The Pretender (6 page)

Behind him, however, Elizabeth refused to shy away, and for it she got a thorough view of the lovely lean muscles in his bare backside as he stood and deftly wrapped the plaid around his waist to cover himself. She knew she should be embarrassed to her toes. She’d
looked
at
him, and kept on looking. As he stood, she retreated to the shadows afforded by the bed hangings to hide her interest. Before he left, Douglas turned once to look at Elizabeth, and that look was icier than the coldest Northumbrian wind.

“I will see you belowstairs, madam. Or should I call you ‘wife’?”

“Outside, if you please, Mr. MacKinnon,” said Isabella, and gave him a shove. “It is bad luck, you know, for the groom to see the bride before the wedding . . . despite the fact that he spent the night before seeing far more of her than he ought.”

MacKinnon headed for the door, his expression akin to murder.

He stopped before leaving, though, turning back.

“What is it now, sir?” Isabella asked impatiently.

But he didn’t answer her. Eyes locked on Elizabeth, he crossed the room instead. When he reached for the bedcovers beside her, she froze, but he only flipped them back, uncovering the white sheet underneath.

“It is as I thought,” was all he said, then turned to leave once again.

When he’d finally gone, tailed by Manfred and Titus, who no doubt sought to make sure he didn’t flee, Isabella closed the door. She stood a moment, her back to the room, her head bowed forward as if summoning up the courage to see this thing through. Finally she turned, strode to the bed, and yanked Elizabeth up by her arm.

“Bella!”

“This goes beyond anything I could ever have imagined, Elizabeth, even from you.” As she talked, Isabella wrapped the width of Elizabeth’s corset around her
waist, threading the laces through with the expertise of a weaver. “You’ll be lucky if Father doesn’t lock you up in that convent for the rest of your life after this.”

She tugged hard on the laces, pulling Elizabeth back and causing whatever breath she had in her lungs to “whoosh” out in a rush. Elizabeth braced herself with the bedpost as Isabella tugged on.

“Isabella, really, this is not necessary, all this upset, this hasty marriage.”

“Oh, yes, it is necessary, Elizabeth. It is absolutely necessary.” Isabella tied off the corset with a knot, then sank onto the bed. Suddenly she no longer looked the part of the enraged hoyden who had been issuing orders. Instead she looked pale and frightened and very, very worried.

“Oh, Bess, what on earth happened in here last night? When I left you, you were deeply asleep. I couldn’t even rouse you to undress you. I shouldn’t have left. I should have stayed with you. Then none of this would be happening right now.”

They were the same words four-year-old Isabella had sobbed when they’d discovered Elizabeth locked inside that trunk.

“Bella, please don’t cry.”

“Surely he didn’t take you unwillingly, Bess. I know he’s a Scot and a bit rough around the edges, but no ravisher of women would have stopped to help us as he did on the road yesterday. And I know you. You would never allow a man to do that to you and live to see the light of the next morn, even if you were downright sotted. So how, Bess, how did this ever happen?”

Elizabeth lowered herself onto the mattress beside
her, taking her sister’s hand in hers. “Honestly, Bella, I don’t remember anything. We were talking and then it is as if my memory has been blotted out.” She puzzled over it a moment, then said, “I knew that
uisge-beatha
didn’t taste right. How on earth could something be intended to taste that terrible? It must have been spoiled. Do you not think so, Bella? Bella?”

But Isabella wasn’t listening. She was staring off at the bare floorboards. “It is all my fault. Father charged me with the task of keeping watch over you on this journey, and I have failed. We didn’t even make it to Lord Purfoyle’s, we barely made it out of England, and now I’m going to return you home little more than a day after we have left only to inform our Father that you ended up spending the night in bed with a strange Scotsman.”

“But we don’t even know what happened,
if
anything happened at all.”

“That no longer matters.” Isabella sighed. “The thing is something very well
could
have happened here last night. And as far as scandal goes, ‘could have’ is as good as ‘did.’ For once in your life, Bess, think of someone other than yourself. Think of what this will do to Father, to Mother. Think of the scandal this would cause if you simply returned home and tried to make nothing of it. Father would never forgive you. He’ll forbid you from ever seeing Caro and Matilda, even Catherine, again for fear that you might inspire in them your same willfulness.”

Elizabeth sagged against the bed board. The ache in her head had dulled to a slow drum and she felt as if she’d just been punched in the gut. She adored her little sisters. They were everything to her, especially Caro,
sweet eight-year-old Caroline, who had always looked upon her eldest sister as her champion. She could never do anything to hurt them. Never.

“Father wouldn’t do that.”

“He would. He already said as much when he charged me with taking you to Lord Purfoyle. Oh, Bess, don’t you see? Father would have no choice but to make you marry someone after this. Who would you rather it be? Lord Purfoyle, or Mr. MacKinnon?”

Elizabeth thought about it. “I’d sooner marry a goat than Lord Purfoyle.”

“Well, at least Mr. MacKinnon isn’t any goat.” Isabella’s voice softened. “You are doing the right thing, Elizabeth. Everything will work out. You’ll see. We’ll have a quick breakfast, get you married, and then head straight back to Drayton Hall. We should be able to make it there by supper if we make good time, and then, once we’re home, Father can figure out what to do next.” She finished dryly, “He might even make you a widow.”

Elizabeth stared solemnly at her feet as the enormity of the situation finally began to sink in. Isabella was right. She had brought this on herself almost from the day she’d been born. All her life, Elizabeth had acted without thought for the consequences, mostly because having been born to the privilege and protection of the name of Drayton, daughter to a duke, the consequences had never been anything more than a stern reprimand. This time, however, the risk was considerably higher. Because now it had cost her her freedom.

The one thing she had vowed never to lose.

Back in 1727, when Alaric Henry Sinclair Fortunatus Drayton succeeded to the dukedom of Sudeleigh, he inherited seven homes, over one hundred and twenty-five thousand acres of land, and a legion of servants to maintain it all. There was a townhouse in London on fashionable St. James’s Street, a sizeable property in Surrey near the sea, as well as a handful of other holdings strewn all about the English countryside. Few, however, would disagree that the thirty-five thousand acres which comprised the Sudeleigh ducal estate was the very finest of them all.

It was a vast property thick with woodland of oak and pine, and rivers that threaded their way through verdant parkland and rugged countryside alike. Seeing to the estate’s transformation after generations of neglect by former dukes had been the first project he had undertaken. On the advice of his friend and colleague, the Earl of Burlington, Alaric had hired famed garden architect
William Kent, sparing no expense in the creation of a landscape replete with Roman statuary, grottoes, and a “natural” fountain. Crowning it all was an extravagant tower folly set upon a picturesque hillock sloping down to a tranquil swan’s pond and known as Drayton’s Milepost because it stood exactly one mile from Drayton Hall.

It was there on that same hillock, at the foot of that tower, that the duke stood now, one hand holding the hilt of a sword he’d never used and the other at rest in the pocket of his waistcoat. His wife, Margaret, was seated beside him, her pale silk skirts elegantly arranged around the feet of a Queen Anne chair, while their three youngest daughters, Catherine, Matilda, and Caroline, circled their feet. In the distance behind them, rising from a forest that had once been hunted by kings, stood the smoky redbrick façade of the hall.

It was the close of what had been a near-perfect day. The birds were nattering in the trees and horses from the Sudeleigh stable grazed lazily on distant pastures in the ebbing sunlight. The duke and his family were dressed in their very finest for the sitting of the “official” portrait of the family of the fifth Duke of Sudeleigh.

For the occasion, the duke had engaged the services of famed portrait artist Allan Ramsay. It had taken some time and a good deal of persuasion, but Alaric had managed to convince the artist to fit a stop at Drayton into his already busy schedule. Unfortunately, the man had arrived only a few hours after two members of the family, Elizabeth and Isabella, had gone from home. And it was this fact the duchess had spent the past several hours
bemoaning while they sat poised on that picturesque hillock.

“Alaric, I simply cannot believe you are having such a significant piece of family history done without the whole of our family in it.”

The duke rolled his eyes beneath his cocked tricorne, muttering out of the side of his mouth so as to keep his expression as noble as possible. “I’ve told you already more times than I care to count, Margaret, there is nothing I can do about it. Mr. Ramsay is a very difficult man to engage. If only you knew the devil of a time I had getting him here at all. He only has a short amount of time to do the portrait now as he is on his way to London to paint a portrait of the king—the king, Margaret—George II, to celebrate his defeat of the Scottish insurrection. I rather doubt our cousin from Hanover would be pleased to be kept waiting whilst we call our daughters back.”

“Then let Mr. Ramsay return when he is through with the king.”

Good God, though he loved the woman deeply, at times he wanted to throttle her.

“Once he arrives in London, he’ll without doubt be kept busy for months, even years afterward painting portraits of everybody else, too. If the king smiles upon Mr. Ramsay’s work, as he likely will, every earl, duke, and marquess will flock to his studio for their own. So if we don’t have him do the thing right now, while he can, we may never get it done at all. And so help me God, this family will have an Allan Ramsay portrait!”

The duke’s voice had gained in volume throughout his diatribe until he’d nearly been shouting at the finish.

“Your grace,” said the famed artist from behind the
shield of his canvas. “I must ask that you please hold still.”

Alaric glared once at his wife, then nodded to the artist. “Yes, of course, Mr. Ramsay. So sorry. We won’t distract you again. Will we, Margaret?”

The duchess, however, only managed to hold her tongue another thirty seconds.

“Can you not pay the man more to induce him to wait until we can at least summon the girls home from Scotland? It is your fault they aren’t here to sit for the portrait in the first place, sending them off all in a huff as you did. What will people think, Alaric? They will look at this portrait for centuries to come and they will say, ‘Oh, yes, it is indeed a lovely piece, but did not the duke have
five
daughters?’ ”

“That is quite enough, Margaret . . .”

The duchess simply frowned, knowing when she’d pushed her husband too far. She also knew that for as long as she lived, whenever she looked at the famous Allan Ramsay portrait of her family, she would only think of how ashamed she was for having allowed Alaric to send the girls off as he had.

She had never seen Alaric as furious as he had been when he’d learned of Elizabeth’s involvement with that notorious publication,
The Female Spectator.
While Margaret agreed that Elizabeth had indeed gone too far, deep down she knew her daughter’s intentions had been good. Her method of following them, however, was just a bit too scandalous for the daughter of a duke.

If only she had defended Elizabeth more strongly against her husband’s anger, perhaps she could have
prevented him from sending her off to Scotland, and especially into the hands of that toad Purfoyle.

What could Alaric have been thinking? The man would make Elizabeth the very worst of husbands, he with his corpulent belly and even more corpulent opinion of himself. Elizabeth deserved a man who would treat her with respect, who would admire her for her intelligence, who would honor and esteem her, and love her with as much passion and commitment as she showed for everything she did in life. Elizabeth deserved no less.

And despite all his thunder and fury, the duchess knew Alaric would never force his daughter to wed a man she didn’t love. He was just trying to give Elizabeth a scare. Margaret knew her husband loved Elizabeth, loved all their daughters with an adoration not demonstrated by many of his peers.

Elizabeth, in particular, had always held a special place in her father’s heart. And it was for that reason Margaret had allowed him to send her off as he had, thinking that the time away would cool Alaric’s temper and make him realize just how much he missed her.

Margaret, for one, couldn’t wait for them to get back.

“Papa,” said Caro from where she sat on the ground at her parents’ feet, breaking the duchess from her thoughts, “is that a carriage approaching on the drive?”

“A carriage? At this late hour?”

The duchess craned her neck to see, but—drat it all!—she was sitting in such a way, her backbone straight, her chin held high as duchesses were apparently meant to do, as to make the view of the drive all but impossible.

“Were you expecting anyone, Alaric?” She noticed the little one squirming. “Caro, dear, do sit still for Mr. Ramsay.”

“But it looks like
our
carriage, Mother.”

“Our carriage?” The duke turned. “But that is impossible. Elizabeth and Isabella took the carriage and they couldn’t possibly have made it all the way to Purfoyle’s estate and back so quickly. . . .”

The look on his face already suggested the dread at what so swift a return might indicate.

“But it is our carriage!” squealed Catherine. “Oh, Mother, now Bess and Bella can be in the portrait, too!”

The younger Draytons all leapt to their feet at once, scattering in three directions as they abandoned the portrait poses it had taken nearly an hour to arrange. In moments, they were racing down the hillside, voices squealing, their wide dress panniers joggling about like the cook’s beef gelatin.

“Girls, wait!” the duchess called. “Come back! Your coiffures! They will be ruined!”

“Where the devil are you all going?” the duke bellowed. “Get back here this instant! We are supposed to be sitting for the portrait!”

It was of no use. They were gone, all three of them, bounding off like bunnies to greet whoever rode inside the advancing carriage.

The duchess smiled an apology to Mr. Ramsay, who was standing with his brush poised inches from the canvas. “Do forgive us, Mr. Ramsay. It seems our eldest daughters have just returned unexpectedly from their trip to Scotland. Perhaps we can continue the portrait again in the morning?” She turned to leave, anxious herself to
see her daughters, but hesitated. “I wonder, sir, would it be too late for you to add the figures of our other two daughters to the portrait?”

“Margaret . . .”

By the time the carriage achieved the front circle drive, the little ones were there to greet it, gasping against the tight lacings of their stays from their run. The duchess skipped along behind to join them a few minutes later, her own sides stitching, just as the Sudeleigh footman came forward to open the carriage door.

“Bella! Bess!”

The duchess was at once thrilled, and then alarmed at the unexpected return of her two eldest daughters. She couldn’t help but wonder what had gone wrong. Had Elizabeth learned the truth of their journey and refused to go through with it? Or, God forbid, had one of the girls taken ill?

It was Isabella who emerged first from the carriage and was immediately encircled by her sisters. Her face looked anxious.
Oh, dear,
thought the duchess,
something
was
the matter.

Margaret turned to see that Alaric had finally made his way down the hillside to join them. His face was set in stone as he stood back, crossing his arms over his chest. Anyone else might have thought him angry, but five-and-twenty years of sleeping in the same bed with a man made a wife see through such a façade. Alaric was just as worried as she that something might have happened to their daughters.

Isabella exchanged hugs with her sisters before extricating herself to greet her waiting parents.

“Mother. Father.”

The duchess took her hands. “Isabella, my dear, how are you? Is . . . is everything all right?”

“Yes, Mother, but—”

Margaret’s attention drifted to the open door of the coach, where Elizabeth was just then emerging. No outward signs of injury, she noted with relief. But what of illness? Elizabeth did look a bit pale. . . .

“Mother . . .”

“Oh, Elizabeth, is everything all right? You look peaked. Did something happen on the road to Scotland?”

“In a manner of speaking, yes, something did happen. Something quite unexpected.”

“I knew it. I knew there was a reason you had come back so soon. I—”

It was then Margaret realized that a third person was emerging from inside the coach—a very male, very Scottish third person. She stood back and watched in bewilderment as the figure of a man stepped out.

Her first thought was to wonder how all three of them had fit inside the coach. He was tall, fierce-looking, and stood proudly as every pair of eyes immediately fixed upon him. He wore a tartan plaid thrown carelessly over a coarse linen shirt that was open at the neck. His dark hair was tied behind him and his eyes, she noticed, missed nothing as he assessed his new surroundings.

He was a man. He was a Scot. And quite a magnificent one at that.

“Girls,” Margaret finally managed, “I see you’ve brought us home a guest.”

“Yes, that is what I had started to say,” Elizabeth said. “Father, Mother, Katie, Mattie, and Caro . . . I’d like you
all to meet Douglas Dubh MacKinnon. He is from the Isle of Skye. . . .”

The duchess immediately offered her hand in greeting. “Mr. MacKinnon, a pleasure to meet—”

“. . . and he is my husband.”

The last thing the duchess heard before she fainted was the unmistakable sound of her husband’s bellow.

Caroline Drayton was quite an adept one at slipping her slight, eight-year-old body into the most inconspicuous of places. If it wasn’t inside the cellar storage cabinets to sneak one of Cook’s biscuits, it was in the back of her sister Matilda’s wardrobe, or under the housekeeper, Mrs. Burnaby’s, bed.

It was a particularly useful talent to have when one wanted to know what was going on in one’s own family but was considered too young to learn of it firsthand. From her bedchamber on the second floor, Caroline could slip out the window and make her way undetected across a network of intersecting gables all the way to the main section of the house. From there, she could access any number of places—the parlor where her mother liked to sew, or even the downstairs kitchen where she had once spied on the footman, Harry, kissing Meg, the housemaid. Caro didn’t quite understand why he’d felt it necessary to put his hand under her skirts, but whatever his reasons, Meg must not have minded too much. Instead of pushing him away, she had only moaned just like her sister Catherine sometimes did when she ate her favorite strawberry dessert, the one with all the custard poured on top. From that day on, Caroline had always
wondered if Harry’s kisses perhaps tasted like strawberries and custard.

For this day, however, Caroline chose the window that opened onto the upper corridor, right outside the door to her father’s study. Experience had taught her that once everyone came inside from the carriage drive, and once her mother recovered from her swoon, this would be the place for the discussion that was certain to follow. It was the room where all the important things were discussed, and Caro had discovered that she could learn a great many things simply by climbing inside the huge Chinese urn that stood in the far corner by the window, as long as she removed her dress panniers and all but one of her petticoats, that is.

She had just managed to do just that, dipping her slippered feet inside, when she heard the others approaching in the hall. Any moment now, the door would burst open and the particulars of just how Bess had come to be married to that Scottish man with the strange name would be revealed. Caroline couldn’t wait to hear it.