A Marriage of Inconvenience (3 page)

Morning was well advanced by the time she returned to Almont Castle. She hurried upstairs to her chamber, where she put away her sketchbook and cloak, and smoothed her windblown hair before finding a footman and asking the way to the breakfast parlor. Perhaps by the wedding she would know her way around this castle. It was grand, she thought as she walked down a gallery lined with suits of armor and portraits of Almont ancestors, but on the whole Lucy rejoiced that she would never have a home even half its size. She had not been born for castles, and the sort of tidy country cottage or snug townhouse that an officer like Sebastian could command for lodgings would answer all her dreams.

The breakfast parlor was the smallest common room she had yet seen at Almont, though the dark, heavy table had room for a dozen diners. Only three were at the table now, and Lucy hesitated in the doorway. She had hoped for Sebastian, or at least Aunt Arrington, but instead she must face Lord Almont, his sister Lady Marpool and Portia.

“Good morning, Miss Jones,” her host called cheerily. He was a rotund, red-faced man in his middle fifties, and he always spoke rather more loudly than was necessary.

She curtsied. “Good morning, sir. Lady Marpool. Portia.”

Portia acknowledged her only with the faintest of nods, but Lady Marpool smiled coolly and Lord Almont beckoned to her.

“Do come in, child. Fill your plate.”

Strange that he called her “child” when he was marrying a woman only a little older than she was. But that was one of the many things in the world that it was not her place to remark upon. She crossed to the sideboard and did as she was bid, selecting hot rolls and butter and smoked herring.

“Have my cousin and my aunt breakfasted?” she asked as she took a chair opposite Lady Marpool, who seemed the least of the table’s evils.

“Lieutenant Arrington has eaten and gone already,” Lady Marpool said. “I believe he meant to take a turn about the garden to strengthen his leg.”

Lucy wished she hadn’t been in such a hurry to go out and draw. If she had waited but a little, she could have walked with Sebastian instead—but then she wouldn’t have met Lord Selsley and his sister.

“I was considering sending a tray to Lady Arrington,” Lady Marpool continued. “I daresay she’s fatigued from her journey. What do you think, Miss Arrington?”

Portia shrugged. “You’re very kind, ma’am,” she said. “But Lucy would know better than I what Mama would like. She is her companion, after all, and I did not see her for all the months of the Season.”

“Of course. Miss Jones, how does your aunt break her fast?”

Lucy did not think Portia was endearing herself to Lady Marpool by her indifference to her own mother, but she knew her cousin would ignore any hints or warning looks from
her.
“She has only a small appetite in the morning, ma’am,” she said. “A slice or two of toast and a cup of chocolate would be more than sufficient.”

“Thank you, Miss Jones,” Lady Marpool said with an air of distant approval. Beckoning to a footman hovering near the sideboard, she ordered him to see that a tray was sent to Lady Arrington’s room as quickly as could be managed.

A short silence ensued as all four of them addressed themselves to their breakfasts. Lucy surreptitiously studied her companions. Portia was a beauty, a feminine version of Sebastian with thick guinea-gold curls, blue eyes and regal features. Lucy had expected her to make a match that was grand in every way, to someone wealthy and titled, of course, but also handsome and young. She had thought Portia would marry someone like Lord Selsley, not a man the same age her father would have been had he lived. Certainly not a man with three daughters grown and married—but, significantly, no living son—who had buried two wives already.

Still, as she journeyed to Gloucestershire with Aunt Arrington and Sebastian, Lucy had imagined that Lord Almont must be a man of some distinction. He would be tall, upright and silver-haired, perhaps a leading figure in the House of Lords. She could imagine Portia even preferring such a man to a younger, more frivolous gentleman. Portia had always been serious and ambitious.

But no, Lord Almont was short, plump and red-faced, with beady yet genial eyes and a rather foolish smile. He was happy and hospitable, kind and straightforward, but there was nothing clever or original about him. Had Lucy been willing to use such blunt and unkind terms for her host and a man of rank, she would have said he was a stupid man and very dull company.

He loved Portia, though. Adoration shone on his honest face every time he looked at her. Whatever his initial motive for remarrying, obviously she was far more than a broodmare to him. But it was equally clear that Portia did not reciprocate his affections. Lucy recognized her cousin’s rigid posture and carefully hidden expression of distaste well enough from having seen similar looks directed at her over the past nine years.

Portia had never been kind to Lucy. She had resented having to share her schoolroom and her governess’s attention from the first. She could not bear it when Miss Bentley had praised Lucy’s drawing or spoken kindly of her singing, and she had been fond of pulling pranks like hiding Lucy’s sketchbook and music. Though the pranks and teasing had diminished as the girls grew older, Portia had never grown kind.

So Lucy felt wonder rather than pity at Portia’s lot. Why hadn’t she drawn the eye of a man more like Lord Selsley? And what had made her decide that marrying Lord Almont was better than coming home unengaged? It was true that they could not afford the expense of another Season, and that their own neighborhood harbored few gentlemen rich or well-bred enough to please Portia. But surely it was better to marry a clever young squire or vicar or officer than a rich man one despised. Lucy recalled a proverb she had heard read in church:
Better a dinner of herbs where love is than a stalled ox and hatred therewith.
Perhaps she pitied Portia a little after all.

Lady Marpool broke the silence. “Miss Jones, I understand you went for a walk this morning.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Lucy said. Lord Almont’s sister, the widow of a Devonshire earl, had lived in her brother’s household since the last marchioness had died. Even after less than a full day at the castle, Lucy already realized that Lady Marpool ruled the roost and missed nothing that happened there, even something as small as an unimportant houseguest going for a morning constitutional. Portia would have a difficult time asserting herself as mistress here unless she could persuade Lady Marpool to return to her dower house.

“Where did you choose to walk?” Lady Marpool continued. “We have fine prospects in every direction.”

“To the south, ma’am.”

“You climbed that great hill?” Lord Almont exclaimed. “You must be quite a walker, Miss Jones.”

“Thank you, sir. I had to climb the highest hill so I could admire your splendid countryside. We’ve nothing like it in Essex. And I chanced to meet two of your neighbors, Lord Selsley and his sister.”

“Good man, Selsley,” Lord Almont said between bites of bacon. “Fine horses.”

Lady Marpool sniffed. “Son of a tradesman on one side and a long line of Scotch barbarians on the other. His fortune still reeks of curry.”

“Curry, ma’am?”

“Yes, girl, curry. His father was no one in particular, merely the son of a curate. He grew up in a village not ten miles from here, but was quite beneath our notice. Then he went out to India, got rich, somehow got himself made viscount, came home and built that garish monstrosity in the next valley.”

Lucy hid a smile. Doubtless Lady Marpool had been displeased to see a house almost as large as Almont Castle built so near at hand.

“Next he had to go and marry one of those dreadful Dunmalcolm Gordons.” The lines on Lady Marpool’s face seemed to deepen with her grimace of distaste.

“Dreadful, ma’am?” Lucy asked. Her own temerity in questioning her hostess startled her, but she could hardly imagine anyone less dreadful than Lord Selsley of the blue eyes and beautiful horses.

“I think far too much tolerance has been shown to the old Jacobite families.” Lady Marpool waved her fork in the air, and Lucy braced herself for a tirade. “To my mind, any family who supported the Pretender ought to have been stripped of their lands and transported, if not worse. Barbarians! We’ve too many Scots in the government and the military. I don’t think they’re to be trusted.”

In her eagerness to look anywhere but at Lady Marpool, Lucy met Portia’s eyes. For once united, they exchanged tight, surprised looks. Bonnie Prince Charlie’s rising had been over sixty years ago. Even if Lord Selsley had a rebel for a grandfather, what did that matter? No one worried about Jacobites
now,
when they had Bonaparte as a far more present and dangerous threat.

Naturally, Lady Marpool noticed. “You young ladies think nothing that happened before you were born is of any importance. I remember the rising. I was only a child, but I remember.”

“Now, now, Augusta,” Lord Almont said. “Whatever his father was, the current earl is as loyal to the Crown as I am myself. Since they’re visiting Selsley along with their niece, I hope you won’t call them barbarians in our own drawing room tonight.”

Lucy blinked. Apparently Lord Almont had a spine after all.

Lady Marpool shook her head. “Nabob Selsley could have married a local girl, but those ramshackle Gordons saw him, decided his fortune was just the thing to shore up theirs and threw their spinster daughter at him. So now we must endure the children of that union—indecently rich and too wild by half.”

Having seen Lord Selsley’s home and his horses, Lucy agreed that they were indecently rich. But she would make her own judgment about their characters. There had been nothing improper in either’s conduct this morning, and she considered them her friends.

Anna did not precisely don her finery for the dinner at Almont Castle. It was only dinner, after all, and she did not want James to accuse her of setting her cap for Lieutenant Arrington based on nothing more than a sketch. But she did have Sally dress her in a green-sprigged white muslin dress that she thought especially flattered her coloring and figure.

Because, little as she cared to admit it, James was right. She should marry soon. It wasn’t that she feared being an old maid. Her father had left her a hundred thousand pounds, so she would still have suitors if she were turning forty next month rather than twenty. But she thought she would perish with boredom if she were forced to endure another Season like the last two. It wasn’t that she disliked parties or pretty dresses or being courted. But the social whirl had developed a depressing, distressing sameness. A sameness and a shallowness, as though she and all those around her lived only on the surface of life.

She wondered if that was why James had avoided society throughout the Season. But no, there had to be more to it than that. As a rising star among the Whig lords, James moved in less frivolous circles. No, it must be something to do with Eleanor Talbot.

James thought Anna ignorant of such matters, and she supposed she ought to be, but her cousins insisted upon treating her more like a brother than a sister. It had begun when she had first gone to live at Dunmalcolm after her father died. She had turned tomboy because playing with boys was infinitely preferable to sitting alone in the schoolroom while they swam and fished and rode without her. Old habits died hard, and Jack and Donald, the cousins nearest her age, had told her of James’s affairs and their own without any care for her purportedly innocent, ladylike ears.

In any case, everyone, even properly ignorant maidens, knew that Eleanor Talbot was clever and beautiful, a respectable widow who kept a salon frequented by any Whig with aspirations to power. Thanks to Jack and Donald, Anna also knew that Mrs. Talbot preferred younger men in her bed, though she was very discreet about it, and that James had been her companion of choice for almost three years, from the time he had first arrived in London and taken up his seat in the Lords just after his twenty-first birthday.

But this year Mrs. Talbot had encouraged the attentions of an older man, the widowed Baron Langley, and they had quietly married at the end of May. Anna suspected James’s absence from this year’s round of balls, routs and musicales stemmed from his lover’s desertion. She considered asking him about Mrs. Talbot but knew he would not tell her anything. He would consider the inquiry impertinent and improper—which it was. The cousins might have treated her as one of themselves, but to James she was still a child, a baby sister to be eternally protected and sheltered.

But Anna was no longer a child. She was ready to take life seriously and be taken seriously herself, and she was ready to leave girlhood behind and live a woman’s life. It rather dismayed her that she had not managed to fall in love during her two Seasons. Though she had been careful to avoid any compromising situation or occasion for seduction, she knew she was not meant for a single life. With such an outspoken family, she had a better idea of what went on between husband and wife than most well-bred girls, and she was curious, even eager, to try it for herself. She wanted to remain respectable, but she also wanted to lie with a man and bear him children. Therefore, it was high time she found a suitable husband.

Of course she hadn’t fallen in love with Lieutenant Arrington’s picture. The very idea was absurd. But the more she thought about it, the more she liked James’s suggestion that she marry an officer. At least she could meet this one as
herself,
the self she wanted to be from now on, without the burden of her reputation as the giddy and fast Miss Wright-Gordon.

When she sailed down the stairs to Orchard Park’s marbled entry hall, James and Aunt Lilias were already waiting, but not Uncle Robert. Strange. He was usually dressed long before his wife.

“You look lovely tonight, my child,” Aunt Lilias said. “Doesn’t your sister look beautiful, James?”

“Of course she does.” James bent to kiss her hand with half-mocking gallantry.

“Thank you,” Anna said. “But where is my uncle?”

Aunt Lilias raised an eyebrow. “He told me he was preparing a special honor for Almont Castle and Lady Marpool. I have no idea what he’s plotting.”

They were not left in suspense for long. Uncle Robert appeared at the top of the grand staircase and struck a heroic pose. He looked just like his portrait in the great hall in Dunmalcolm Castle—kilt and all. Slowly, and with just a hint of a swagger, he descended the stairs.

Anna gaped at him. He occasionally donned Highland dress for great occasions, saying that he felt an obligation to keep alive the customs the Sassenachs had tried to eradicate after Culloden. But he never dressed so for ordinary dinners in England, and Anna could not fathom why he had chosen to exchange the sophisticated British earl for the proud Scottish chieftain so far from home.

By her side, James dissolved into laughter. Arriving at the bottom of the stairs, Uncle Robert fixed him with a stern look. “Do not mock your heritage, laddie. You come of a long line of brave men who wore the kilt, and do not forget it.”

“I would never mock them or you, uncle,” James said, recovering his gravity. “Only…why tonight?”

Uncle Robert’s blue eyes twinkled. “You do know that Lady Marpool lives in anticipation of an invasion of wild Scotsmen, do you not? I’d hate to disappoint her.”

Aunt Lilias sighed the long-suffering sigh of a Gordon by marriage. Anna clapped her hands, and James grinned. “As long as you refrain from drinking a toast to the king over the water,” he said. “Her ladyship would find a way to have you arrested for treason, and I’m afraid that would rather spoil my position in the Lords, not to mention Anna’s matrimonial prospects.”

“I’ll behave for Anna’s sake, then. I’m not sure why I should concern myself over the political future of a damned Whig.” His tone belied the barb in his words, and he and James clapped one another on the shoulder, all masculine affection.

“The carriage is ready,” James said, “so let the invasion commence.” He offered Anna his arm, and they trailed their aunt and uncle to the waiting coach.

Sebastian could tell that Lucy, standing beside him in the receiving line, was at her most bashful. He supposed it must be a trial for someone such as her, who had never gone about in society nor been expected to do so, to meet so many new people all at once. He smiled down at her in encouragement as she stammered slightly in response to a friendly question from Mrs. Cathcart, a local squire’s wife. Lucy must lose some of her fear of people now that she was to become an officer’s wife.

Not that her shyness was unbecoming, he reflected charitably. No one could ever accuse her of being brash or forward, and he need never worry that she would make a public spectacle of herself or him. Her blushes only made her prettier, adding roses to her cheeks to match the demure pink dress she wore. It was new, one of the gifts his mother had given her in token of their betrothal.

He surveyed Lucy with contentment. They would be married within a month, and Clarissa Pickett’s brother would be forced to cease from his blustering threats.

A bustle at the drawing room door signaled another party of guests. “The Earl and Countess of Dunmalcolm, Viscount Selsley and Miss Wright-Gordon,” the footman intoned.

“The ones I met today,” Lucy murmured.

“Yes,” he replied, turning toward the door. “Alistair Gordon’s family.” He was more interested in this party than in any of the other guests, for it never harmed a junior officer’s interests to charm the family of one of his superiors. Major Gordon was Colonel Kent’s right-hand man, so Sebastian had always sought his friendship and tried to hide his dislike of the major’s bold, outspoken wife.

Lucy gave a little gasp. “Is that a kilt?”

“It is.” He frowned. “Major Gordon never said his father was eccentric, but to wear Highland dress in Gloucestershire…”

“I don’t think Lady Marpool likes the Scots,” Lucy said, her voice dropping to a whisper. They watched as Lord Dunmalcolm bowed to their hostess with a flourish that served only to draw further attention to his conspicuous attire.

Lady Marpool turned crimson, her lips drawn tight and nearly immobile as she greeted the earl. “Oh,” Lucy said. “That’s why he did it.” She hid a smile verging upon a laugh behind her hand, and Sebastian reflected that she might be right. He could picture Major Gordon doing much the same thing. While the fighting prowess of the Scots could not be denied, some of them, Highlanders in particular, had rather too much national pride.

Sebastian looked beyond the kilted earl to the rest of his family. Lady Dunmalcolm was a grave, dignified matron with graying dark hair who smiled tolerantly at her husband’s antics. After her came Lord Selsley, clad in impeccably tailored conventional evening attire and so like his uncle and his officer cousin that Sebastian would have known him without any introduction.

At first he couldn’t see Miss Wright-Gordon clearly, only gathering a vague impression of a small figure dressed in white and green. But then Lord Selsley leaned forward to speak to Lord Almont, and Miss Wright-Gordon turned in Sebastian’s direction.

Their eyes met, and his breath quickened. Good God. It was as if his Clarissa with all her seductive witchery had been transformed into a lady of good birth. Her form, her figure, her green eyes that somehow contrived to be innocent yet at the same time knowing. Of course they weren’t exactly alike. Clarissa had brown hair, while Miss Wright-Gordon’s was true raven black, and Clarissa’s face was older and coarser. But the resemblance was amazing nonetheless. Had he thought Miss Wright-Gordon small? Hardly. She was
short,
about the same height as Lucy, but lush, a veritable pocket Venus, full of hip, narrow of waist and most of all endowed with an ample bosom, displayed to good advantage by her fashionably low-necked gown.

“Sebastian?” Lucy’s voice was anxious.

He realized he was staring and made himself turn away, back to Lucy. His betrothed, sweet and gentle. So slight and plain and brown when viewed in proximity to the dazzling Miss Wright-Gordon. Yet his betrothed, nonetheless.

Good Lord, these Arringtons were a tall, blond lot, James thought as he made his bow to Portia Arrington, Lord Almont’s intended. She
was
lovely, extraordinarily so. But her beauty left him unmoved; there was something cold about her classical perfection that made him feel as if he were admiring a statue rather than a woman.

She was no statue to Lord Almont, however. The marquess glanced at her, then beamed at James as if inviting him to share in his wonder at having wooed and won such an extraordinary creature. James smiled back. He hadn’t enough in common with the marquess to make them cronies, but Almont had a kind, true soul. He was a good neighbor, and his land and his tenants were always in good heart. James would hate to see him made unhappy, and so he hoped Almont’s young bride had more warmth and kindness in her nature than her appearance suggested.

James moved on to greet the bride’s mother, Lady Arrington, another tall blonde whose face bore the remnants of what in youth must have been a beauty like her daughter’s.

She acknowledged him with a rather vacant smile. “You are recently come from London, I understand?”

“Yes, ma’am. I’ve been in the country for a week now, but my sister and my aunt and uncle joined me just yesterday.”

“I see. Perhaps you’ve met my elder son, Sir Henry Arrington. He lives almost entirely in London.”

The name was vaguely familiar, but James couldn’t assign a face to it. “I don’t believe I’ve had that pleasure, ma’am. He is not with us tonight?”

“Business detained him in the city, but he has promised faithfully that he will not miss the wedding.”

“I shall look forward to making his acquaintance then,” James said politely, albeit falsely. Sir Henry’s mother had all unknowingly laid out her son’s character in a form James could not like: as master of an estate and head of a family, he ought not to live so entirely in London. James had no use for any man in a position of power who neglected his responsibility toward those fortune had placed beneath him.

Next in line was the dragoon lieutenant, toweringly tall and dazzling in the blue coat and white braid of his best uniform.

“I would’ve known you for a kinsman of Major Gordon without any introduction at all, Lord Selsley,” Lieutenant Arrington said, though he hardly looked at James—his eyes kept sliding to Anna.

James glanced at her out of the corner of his eye and saw that she was doing the exact same thing, watching the lieutenant while she ostensibly conversed with his mother. Her eyes fairly flashed, and her cheeks were overspread with pink—
Anna,
blushing! He’d never thought to see such a thing.

He hid a sigh. “Yes,” he said, doubting Lieutenant Arrington even heard him. “Everyone has always said Alec and I look a great deal alike, even for cousins.”

“He’s a fine officer.”

“I’m certain he is.”

“It’s an honor to serve under him.”

James wondered what Alec thought of Arrington. For himself, he felt an instinctive, bristling dislike, but perhaps that was only because of the way the man was looking at Anna. An absurd overreaction—Anna was quite pretty, and it was only natural that men should admire her—but James still didn’t like it.

With a mental shrug, he moved on to Miss Jones, who was last to receive the guests. She looked sweet and lovely in a lace-trimmed pink gown, though James rather preferred her in the scarlet-cloaked, windblown incarnation he’d encountered that morning. Her attention too was directed elsewhere, her rich brown eyes turned toward Lieutenant Arrington and Anna, her brows drawn together in a troubled frown. James had supposed she must fancy herself in love with her cousin from the way she had drawn his portrait, and now he saw it confirmed.