing his burdens, to angle through, then followed Griswold to the back door, opened it, waved Griswold through, and followed hi
Halting, he stared. The place had been cleaned—no, scoured, to, as the saying went, an inch of its life. The copper pans above the fireplace gleamed. The deal table, scrubbed and polished, glowed, and the dresser, previously devoid of all objects, now displayed neat stacks of clean plates and dishes upon its polished shelves.
Not a single speck of dust, much less any cobweb, remained.
Setting his packages on the scrubbed table, Griswold surveyed the room with patent approval.
Brisk footsteps approached from the kitchens, off one side of the big hall. A vision emerged, dusting her hands.
Angelica saw them and smiled. “Good—you’re back. Did you get everything?”
Dominic stared. “Yes. But where did you get those clothes?”
“From Brenda.” She looked down at the full skirt and loose cambric blouse. Both were overlarge, the voluminous wide-necked blouse exposing one delicately rounded shoulder, the skirt rolled over several times at the waist and secured with a length of cord. A striped kerchief tied over her hair completed the outfit. “She had the extra, and these will do for today . . .” Her gaze rose, fastened on the parcels, and her eyes, her face, lit.
Dominic watched her descend on the parcels, undoing string, unfolding paper, and peppering Griswold with eager questions.
She looked like a saucy barmaid from a tavern by the docks—except she was too clean.
Too blindingly beautiful.
He shook his head, hoping to shake his brains into place. It was the contrast, that was all—the disorienting disconnection between the clothes and what was in them. He’d remained where he’d halted, by the end of the table. She was holding up a white shirt, gauging the size, chattering about cravats with Griswold; belatedly remembering the package he carried, he held it out to her. “Your boots. You might have to stuff rags in the toes, but they should at least stay on.”
Face alight, she accepted the package. “Thank you.” Stripping off the paper, she held up one of the boots, considered the size, then balanced on one foot, slipped off one dancing slipper, and compared its sole to that of the boot. “They’re almost the right size.”
Sitting on one of the kitchen chairs, she proceeded to try on the boots. Griswold assisted. Dominic forced himself to remain where he was. He didn’t need to see her ankles again.
Boots on, she sprang up, strode a few paces back and forth, then, with a delighted smile, she danced a little jig. “They’re perfect!” Rounding the table, lifting her skirts halfway up her calves, she halted so Dominic could see.
Then she looked up, into his face, and smiled—a blindingly brilliant smile. “Thank you. You must have had to hunt for them, but rest assured the result was worth it. I’ll even be able to run if we need to.”
Silently clearing his throat, he managed an uninflected, unrevealing “Good.”
Sounds outside had him turning to the door. It opened, and Jessup, followed by Thomas, came in. Both nodded to Dominic, looked past him, swallowed their surprise, and, a touch warily, nodded politely to Angelica, too.
Dominic understood their caution. “Did you get the seats?”
“Aye,” Jessup replied. “But only just. Gent behind us was a tad irate about having to change his plans. Offered me a good bit extra for two of our seats. I told him we were sailors and had to be in Edinburgh to catch our ship, so couldn’t oblige him.”
Dominic nodded approvingly. “Good story.”
More footsteps approached from the kitchen. Brenda appeared, wiping her hands. Seeing Jessup and Thomas, she smiled. “Perfect timing—lunch is ready.”
Mulley, wearing a long butler’s apron over his customary attire and carrying a tray loaded with plates and cutlery, followed Brenda into the hall.
Brenda turned to Angelica. “If you want me to help you change, miss, Mulley’ll set up the dining parlor meanwhile.”
Angelica looked at her new youth’s clothes, then at Brenda and Mulley. “We’ve been working hard all morning cleaning down here, and you’re right, I’m in no fit state to sit in the dining parlor. But luncheon is just a cold collation—is there any reason we can’t all eat here, around this exceptionally clean table? That will be easier for everyone, I should think.”
Mulley exchanged glances with Brenda and Griswold, then looked at Dominic. “That would let us get on more quickly with what we’ve planned for the afternoon—if you’re agreeable, my lord?”
Dominic waved to the table. “By all means.” Mulley was only asking for show, in front of Angelica. Prior to her arrival, Dominic had taken all his meals in the servants’ hall, with his people—just as he did at the castle, in the great hall.
He moved to his place at the head of the table. Angelica gathered her new clothes and piled them in one corner of the dresser while Griswold whipped away the discarded wrappings. In the bustle as crockery, cutlery, and mugs were set out, she gravitated toward the foot of the table, but Brenda headed her off, then Mulley intervened and gently conducted her up the table to the place on Dominic’s right.
She glanced at him, not quite questioningly, yet he could all but see the wheels in her mind turning as she allowed Mulley to seat her.
Once she was settled, Dominic pulled out his chair and sat.
For masters to eat with their household staff was, he was well aware, unthinkable in tonnish English houses, yet she had suggested it. He wondered if she’d read something in Robertson about how the clans generally shared their meals, laird and people all breaking bread together, or if she was simply feeling her way.
Brenda and Mulley set large platters of cold meats, as well as sauces, fruits, breads, and nuts on the table, then all took their seats, and the meal began.
As they ate, conversation flowed freely. Brenda and Mulley told tales of their discoveries as they’d cleaned the servants’ hall, the kitchens, and butler’s pantry. Apparently the housekeeper’s room, the scullery, and the linen and laundry rooms were next on their list.
When Jessup asked what had prompted the cleaning frenzy, Dominic learned that the suggestion had come from Angelica. When he arched a brow at her, she lightly shrugged.
“We’ll be returning later this month, and while the dining parlor and library are habitable, they and the other reception rooms need work, but the rooms most used—and most necessary to a functioning household—are those down here, behind the green baize door, so I thought that, given we’ve days to wait before we can leave London, we might as well make a start on setting the place to rights for when we return with the goblet.”
She glanced up at him, meeting his eyes as if warning him not to read too much into her actions; she didn’t appear to notice the resulting pause as the others around the table took in and digested her words, along with her unstated yet patently obvious confidence that they would, indeed, be back in London at the end of the month, with the goblet in hand.
Thomas, young, eager, and now enthused, turned to Jessup and asked if they shouldn’t help with the cleaning.
Dominic left Jessup to decide that while, from beneath his lashes, he watched Angelica. He hadn’t yet defined what her underlying purpose was, what her private goals, immediate or otherwise, were.
That she had such goals he did not doubt; she was too definite a personality—she was too much like him. He and she were not the sort of characters who let life toss them where it would; they always knew what they wanted, and as far as possible took the most direct route to that end.
He looked at her and could see neither head nor tail of her direction.
At the end of the meal, she declared her intention of trying on her disguise and conscripted Brenda and Griswold to assist. Leaving Mulley, Thomas, and Jessup to clear the table, Dominic escaped to the library.
An hour later, Angelica descended the stairs, one deliberate boot step at a time. She was pleased with the way her
She was getting on well with Dominic’s valet. At first he’d been cool, distinctly reserved, but he was coming around to seeing her as an ally, at least where his master’s interests were concerned. Brenda had more rapidly come to the same conclusion and was now a ready source of information on Dominic, the castle, and the clan, all matters on which Angelica needed to cram.
Knowledge was the key to managing anything; she needed to learn much more about Dominic.
Including those insights only she could glean.
Reaching the front hall, she stepped onto the tiles and turned down the corridor to the library. Dominic had bought her the disguise—it was only fair she show him the result.
And learn what he thought of it.
Opening the library door, she walked in.
Dominic looked up—and had to battle to keep his jaw from dropping.
Battle to keep from scowling, from reacting at all as she—the minx—swanned in. Swinging around, she shut the door, causing the skirts of her jacket to fan out, giving him a glimpse of her derriere neatly outlined in brown corduroy.
His mouth dried. He was conscious of stilling—of his hunter’s instincts taking hold and locking his muscles in that preternatural stillness all predators assumed when stalking prey . . . he told himself that she wasn’t prey, but to that more instinctive side of him she most definitely was.
She walked to stand before the desk, the shift of her hips distractingly evident. Gracefully spreading her arms, she posed and waited while he raised his gaze—slowly—up the slender length of her, past her ruthlessly restrained breasts concealed behind a linen shirt, the wide lapels of her brown jacket, and the ends of the colorful red-striped neckerchief artlessly wound about her throat, to her face, to her eyes. She captured his gaze and, lips curving, asked, “Well? Do I pass muster?”