Her Scottish Groom (2 page)

“For heaven’s sake, Mally, there’s nothing wrong with the girl’s figure.” Her grandmother, the one person in the family unafraid of her daughter’s
temper, patted her lips with a damask napkin. “I certainly never treated you like that growing up.” The old woman winked across the table at Diantha, signifying the arrival of a slice of cake in her room later that evening.

Diantha dared a small smile of thanks while her parents were distracted.

“I never had the opportunity to marry a peer of the realm. Although I have had a very satisfactory life with Mr. Quinn.” Her mother inclined her head toward her spouse.

As the two regularly engaged in sharp disagreements, she and her brothers had glanced at each other and sought for another subject to discuss.

   Diantha pattered down the steps into the darkened entrance hall. The scent of burning oil drifted from the lamp in her hand as she passed the ballroom, already decorated and set up with tables and chairs for three hundred. She did not bother to look inside. Mama had arranged the decorations without consulting her.

Since that conversation with her family, she had suffered through a series of humiliating meetings with her husband-to-be. Forbidden to utter more than the barest commonplaces, she had listened, eyes downcast, while her mother arranged every detail of the wedding and reception. Her parents had even planned their honeymoon trip aboard the flagship of her father’s shipping line.

Worse, Mrs. Quinn, in an attempt to secure attention for the splendid match, had permitted several pieces of Diantha’s trousseau to be examined
by society writers from a popular journal. After exclaiming over the exquisite creations ordered from Worth of Paris, they published descriptions of several items.

Diantha had wanted to sink with shame when she read a detailed account of her embroidered underclothes. The article sparked one of the few times she protested to her parent.

“No one I know has ever had such intimate intrusion into their weddings!” She had shaken the paper in accusation.

Her mother rebuked her sharply. “Stop crying, you stupid girl! Society has closed its doors to this family for twenty-five years. Well, this will make them sit up and take notice.”

“I hardly think they’re going to be impressed because my corset-covers are embroidered with a flower-and-leaf pattern.” The remark earned her a box on the ear, but in her agitation Diantha had not cared.

She had tried to escape the single time they left her unwatched, but failed. Wedding arrangements continued. To the gratification of her father, Astors, Belmonts, and numerous other names from select clubs accepted their invitations.

So tonight she engaged in the only act of defiance she could think of. Slipping into her father’s darkened study, she retrieved a small key from its place under his inkstand and opened the inlaid wood liquor cabinet. Her brothers had taken Lord Rossburn out for a last spree this evening. Therefore she would have one of her own.

She supposed they were visiting the establishment of a Madam Sweet. From whispered conversations
between James and Thomas, she gathered gentlemen obtained the services of loose women there. She occasionally wondered just what those services entailed, but knew better than to ask.

After examining each bottle, she picked up one and read the label aloud.

“COGNAC XO IMPERIAL.” She poured the dark amber liquid into a cut-crystal snifter and sipped cautiously. It burned going down her throat, but not unpleasantly. In fact, the warmth in her stomach felt very nice indeed in the chilly room.

She filled the bulbous container nearly to the brim. Papa and her brothers often drank several glasses over the course of an evening.

Removing a book on architecture from her father’s bookshelf, she settled into an overstuffed wing chair and opened it to a chapter on the Georgian era.

Then she started to weep softly.

   James Quinn needed to go on a slimming regimen. Kieran Rossburn held the portly young man up while his younger brother fumbled to unlock the door. “Why not ring for a servant?” His irritation roused his burden from his stupor.

“Father considers drinking and debauchery a waste of good money. So every single time we go out for a bit of fun”—his future brother-in-law indicated the front door of the Fifth Avenue mansion with a sweeping gesture that nearly pulled Kieran off his feet—”the old goat locks the door on us at midnight. We have to let ourselves in as if we still lived over the shop.”

“Damned unreasonable, if you ask me.” Beside them, Thomas looked over his shoulder from where he struggled with the key. It fell to the top step with a cold ping. “Missed again. You don’t think he changed the locks, do you?”

“Highly unlikely.” His lordship’s patience evaporated as the young man stooped to pick up the key and failed.

“Stand up and hold this.” He shoved James into his brother’s arms and retrieved the key from its resting place. Seconds later, he opened the door and guided the inebriated pair to a Louis Quinze settle. Groping his way in the dark to a switch, he turned up the gas-lit chandelier overhead.

“Say, you can’t do that!” Thomas stood up in protest and promptly collapsed back onto the settle. “The gas isn’t supposed to be lit after Father goes to bed.” Ignoring him, Kieran tugged vigorously at a bellpull.

“I do not care in the least what your father does or does not permit. And after tomorrow, I shall be free to tell him so myself.”

“That’s what you think, old boy.” James gave a snort of laughter, or perhaps contempt. “Harold Quinn never gives up a groat without a fight. If you want to live off his money, you dance to his tune.”

Kieran regarded the younger man coldly. “My estate brings in an adequate amount for me to live off of, thank you. I would like to remind you that your sister comes as part of a business arrangement with him.”

A bleary-eyed footman arrived a few minutes later, struggling into his livery jacket. Consigning Thomas to this unfortunate individual, his lordship
hoisted James to his feet and ordered the servant to lead the way to their bedrooms.

As he staggered through what appeared to be miles of hallways, he gave thanks that the Quinn brothers slept in neighboring bedrooms. Bundling the portly young man onto his bed, Kieran gasped for breath and regarded him with a jaundiced eye. Then, without a word, he turned on his heel and left the room.

The evening had been one long alcoholic binge for the Quinns, interrupted only by a visit to Madam Sweet’s brothel for what they termed “horizontal refreshments.” Kieran, already disgusted with the family he was marrying into, partook sparingly of the alcoholic refreshment and bypassed the women completely. A habitué of elegant salons in London, Paris, and Rome, the tawdry entertainment provided at the house of ill-repute failed to impress him.

Not that he expected more from his fiancée’s family. The stench of sweat and cheap perfume from the bordello left a sour tang in his mouth. Hopefully a drink from his future father-in-law’s well-stocked liquor supply would overcome it. As he made his way toward the study, he fought back the bile that rose in his throat. His engagement had given him plenty of time to assess the family. Only the need to look after his tenants kept him from bolting this neo-Gothic monstrosity they called a house.

   He had approached Harold Quinn the previous summer, when the American had rented a house for his wife and daughter in London. Not only did
the man run the most successful passenger ships plying the Atlantic, he retained ownership of his grandfather’s fishing fleet. Kieran had approached the magnate in the hope of interesting him in backing the fishermen sailing from Cariford, the one harbor on Rossburn lands. The old man had listened to his proposal in silence, then dismissed him with a promise of an answer within a week.

Striding down the dimly lit marble stairs, Kieran’s jaw tightened at the memory. He had had no choice but to agree to Quinn’s insolence. Ever since the potato blight had spread from Ireland to Scotland in his father’s time, their tenants had struggled to make a living. His father had nearly beggared the family in his attempts to provide for their people. It had taken years for the two of them to increase income from the private demesne to the point where the lord’s family could live comfortably off of it. Little extra remained to help the tenants.

Despite the social solecism of an aristocrat engaging in trade or industry, Kieran had determined to start some venture to provide employment for his tenants. His family had been in Scotland since before the Normans had invaded England in 1066, during the reign of Malcolm III, king of Scotland, and the sense of responsibility for their people ran deep in Rossburn blood.

Even so, he had refused to pay Quinn’s price the first time the old man informed him what it was.

“You’re mad.” He had regarded the other man with revulsion.

Quinn’s brows beetled. Evidently, the magnate did not hear many blunt assessments of his character.

“Mad or not, boy, that’s the offer. You want my
help, you take my daughter.” Sitting back behind the large desk in the Mayfair library, he laced his hands over his stomach. “Take it or leave it. It won’t be repeated, and don’t think you’ll get any help from any other businessman on either side of the Atlantic.” The corners of his withered lips quirked. “I’ve put the word out that you’re a bad risk.”

“What?”
Kieran erupted from his chair. “I made sure that proposal was more than fair to any investor. By God, you’ll not call me dishonorable, sir.”

“Not dishonorable, no.” The American regarded his steepled fingers with half-closed eyes. “Let’s just say I left out a few details when I discussed your ideas with other men in a position to help you.”

“Just enough to make me sound like I don’t know what I’m doing.” He could not keep himself from adding quietly, “You bastard.”

The other man waved the obscenity aside. “Been called worse, with more cause. The price of doing business.” His pale blue eyes flicked over Kieran. “Actually, you’ve got a good mind for a lord.” In shock, he realized the American meant what he said. “And you’ve a lot more gumption than most of your ilk. A man who ain’t willing to get his hands dirty hardly deserves to be called one.”

“How very flattering, to be sure.” The young aristocrat bowed.

Quinn growled. “I’m not interested in your sarcasm. Do you want the deal or not?”

The Scot bowed again. “I shall inform you of my decision within the week, sir.” With that, he took his leave, determined to find another way to help his people.

He did not find one. True to his word, Quinn
had poisoned the industrial world against him. At the end of seven days, Kieran had admitted defeat and accepted the American’s offer, as well as the hand of Diantha Quinn in marriage.

   As he passed through the golden glow of the Sienna marble foyer, he glanced at a portrait of Mrs. Quinn, along with her mother and daughter, which hung on one wall. Typically vulgar display, he snorted to himself. Nevertheless, he paused to study it closely for the first time.

Clearly a piece of self-aggrandizement for the mistress of the house, it featured the three of them in eighteenth-century garb, as if they belonged to a long-established family. Kieran admitted that the artist had done a capital job of capturing the character of his subjects. Mrs. Quinn stood in the center, preening like a peacock as she arranged a vase of flowers. To one side, her mother sat with a piece of embroidery, looking at the viewer with a sardonically arched eyebrow. Kieran smiled in spite of his foul mood. Mrs. Helford’s vinegary nature appealed to his sense of humor.

On the other side, a young Diantha handed her mother a few more blossoms, her medium brown hair arranged with a lovelock curling over one shoulder. Although she looked more attractive than in her usual garb, she had clearly not inherited her mother’s beauty. He peered closer, for a moment fancying a bleak expression in the dark blue eyes.

The echo of his footsteps abruptly ceased as he stepped from parquet flooring onto the thick strip
of carpet leading to Quinn’s study. Had the girl proved conversable, he might have borne the situation better. Most of his married friends had barely known their fiancées before marriage either, and they got on tolerably well. Their wives might demonstrate the typical foolishness of their gender, but they did at least carry on conversations of more than one sentence.

Unlike his fiancée, who invariably stared at the floor during their interviews, speaking only to answer questions put to her in a quiet voice. The image of year after dreary year in the company of such a dull creature rose before his eyes. And, dear God, after tomorrow he would have to bed her if he hoped to beget an heir.

“Ugh.” He shook his head. He had only agreed to marry the girl. Visiting her bed had not been in the contract he had signed. If worst came to worst, his cousin Barclay could inherit the title after he died. Or rather, Barclay’s children could, since he was two years younger than his cousin and heir.

He did not consider Miss Quinn unattractive. True, she would never match her mother’s remarkable looks, but her face and figure were well enough. No, it was her spiritless demeanor that repelled him. He opened the study door and stopped dead in his tracks.

To his amazement, the subject of his sour thoughts appeared in front of him. In her nightgown and a hideous bright green wrapper.

“Miss Quinn!”

“Lord Rossburn!” She must have scrambled to her feet when she heard the door open, for she stood stiffly in front of an overstuffed chair. His
gaze took in the lamp, the glitter of cut crystal on the small table beside her, and a heavy book of some sort lying half open at her feet.

For once, her eyes met his, wide with guilt. They glittered strangely, and he caught his breath at the realization she had been crying. Doubtless nerves, he thought to himself.

“Forgive me for interrupting, madam.” He shifted uncertainly on his feet under her glare.

“Can’t you wait till tomorrow to start interfering with me?” She plumped herself back into the chair, curling her legs under her. “You’re not my husband yet; I shall do as I please.”