Lord Ruthven's Bride

  Lord Ruthven’s Bride

  Highland Regency Brides

  Book 2

  Tarah Scott

  Lord Ruthven’s Bride

  Copyright © 2015 by Tarah Scott.

  All rights reserved

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the author, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.

  Book Cover Design: Crosswoods Designs

  Photo: The Reed Files

  Acknowledgements

  Undying thanks to Kimberly Comeau, editor, teacher, friend. You have given me more than I deserve.

  Inverness, Scotland 1823

  Chapter One

  Someone brushed against the outside of the study door. Annabelle gasped and the single taper sitting on the desk flickered. She yanked her gaze from the papers she rifled and stared at the door. Who but a sneak like her would prowl Lord Harley’s private hallways during a party? A servant, perhaps?

  A murmur of voices filtered through the door. Annabelle froze. A bump against the door penetrated the alarm and she whirled, searching wildly for a hiding place. Her gaze caught on the heavy floor-length curtains on the left wall. She blew out the candle then hurried through the darkness as best she could the few steps to the curtains. The doorknob turned as she slipped behind the thick fabric. Gooseflesh arose across her arms when they contacted the glass balcony door she pressed against.

  Muted light seeped around the edge of the curtain and the murmur of a woman’s voice followed. The soft click of the door cut off the light. Her heart fell. How could the visitors not notice the smell of freshly burned candle wax? The woman uttered a low laugh and Annabelle tensed.

  “Don’t be a tease, Blair,” the man said.

  Annabelle’s heart beat faster. Lord Harley. And Blair could be none other than Lady Blair Copeland. The two must have ducked into the room for an elicit tryst.

  “Monroe,” Lady Copeland purred.

  Annabelle jammed her eyes shut. What had gotten into her? Tomorrow, at Miss Morgan’s tea party she would investigate their arboretum to discover what it was she’d seen Lord Harley bury under the ancient oak there. There really hadn’t been any need for her to snoop through his things. Blast her curiosity. If her father learned she’d been snooping—never mind her father. It was Calum she need worry about. The Marquess of Northington would not be pleased to read in the gossip sheets that his future wife had been caught snooping in the Earl of Harley’s study.

  Lady Copeland’s shriek snapped Annabelle from her remonstrations.

  “Shh, sweet,” he admonished.

  Lady Copeland giggled. “Monroe, we have business.”

  “Later,” he said in muffled voice, and Annabelle realized he was kissing her.

  Disgust turned her stomach. She didn’t mind a little clandestine lovemaking, but these two were married—to other people.

  How was she to escape? The thought of being present when they—Good Lord! Her only escape was the balcony, three floors above ground. She sent up a prayer for a trellis she could climb down, then slipped a hand behind her and grasped the door handle. Carefully, she pushed it down. The bolt disengaged from the socket with no discernable click. She inched the door open. Orchestra music filtered past on a breeze. Annabelle quickly eased out onto the balcony and closed the door, releasing the handle very slowly.

  She spun and hurried to the railing. No moon shone on this March night, but a few torches lit the gardens to the left in the direction of the ballroom. The ground three stories below revealed dark shapes that indicated shrubbery. She looked left, then right, but found no other balconies and, of course, not so much as an ivy tendril to climb down. Chill night air sent another prickle of goosebumps up both arms. The chill would turn cold in minutes. How long might she have to remain outdoors? Surely, Lord Harley and Lady Copeland wouldn’t risk being away from his party too long.

  Light flared behind her and she whirled as the curtain was lifted and Lord Harley stepped into view between the glass door and curtain. He opened the door.

  “Who is it?” Lady Copeland called.

  “A little golden bird.” He stepped out onto the balcony.

  Annabelle glanced down at her gold taffeta gown. The fabric practically glowed in the light that spilled from the room. She gave a shy smile. “Lord Harley. How nice to see you. I didn’t know you were here.”

  The curtain drew back and Annabelle met Lady Copeland’s gaze over her lover’s shoulder.

  “What is she doing here?” she demanded.

  “Spying, I would guess,” he replied.

  “Spying?” Annabelle’s heart beat rapidly. “Good Lord, no. Do forgive me, Lord Harley. I know I shouldn’t be here. But I needed to get out of the stuffy ballroom. Your party is a crush.” She smiled again. “You know how it is.”

  “Do we know how it is, Blair?” he asked.

  Lady Copeland released the curtain and stepped up beside him. “I believe we do.”

  The cold note in her voice sent a fission of apprehension down Annabelle’s spine.

  “I suppose I better get back to the party,” Annabelle said.

  “You aren’t supposed to be here,” Lord Harley said.

  His voice, devoid of emotion, startled her. Lord Harley had always been the epitome of gentlemanly behavior. She’d never known him to make a lady feel the least bit uncomfortable, much less like she’d been caught standing over a dead body gripping the smoking gun.

  “As I said, the ballroom is very stuffy.” She looked at Lady Copeland. “I see you two agree.”

  “Do we agree?” Lord Harley asked.

  “Indeed, we do,” Lady Copeland replied.

  Ah, here was the problem. They feared she would tell someone she’d caught them making love in his study.

  “I beg you not to tell my father I was here,” Annabelle said. “He would not be pleased.” That should tell them she would keep quiet if they did the same.

  “I wouldn’t think of telling him.” Lord Harley stepped toward her.

  Annabelle took an involuntary step back, then halted when the curtain drew back and a tall, dark-haired man wearing a kilt appeared in the doorway. As one, Lord Harley and Lady Copeland looked over their shoulders.

  “Ruthven,” Lord Harley blurted. “What are you doing here?”

  “The same thing ye and Lady Copeland are doing.”

  Annabelle stared. Ruthven?

  “You can’t barge into my private study and make accusations,” Lord Harley snapped. “For your information, Lady Copeland and I have business.”

  Ruthven’s gaze shifted past them to Annabelle as he leaned a shoulder against the doorjamb and crossed his arms over his broad chest. “Just as Lady Annabelle and I have business.”

  “I—”Annabelle began, but her words tangled when his brown eyes darkened with unmistakable heat.

  Lord Harley looked at her. “I wasn’t aware you knew Lord Ruthven.”

  “Do you know all of Lady Annabelle’s friends?” Lord Ruthven asked.

  “No, no, of course not.” His brow furrowed, then his stare turned hard. “This is low, even for you, Ruthven. Lady Annabelle is a young lady of good breeding.”

  Annabelle took a step toward them. “There has been a—”

  “There is no use denying it, love.” Ruthven straightened, brushed past the two, and came to her side.

  She tilted her head back to maintain eye contact.

  One corner of his full mouth lifted in a sensual smile. “We have been caught.”

  “Caught?” she repeated dumbly.

  His smile twitched. He slipped an arm around her waist and Annabelle started at the tremor that rippled through her midsection. She tensed in readiness to move out of his embrace, but his arm tightened around her.

  His gaze locked onto Lord Harley’s face. “I believe we can agree that what has transpired here tonight is no one’s business but our own.”

  “Of course.” Lord Harley nodded in quick agreement, but Annabelle caught the venom in Lady Copeland’s gaze.

  “Come along.” Ruthven started forward.

  “Perhaps Lady Copeland should see Lady Annabelle back to the ballroom,” the earl said.

  Annabelle slowed, caught between adhering to propriety by returning to the party with Lady Copeland, and the feeling that Lady Copeland would like nothing better than to push her off the first balcony they happened upon. Annabelle had never liked the woman, but tonight, the gleam in her eye was downright vicious. Then there was this mysterious Lord Ruthven. Who was he and where had he come from? He hugged her tighter and forced her to keep pace with him as he headed toward the door. Good Lord, and why was he rushing her from the room?

  “Lady Annabelle and I will be on our way.” He pulled back the curtain. “Please forgive us for interrupting your business.” He continued forward. They reached the door and he opened it, urged her out, then closed the door behind them.

  “Who are—” Annabelle began, but he placed a finger to his mouth in an order to be silent, and started down the hallway, gripping her arm.

>   Annabelle nearly ran to keep up with his long strides. “For goodness sake, slow down, sir.”

  He shot her a narrow-eyed look. They turned a corner in the hallway and he made a quick right down a narrow staircase she realized were servants’ stairs. He urged her forward and Annabelle was forced to keep going or be run over by him. They reached a hallway on the second floor and music from the ballroom filtered to them from the distance. She wasn’t familiar with this part of the mansion.

  “Where are we?” she demanded.

  He didn’t reply and apprehension niggled.

  “I appreciate your help, sir, but I am not in the habit of skulking about backstairs with strangers.”

  “Ye have an odd sense of propriety, my lady.”

  They turned another corner. Footsteps approached around the next turn in the hallway. Ruthven hurried her forward. They reached the bend and she started to turn, but he pulled her out onto a small balcony to the left. Fifty feet to the right, light spilled across the ballroom balcony. They descended four stairs to the lawn. Several paces across the grass, Annabelle glanced over her shoulder. Two figures stepped out onto the balcony they had exited. The grip on her arm tightened.

  “Release me.” Annabelle jerked free of his hold.

  Her slippered toes banged into something. She cried out as she pitched forward. Annabelle hit the ground shoulder first and rolled onto her stomach. The scent of freshly cut grass filled her nostrils and she spat the bitter blades from her mouth. Strong fingers seized her arm and pulled her to her feet.

  “Are you hurt?” he demanded.

  “I am now, you brute.” She grimaced at the lingering taste of grass.

  Ruthven started forward, pulling her alongside. “Count yourself fortunate I didn’t leave ye flat on your face.”

  “Your manners are abominable. Didn’t your mother teach you to be polite?” She blew grass from her nose.

  “About as much as your father taught you not to snoop in other people’s private affairs,” he replied.

  “You mean like you were?”

  “I am no’ a young woman,” he said.

  Annabelle snorted. “That has nothing to do with the situation.”

  “It has everything to do with the situation.”

  “What were you doing in Lord Harley’s study?” she demanded.

  “Apparently, the same thing you were doing,” he muttered

  They drew closer to the ballroom balcony. A couple emerged from the ballroom. Ruthven slowed and pulled her into the shadows closer to the mansion.

  “Sir,” she began.

  The couple went down the stairs and turned their way. Ruthven swung Annabelle into his arms. His mouth crashed down on hers and Annabelle froze in a wave of sensations her mind struggled to reconcile with her body: the flex of his fingers through the thin silk of her dress. His lips, warm and soft, demanded submission...his hard chest pressed against her breasts.

  He nipped at her lower lip and she gave a startled gasp that sucked his breath into her mouth. He tasted of brandy and lemon she realized with surprise. Annabelle leaned into him. Calum had never tasted like this. Calum had never kissed her like this. His kisses had been ardent, and she had thrilled when his full lips touched hers. But this...this was something altogether different.

  Her head spun. Calum. Good Lord, what was happening? She struggled to wedge her palms between them. His arms tightened like iron bands around her waist. He broke the kiss and she drew a sharp breath while shoving at his chest, but he remained still as stone.

  “Release me,” she ordered.

  “Hush,” he ordered in a whisper. His attention remained fixed on something behind her.

  Annabelle stiffened. “I beg your pardon?”

  “I do no’ want to be seen with you.”

  “Then there is no need to spend another moment in my company.”

  “Did it occur to you that if anyone sees us alone your reputation will be in shreds?”

  “If my reputation is shredded it will be because someone saw you mauling me.”

  “Mauling?” He snorted with masculine amusement and his warm breath washed across her face. “Is that how ye respond to being ‘mauled’?”

  Her mind flashed back to the kiss and her heart thudded. Calum would never forgive her if he learned she had—and Lord Ruthven had—her head swam. This escapade had gotten out of hand. She turned to leave, but Ruthven didn’t release her.

  “Sir—”

  “Just another moment, lass,” he whispered.

  From the corner of her eye, she glimpsed the couple she’d spotted earlier. They disappeared into the shadows beyond the torches and he released her.

  She didn’t wait, but hurried to the balcony and up the stairs. She entered the ballroom and forced her legs into a sedate walk. Dancers filled the middle of the massive room. She passed a cluster of women. One woman stared at her. Annabelle continued past, then slowed when a couple’s gaze followed her progress. Had they somehow discovered she’d been in the garden with Ruthven and...Annabelle swallowed. Over the heads of half a dozen guests, she noticed John MacFie’s gaze on her.

  “Annabelle.”

  Her mother’s voice stopped her. She turned and started at the narrowing of her mother’s eyes. Lady Montagu quickly closed the distance between them and grasped Annabelle’s arm.

  Her mother started walking with her, then angled her head toward Annabelle and whispered, “What in God’s name have you been doing?”

  Annabelle blinked. How had her mother discovered she was in Lord Harley’s study? She couldn’t know. Unless the earl told her. That didn’t make sense. He would fear Annabelle telling that he’d been with Lady Copeland.

  “I took a short walk in the garden.” Annabelle glanced at her mother. Her mother’s pursed lips told her she’d said the wrong thing.

  Her mother bypassed a group of guests and came face to face with David MacLennan and Lady Elissa.

  “Good evening, Lady Montagu,” Elissa said.

  Annabelle glimpsed the narrowing of her mother’s eyes in the instant before her features cooled to their normally civility.

  “Good evening, Lady Elissa,” she said. “Mr. MacLennan. It is a pleasure to see you.”

  He gave a slight bow. “It is always good to see you, my lady.”

  Annabelle noted that, while David’s gaze remained determinedly fixed on her mother, Elissa didn’t take her eyes off Annabelle. A strange smile played at her mouth.

  “If you will excuse us,” her mother said. “Annabelle and I were just leaving. During our walk in the gardens Annabelle took a little fall.”

  Annabelle snapped her gaze onto her mother.

  “Are you all right, Lady Annabelle?” David demanded.

  “Yes, thank you. It was nothing.”

  “Let me have your carriage brought around,” he said. “I’ll have your driver meet you at the front door.”

  “That is kind of you,” Annabelle’s mother said.

  “I shall meet you there directly.” He turned and brushed past a group of guests.

  “Are you unhurt, Lady Annabelle?” Elissa asked.

  “She skinned her knees,” Annabelle’s mother replied.

  “Ah.” Lady Elissa nodded. “That explains the grass stains.”

  Annabelle glanced down at her dress and gasped. Dark green stains marred the pale gold taffeta. One stain around the knee region, another in the hip region and—Good Lord—one on her bodice over the left breast.

  “Yes,” her mother said. “That does explain the stains.”

  “Of course,” Elissa said. “I fully understand.”

  So did Annabelle. Her mother, the Marquess of Montagu, would dish out a set-down of the first order to anyone who dared speak a word of her daughter’s dishevelment. And Annabelle would be forced to confess what she’d really been doing in the garden.

  Chapter Two

  David stood at the carriage when Annabelle and her mother stepped out onto the mansion steps. They reached the bottom step and he grasped her mother’s hand, then paused, his attention on something behind them.

  “Lady Montagu. Annabelle.”

  Her mother glanced sharply at her, and Annabelle winced. The Marquess of Northington. David MacLennan might accept her mother’s explanation about Annabelle’s dishevelment but Calum would be more persistent.