The Capture of the Earl of Glencrae by Stephanie Laurens
He hid his frown. “Why do you think that?”
She told him, concluding with, “The color alone is telling, but the candelabra put the matter beyond doubt.”
“I wasn’t aware he’d done that, but I can’t say it’s much of a surprise.”
“You told me he didn’t love her. Decorating one’s house in the colors and style favored by one specific lady is usually interpreted as an expression of love.”
He considered, then shook his head. “In his case it was adoration, adulation, infatuation—call it what you will, it wasn’t love.”
Her eyes caught his. “Do you know love so well, then?”
A vision of Mitchell and Krista bloomed in his mind. “I know love when I see it.” After a moment, he added, “My father only dreamed, he never acted. Your father did.”
Her brows rose, but she inclined her head. “I concede the point. My questions, however, continue. Does your mother know about the decoration of this house?”
“I doubt it. She’s never mentioned it, and she would have had she known. There was a gap of several years between my father leaving London and him courting her.”
One delicate finger tapped the chair arm. “What about your Edinburgh house?”
“He didn’t touch that. It’s as my grandmother left it—Mirabelle’s never resided there, not as the Countess of Glencrae, so she hasn’t changed it, either.” When she continued vaguely frowning, he asked, “Why these particular questions?”
“I’m trying to get some idea of what specific factors drove your mother to seek such a peculiar revenge. Learning about the decoration of this house would have been a severe blow to a young bride who had set her heart on winning her husband’s, but if she didn’t know about it, it couldn’t have contributed.”
He couldn’t fault her for seeking to learn what drove his mother’s madness, but the impulse to tell her more clashed with the desire to keep such unedifying family secrets close, and not sully her ears or mind with them. Yet he’d promised to tell her all, and she’d seen him clearly enough to phrase her demand wisely.
He captured her gaze. “To understand Mirabelle, there’s one aspect you need to accept as absolute truth. She didn’t love my father any more than he loved her. There never was any ‘heart’ involved, not on either side.” He paused, then went on, “As for what drives her in seeking revenge—on everyone, on the world, on fate itself—via you and your mother, it’s malicious vindictiveness, plain and simple, not any convoluted eruption of unrequited love.”
He paused, then, still holding her gaze, added, “Trust me—I’ve had a lifetime to study her, and there is nothing in her that remotely resembles love, not for any other, possibly not even for herself.”
After a moment, Angelica nodded and looked away.
He waited for several heartbeats, then asked, “Is that all?”
“No.” She returned her gaze to his face, a frown in her eyes. “When I asked Mulley what he knew of the decorating, while he knew your father had expected to marry some lady, he didn’t know who that lady was. He and the others don’t know that I’m her daughter.”
He shook his head. “I didn’t need to tell them, so I haven’t. All the clan folk presently alive, save me and Mirabelle, know only that my father remained devoted all his life to some English lady who married another. Even if any had heard him refer to her, it would have been only by her given name, but he usually didn’t mention her to others. He kept that part of himself very private—literally held to his heart. He would tell me everything, and Mirabelle would pry and learn more than she wished, but no one else at the castle was privy to the details of his obsession.”
He paused, then went on, “Beyond the clan, among wider society, both in Scotland and England, certainly up to the time of my father and Mirabelle’s wedding, Celia’s identity—that it was she he was obsessed with—was, I’ve been told, more widely known, but that was thirty and more years ago, and memories have faded. To my knowledge, the information is no longer current. It isn’t of relevance to anyone anymore, only to Mirabelle.
“As for Mirabelle’s scheme for revenge, because of the distance she preserves from all clan members, all they know is that she requires me to kidnap a young lady from a particular family and fetch the girl to the castle before she’ll hand back the goblet. None of the clan was involved in your sisters’ kidnappings, so they know nothing of those attempts beyond that they failed.” He searched Angelica’s eyes. “Mirabelle’s motives and the ton mores involved in her gaining her revenge are both entirely foreign to clan folk. If they think of such matters at all, they decide that it’s some Sassenach or lowland peculiarity and as such beyond them, and they shrug it off as one of those things they don’t need to understand.”
“So what, exactly, do they know about me?”
“They know I needed to persuade you to help me, that gaining your assistance is the only way I can meet Mirabelle’s demands, but beyond that . . . frankly, I doubt they think beyond that. For them, that’s reason enough for what I have asked, or might ask, of them.” He hesitated, studying her face, then said, “I hadn’t intended to broadcast your connection to the lady who was my father’s long-ago obsession, or why you, of all the young ladies in the ton, are the one Mirabelle now wishes to see at the castle.” Capturing her gaze, he asked, “Do you wish me to?”
She held his gaze. A moment ticked by, then she shook her head. “No. Aside from all else, it will make it rather awkward when Mama and Papa come to visit.”
He hadn’t thought of that. “Indeed.” He let another moment elapse, then asked, “Is there anything else?”
“Yes.” Angelica waited until his gaze returned to hers. “Have you told your people that as part of your bargain to gain my assistance you would offer to marry me and make me your countess?”
“No.” Lips thinning, he searched her eyes. “I’ve told them nothing of how I planned to gain your necessary support.”
“So those here have leapt to the conclusion?”
“It’s not such a great leap.” His voice grew harder, his tones crisper. “Those here have been with me for years, and none of them are unintelligent. They know what sort of man I am, and Griswold at least appreciates exactly what sort of lady you are. On top of that, you’ve been behaving as my countess-to-be—learning about them, me, the clan, and this house. That a marriage between us is pending isn’t an assumption they’ve been given any reason to question.” His eyes narrowed on hers. “So no, I didn’t seek to force your agreement by letting it be known that I would offer or have offered for your hand.”
Despite being pinned by those gray-green eyes, she appreciated his candor. She nodded. “Very well. Now, tell me about your wards. Gavin and Bryce.” He blinked, and she explained, “Jessup mentioned them.”
The change in him was palpable, visual—real. Under her fascinated gaze, the tension in his shoulders eased; his face, that hard, impassive, tell-nothing face, softened in a way she hadn’t suspected was possible.
“They’re my late cousin’s sons.” He smiled.
At the sight of that smile, her heart turned over. He was utterly charmed by and devoted to his wards, protective, caring . . . loving. That was what she saw in his face.
My God. The expression of mingled pride and love lighting his countenance, which had banished every cloud from his eyes, was identical to the expression she saw in her brothers’ and cousins’ faces whenever they looked upon their children.
Utterly entranced, she sat and listened as, with little further prompting, he told her of the pair—how they’d been orphaned, how their guardianship had fallen to him, how he’d been their surrogate father since they’d been just two and three years old. How, just as he and their father had done, they now ran wild in and about the castle; it sounded as if Jessup had been nothing more than accurate in labeling them scamps.
“Gavin—he’s the
She let the comment slip past but couldn’t resist testing him. “What color are their eyes?”
“Blue, and blue—Bryce’s are a touch paler.”
“Hair?”
“Lighter brown and darker brown, either side of the middle.”
She’d never met a man who could answer such questions without even pausing to think. “Jessup mentioned that they’d been badgering him to start them on their first pony. He was contemplating doing so on returning to the castle.”
“That’s been a sore point—they’ve been limited to the donkeys until now.” Across the desk, he caught her eye. “Once you see the land around the castle, you’ll understand—it’s not the sort of terrain you want two boys with inflated notions of their equestrian abilities to be racing over. As those two would. But . . .” He leaned back in his chair, fingers idly turning the seal ring he wore on one finger. “Jessup’s right—that’s a bridge we’ll need to cross soon.”
She nearly offered to help, but a niggling doubt over whether he’d welcome her assistance in an arena he clearly held so close to his heart—at least not until he and she had grown closer and he’d learned to trust her—held her back. There would be plenty of time later, once they’d reclaimed the goblet and she’d met the two terrors. She shifted in the chair; one leg was going numb. “Given Jessup and Mulley are here with you, who’s looking after them? I assume they’re not nestling under your mother’s wing.”
He muttered what sounded like a Scottish curse and shook his head. “Not likely.” He hesitated, then, lips thinning, said, “She can’t abide them. They’re too noisy, and yell, and run, and track mud inside . . .” He spread his arms in an all-encompassing gesture, then looked at her as if suddenly wondering what her stance would be.
She grinned. “Good heavens—they’re boys. Surely she knows that’s how such beings are? Well, she had you, after all, and I’m sure you and your cousin Mitchell were even worse.”
His grin was unabashed and utterly boyish; for the instant it lit his face, she saw the boy he once had been. “True. But at that age I was her golden-haired—figuratively speaking—boy and could do no wrong. And Mitchell always hid behind me.” The grin faded, to be replaced with a look she interpreted as looking north, far north, in his mind. “Mrs. Mack, and Gillian, their nurse, will have them in hand indoors, and Scanlon, my gamekeeper, and his lads will keep them close outside the keep.”
She blinked. “You have a keep?”
He met her gaze. “I have a castle.”
“Yes, I know, but . . .” Most castles she knew didn’t have keeps, or if they did, said keeps had long been buried within the expanding structure, but she didn’t think that was what he meant.
The clock on the mantelpiece further down the room whirred and bonged. Eleven times. She glanced at the papers on his desk. “Have you finished with those?”
He looked down. Grimaced. “No.”
She shut her similarly neglected book. “I’ll let you get back to them.”
He looked at her as she rose, arched a questioning brow.
“My questions about the castle and the keep will . . . well, keep. We’ve a long journey in a few days’ time, plenty of hours in which you can tell me all I need to know.”
He nodded. “Good night.”
Smiling, she headed for the door. “Good night.”
Letting herself out, she walked to the front hall and slowly climbed the stairs. Over the last minutes, when they’d been talking of his wards, he hadn’t bothered to keep his rigidly impassive mask in place. He’d lowered it and had allowed her to see the man behind it.
She hadn’t realized she’d been waiting for that moment, for him to stop seeing her as someone to be held at a distance and allow her within his circle.
Allow her to see the huge heart he hid behind the rigid mask.
With the insight, the realization, had come a nearly overpowering temptation to reach out and touch . . . but it was too early yet.
No. In the matter of stalking and capturing her very own wild, highland earl, she, of all ladies, knew the value of patience. Tonight she would retire satisfied with knowing she’d made very real progress, and looking forward to what tomorrow might bring.
Half an hour later, Dominic signed the last of the agreements his manager at the distillery had sent him for approval. Putting down his pen, he raised his arms, stretched . . . and let out a long sigh.
Lowering his arms, he leaned back in his chair. Shifting his gaze to the chair facing him, with the Robertson lying closed on the table alongside, he finally let his mind change tracks—to his coconspirator.
That he thought of her as that testified as to how far his view of her had changed. Over her, his coldly rational, logical side and his instinct-driven side were rapidly reaching agreement. In all that was to come, not simply in their immediate future but later, too, she would be an asset, a major one. Instead of the long-term disaster his mother’s scheme might have wrought—forcing him to take to wife some sweet ninnyhammer utterly unsuited to meeting the needs of the clan, or his own—he’d been handed Angelica. Difficult or not, fiery-tempered or not, she was a boon, one he hadn’t in the least expected.
He still wasn’t certain he trusted fate, that something wouldn’t arise to throw everything askew again, but for now he had to take the situation at face value and move forward, which meant he had to learn how to deal with her, how best to . . . he supposed the correct term was negotiate with her.
Stretching out his legs, he crossed his ankles, crossed his hands behind his head, and stared upward. With every hour he spent in her company, he felt increasingly drawn to her, increasingly caught in the web of her attraction; he now felt the effect as an almost physical tug.
Another issue they would have to negotiate at some point, but luckily not until later.
Tonight she’d revealed another dimension, another aspect to her allure.
Her interest in the boys had been genuine. If he was any judge, she would take them under her wing—would without question stand beside him in rearing them, in giving them the love and sense of belonging they’d lost with Mitchell and Krista’s deaths.
That meant a lot to him.
In all honesty, he couldn’t think of anything more he could ask of her. She’d done what she could to deflect her family, had helped work out a plan to elude them and reach the castle, and had thrown herself into the arrangements. She was interacting well with his staff, taking appropriate interest in his house, in learning all she needed to go forward, and, given her recent questions, she was already turning her mind to the challenge of dealing with his mother and her mad scheme.
Admittedly, she’d refused to simply agree to their wedding, but that was merely a temporary quibble. He couldn’t fathom her reasoning—presumably another of her female-only perspectives—but even tonight, she’d tacitly acknowledged that she would eventually agree.
Which meant he was going to have to give more thought to what she might want of him. To what he was prepared to give her in return for all she was giving him.
If there was one truth his years of business dealings had taught him, it was that successful negotiation required give as well as take.
He suspected he would be wise to define what he was willing to give, before she decided what she would take.
Chapter Seven
“I’m going to go out and wander the streets to practice passing as a male.”
Dominic raised his head and stared down the breakfast table at Angelica, seated as usual at the other end. Her reply was definitely not what he’d expected in response to his query about her plans for the day.
Admittedly, he’d asked because she was dressed in her disguise.
An authoritarian veto burned the tip of his tongue, but when s
“True. But there are only so many of them, and I know where they spend their days. There’s a lot of London where they never go.” She looked down at the porridge she’d elected to eat. “I’ll just go there.”
“The areas where your family never goes—” He cut off the sentence. Telling her such areas were dangerous for young ladies wasn’t going to get him anywhere. He scooped up a mouthful of porridge, just to give himself time to think. “Your disguise is good enough as it is—during the journey, you won’t need to pass any terribly close scrutiny, not while you’re beside me.”
“Not from any females, perhaps, but we discussed the likelihood that my family will have alerted or even paid the staff at the various inns to keep an eye on all coach passengers, and while said staff might be looking for a young lady, there’s no saying one of them won’t spot some telltale mistake I make, and so see through my disguise.”
She’d rehearsed—prepared all the arguments she needed to win this one. He realized he was frowning, that he’d set aside his usual impassive mask, but he didn’t care. “You can’t seriously imagine that you’ll be safe wandering London’s streets and staring at unknown men.”
Aside from all else, she made a far too attractive youth.
“Of course not.” Laying aside her spoon, she lifted her napkin and dabbed at her lips—those outrageously feminine curves—and his unruly body reacted. “I’ll take Thomas with me. He’ll be able to protect me.”
Down the length of the table, he met her gaze, read her determination. Ungraciously growled, “All right. I’ll go with you. As we both know, Thomas isn’t an appropriate companion for a youth of your supposed station, especially not in areas where such youths congregate, and those youths, after all, are the ones you need to mimic.”
The smile she bent on him was equal parts triumph, approval, and pure pleasure. “Excellent! I knew you’d see my point.”