A Stranger's Promise (Lords of Chance Book 1) Page 10

  “What’s all this?” Charlotte asked.

  “Losh, the trunks are for you, Miss,” Meg exclaimed. “Day dresses, evening dresses, and a ball gown, as well.”

  Charlotte looked at her, confused, and the woman rose spryly to her feet. “I am the dressmaker, my dear, and I am delighted to meet you, Miss Atchenson.” She crossed to Charlotte, then grasped her hands, lifting and spreading them wide. “Now, twirl in a circle for me.” Charlotte didn’t move and the woman grasped her shoulder and turned her. “What a fine figure you have.” She clucked her tongue in admiration. “We shall dress you like a queen.”

  Charlotte pulled free and said, “I am no queen, madam. I am the governess. I feel certain the children are your clients. There’s been a misunderstanding.”

  “Fanny, my dear. Please call me Fanny,” the woman quickly replied, her eyes crinkling in the corners. “And, yes, there does indeed seem to be a misunderstanding, but it’s not mine. Lord Cassilis did hire me to sew the children’s wardrobes. Their trunks are in their rooms

  “That was Lord Cassilis’s doing?” Charlotte murmured. So, the man had taken her reprimand in the carriage to heart.

  Fanny shot her a look. “He was quite adamant that I sew full wardrobes for both of them. I and my seamstress didn’t sleep a wink, I tell you.” She laughed and shook her head, then her expression shifted. “I have also been paid to sew a ball gown and all the rest—not children’s clothing. And not just any ball gown, my dear, but a most bonny one.” She hurried to the trunks and unclasped the lid of the one on top. When she tipped it up, Charlotte froze as crimson silk spilled from the chest.

  “I would have been here much sooner.” The dressmaker touched the material to her withered cheek. “But it took some doing to find this particular shade. Such a lovely color.” She set the cloth aside, then pulled a length of crimson brocade from another trunk. “We will sew a sumptuously elegant, dainty creation, my dear, and we’ll trim the puffed sleeves with this brocade, as well as pearls, netting lace, and ribbon—”

  “Crimson?” Charlotte finally managed to say.

  Fanny gathered the material back into the trunk and shut the lid. “Lord Cassilis expressly asked for crimson silk.”

  Lord Cassilis? Charlotte blinked. A crimson ball gown? How had he known? “It must be an error,” she said. It had to be—or else she’d divulged much more that night in the library than she’d thought she had. She winced at the idea.

  Fanny’s sharp brown eyes smiled. “Much more than a ball gown, child. His lordship has commissioned me to supply your wardrobe, as well. I am to sew morning, visiting, and walking gowns, a riding habit and stockings, spencers, a pelisse for each—”

  “The devil, no—” Charlotte swore, then clamped a hand over her mouth in wide-eyed embarrassment.

  The dressmaker and Meg laughed. Even Oliver grinned wickedly.

  Charlotte grimaced and lifted a warning finger at him. “My mistake is no excuse to not mind your tongue,” she warned, then faced the dressmaker once again.

  The woman cut her off before she could say more. “You are welcome to ask his lordship, as you please. When I spoke with him earlier, he mentioned you might object. Told me to tell you to come right down to the library. I imagine he’s still there, love.”

  Charlotte’s heart began to pound. She’d been trying to avoid him. She hesitated. “I shall be quick,” she promised, then left.

  Minutes later, she stood before the library’s solid oak door. With a critical gaze over her blue gown, she smoothed her skirts and scowled at the frayed hem. Yes, she sorely needed clothes, but serviceable items, and, most definitely, not a ball gown—and a crimson one at that. She flinched. Crimson? Had she told the man her every secret?

  “Enough, Charlotte.” She bit her lower lip to steel her resolve and knocked sharply on the door.

  It opened before the third rap. Charlotte blinked. Lord Cassilis stood on the threshold as handsome as ever in a white, puffed-sleeve linen shirt with an ivory waistcoat and a pair of dark gray trousers.

  “Miss Atchenson.” The low timbre of his voice turned her insides to jelly. He stepped back and he waved her in. “Come in. What a delight to see you, at last.”

  “My lord.” She curtsied, then entered.

  He shut the door, then faced her. “You have been avoiding me of late.”

  “Not at all, my lord.” The lie sounded gruff and false, even to her own ears. “The seamstress is under the impression that she is to sew a wardrobe for me and—”

  “She is,” he cut in with a smile.

  Charlotte paused. The warmth of that smile could melt the coldest of hearts. She cleared her throat. “My lord, it is too much—”

  “Let me be the judge of that,” he interrupted again.

  Sacre-bleu. It was hard not to drown in those green eyes. She drew a deep breath. “What use could they possibly be, my lord? I have no need of riding habits and most certainly not a ballgown.” Especially a crimson one.

  “I beg to differ. As a governess in my employ, you represent my house, do you not?”

  She nodded.

  “Then you must dress the part.”

  Damn the man, he seemed too pleased with himself.

  “Then a serviceable dress or two, at most, my lord.” She smoothed her hands a bit self-consciously over her dress. “I am a governess. I have no use for such a wardrobe.”

  His gaze caught and held hers. She was the first to glance away.

  “Aye, you are a governess,” he murmured.

  She hazarded a look at him. His eyes locked with hers again. This time, she didn’t look away. Keeping her distance and acting like a governess wasn’t going at all as she’d planned—but as she searched his compelling green gaze, only one question truly burned her soul.

  “Why crimson?” she breathed.

  His eyes glittered. “Why not?”

  She tried to clear her thoughts, but he mesmerized her as if he’d cast a spell. His eyes dropped to her mouth. What were they speaking of? Ah, the dress.

  She cleared her throat. “It is a rather…scandalous gown…far too bold to represent a noble house…and...” Her voice trailed away and all at once, the day's growth of beard darkening his strong jaw seemed much more pleasant to ponder.

  “Nonsense,” he disagreed. “With your hair and those eyes, a crimson gown would be stunning on you.”

  She felt herself melt into the warmth of his eyes. Her heart began to pound. He stepped closer. From the rise and fall of his chest, she knew he was going to kiss her—and that she’d let him if she stayed. Such a thing was far too dangerous, a Pandora’s Box that should never be opened. Charlotte darted around him and took a step toward the door.

  He caught her wrist. “Stay.”

  “I cannot,” she whispered.

  Charlotte threw the door open and flew down the hallway. She skirted the grand oval staircase only to collide with a hard body stepping out from behind a marble column. She stumbled back, but a heavy hand clamped down on her shoulder.

  Captain Edwards.

  He pulled her roughly against his chest.

  “Unhand me!” Charlotte twisted in an attempt to wrench free.

  The Captain’s fingers tightened on her shoulders. “You are a credit to your father—or what he once was.”

  Her jaw dropped. The audacity of the man. “You have no right to speak of my father. Let me go.”

  His hold tightened. “I worry for you, Charlotte, cast adrift in this place.”

  “You worry now?” she retorted. “Why not in London, when I desperately needed your help?” She choked, too angry to continue, and shoved his chest harder.

  “We shouldn’t quarrel, Charlotte.” A hungry gleam entered his eyes.

  Fear slammed into her. She wriggled, but he only crushed her tighter.

  “I miss you, Charlotte.” He dropped his head, his beard grazing her neck. “I need you.” He groaned.

  Disgust rolled over her. Hadn’t she already escaped the man? Was he trying to drag her back? “I will never marry you,” she swore.

  He straightened and laughed. “I could never marry you. But I will accept you as my mistress. You must be discreet.” He splayed his fingers low on her hip.

  Her stomach turned. “You arrogant fool. I want nothing to do with you. I never did, and I never will.”

  The dinner gong sounded.

  Voices sounded on the staircase, from levels above and below. The Captain’s hold loosened as he glanced over his shoulder. She shoved at his chest, then froze when movement down the hall caught her eye.

  Lord Cassilis turned the corner and froze.

  Before Charlotte could react, a woman’s voice called nearby, “Captain?”

  The Captain jerked away, and as guests flooded the hall, blocking her view of Lord Cassilis as, she turned on her heel and marched away, regretting she hadn’t had the chance to knee Captain Edwards in the groin.

  Chapter Nine

  Alistair forced his feet to carry him toward the dining room. Primal jealousy burned in his veins. He would never forget the image of Charlotte in Captain Edwards’ arms. The image scorched his brain. She’d told him of her engagement. Could Captain Edwards be the captain she’d spoken of? What were the odds? Had the man discovered her missing in London and sought her out? What man would allow his fiancée to fall into such dire straits that she must take on a position as governess?

  Those questions swirled in Alistair’s mind, each leaving him in a darker mood than the last, as he took his seat at the head of the table. The dinner guests filed past him, but he had eyes only for the captain as he sat and the dinner began.

  The women on each side of Alistair attempted to draw him into conversation, but he retained only vague impressions of their faces
and heard little of what they said. What could Charlotte admire in such a man? He clearly lacked ethics, and was weak-chinned to boot. The thought of her kissing such a dolt twisted his gut.

  As the dinner progressed, Alistair downed his wine untasted and sifted through his recollections of the past week for any information about the man. They’d once exchanged brief words in the library over glasses of claret, and once again during an afternoon ride on the estate. Beyond that, he hadn’t paid the pompous core much attention. Now, he couldn’t take his eyes off that smug face.

  What the deuce did Charlotte see in him?

  As if sensing Alistair’s stare, Captain Edwards looked up and nodded politely his way.

  It was an opening. “How might you know Miss Atchenson, Captain?” Alistair raised his voice above the din.

  The voices around the dinner table quieted.

  Edwards coughed loudly. “I, uh, have…heard of…uh, her through mutual friends, my lord.”

  Heard? An odd way to speak of one’s fiancée. “Are you not, at least, acquaintances, Captain?”

  The guests swiveled their heads back to the captain.

  The man turned red. “Nae, no. Not really. Not at all.”

  Odd. Alistair narrowed his eyes. Exceedingly odd.

  The guests began to whisper.

  The captain fixed his eyes intently on his plate.

  Alistair frowned. What manner of man denied his engagement? Or…was their connection a clandestine affair? Charlotte wasn’t that kind of a woman. Hell, she’d practically fled his company. Twice. Perhaps the captain had led her on with false hope? He expelled a derisive snort at the thought, only to become aware of a strained silence and his guests’ stares.

  Nicholas’ voice rose, “What are the forthcoming plays in Edinburgh this summer?”

  The buzz in the dining room resumed.

  Cutlery clinked. Voices buzzed. Courses came and went.

  Alistair didn’t know what he ate. He couldn’t prevent his gaze from straying to the captain, to note every minute detail—how his head bobbed, and the nasal quality of his laugh.

  At last, the final course was served. Alistair waited long enough for the lady on this right to finish the last of her cake, then he rose, signaling that the blasted dinner had reached its morbid end.

  As the ladies retired to the Blue Drawing Room, he headed to the library with the men, keenly aware that the captain followed at his heel. Within ten minutes of standing by the fire, nursing his claret, Alistair could no longer bear another moment of the man’s nasally laugh.

  “If you will excuse me, gentlemen.” He set his claret on the sideboard and strode from the room without further explanation.

  He’d nearly reached his study when Nicholas caught up with him.

  “Ho there, lad.” His friend matched his stride. “Are you ill?”

  Alistair exhaled in irritation. “Captain Edwards is an ass.”

  “A dull fellow, to be sure,” Nicholas replied with a snort of amusement.

  Alistair cast him a narrow-eyed glare, but made no reply. They reached the study, his private haven from the gilded luxury of the castle. He rubbed the back of his neck, eyeing the two simple brown wingback chairs, the table with its candlestick, the simple whisky cupboard and the fireplace. What else did a man need?

  Nicholas lit a taper from the fire in the hearth as Alistair strode to the cupboard. He poured two glasses of whisky, gave one to his friend, then sat down heavily in the empty chair.

  Nicholas sipped of whisky, then asked, “What has Captain Edwards to do with your bonny governess?”

  Alistair tossed him a suspicious look. “Why speak of her?”

  “Why ask the man, at the dinner table, if he knew her?” Nicholas asked in turn.

  Ah, that. Alistair shrugged.

  His friend laughed. “‘Tis plain as day, you’re besotted with the lass.”

  Alistair sipped his drink. Why deny it? “She has a fiancé. A feckless fop of a man.”

  Nicholas laughed again. “Not the hapless Captain Edwards? Oh, that is interesting.” He tossed back the rest of his whisky, then set the glass on the table and rose. “As ever, my friend, you choose the harder path. But I’ve yet to see you fail. With that, I bid you a good night.” Halfway to the door, he halted and turned. “Ah, Lady Cassilis.”

  Alistair shifted his attention to the right and met Nicholas’ eyes.

  “I swear I saw her in Maidens today,” Nicholas said. “In the company of a strange man—a working man, and not very skilled, judging by his appearance.”

  “A man?” Alistair echoed, mildly surprised. “That is strange.” She held her reputation dear. She wouldn’t allow herself to be seen with a strange man, especially one of the working-class.

  “I find her riding in a fishing village even stranger,” Nicholas said. “Surely, the proof she claims to have discovered cannot be found there.”

  The woman had yet to confront him. Alistair shrugged. “Until she plays her hand, I have no way of knowing what she’s up to. I can do nothing but wait.”

  “Wait.” Nicholas shuddered. “I detest the word.”

  Alistair grunted a laugh.

  “Who can fathom how that woman’s mind works, eh?”

  Alistair didn’t answer.

  Nicholas bade him good night, strode out the door, and shut it behind him.

  Alistair took another swig of whisky. He needed to discover how Lady Cassilis planned to contest his legitimacy—later. For the moment, he had more pressing matters to deal with. Memory rose of Charlotte in her captain’s embrace.

  Nicholas was right. He wouldn’t retreat. He’d choose the harder path.

  He lifted his whisky and watched the flames of the fire reflecting in its depths. He absolutely would not let Charlotte wed the scoundrel.

  * * *

  Alistair arose the next morning with a rare headache. He’d spent a sleepless night puzzling just how he might open Charlotte’s eyes and still had yet to settle on a plan. He entered the breakfast parlor in a dark mood. Guests came and went. Some greeted him with nods before he responded with a scowl, which sent them scurrying. He would have to remember to glower more often. After washing the last of his eggs down with a cup of tea, he escaped to the stables, saddled his favorite roan, and rode out onto his estate, his mind still on Charlotte.

  Heavy dark clouds hung on the horizon as he cantered past the orchards and south into the forest beyond. Spring would arrive soon. Already, the first hint of buds dusted the branches of the hawthorn and silver birch dotting the rolling hills. He closed his eyes and breathed deeply of the brisk morning air. The land sang in his blood. In all his travels, he had yet to find a place better than Culzean, the seat of his clan. He’d poured every penny of his vast fortune into the estate.

  He pondered his stepmother. She intended to prove him illegitimate, yet he’d seen nothing of her plan save once catching her in the library, poking through the musty pages of long ignored books. Why take so long to prove her case? With so many witnesses to his scandalous origins, surely proof of his illegitimacy wouldn’t be hard to find. And what of her trip to the village of Maidens? He would have to ride there himself and see what he might discover—but, another day. Today, he intended to settle the matter of Charlotte.

  He urged his horse east and trotted over rocky green hills and under trees. He’d have to spend more time with the lass in order to open her eyes to the captain’s unsuitability. Why she would yoke herself to the man bewildered him mightily. She was such a cheeky lass and the man quite unworthy of her. Such a union would be a travesty. The more he thought on the matter, the more his irritation grew. By the time the first fat drops of rain began to fall, he found his headache had returned with a vengeance.

  With a curse, he wheeled his horse and headed home. The rain intensified and, seeing Piper’s Brae running through the trees ahead, he dug his heel in his horse’s side. The beast broke into a gallop, sailed over a low line of shrubs and landed in the middle of the road.

  A sudden movement to his left drew his attention. Through the downpour, he glimpsed a man wearing a green cap with a red feather tucked in the brim before he vanished into the trees near the Swan Pond. What the devil? Alistair started to urge his horse after the man, then thought better of it. The driving rain had already soaked him to the bone. Chasing a wanderer wasn’t worth the chance of catching his death. He spurred his horse once again with a “Ho there,” and headed home.