And the Bride Wore Plaid (14 page)

Malcolm’s face cleared. “Thank you, Kat! You won’t be sorry.”

Kat wasn’t so sure. All she knew was that she’d never feared anything the way she feared the St. John talisman ring. Except, perhaps, Devon St. John himself.

I love you. I really, really love you. Like the stars in the sky, like the water in the oceans. You, my dear, are everything to me and there will never be another.

Mr. Poole to Miss Elizabeth Standon, while stealing a kiss behind the shrubbery of Standon House in Mayfair

“There he is!” Fiona exclaimed.

Murien rushed to the window and almost pushed Fiona aside in her determination to garner a look. “It’s about time! He’s been gone an hour.”

“Aye.”

A flash of satisfaction crossed Murien’s face as she watched Devon. “He’s magnificent. We shall make quite a pair, he with his dark looks and me with my fair ones.”

Fiona smiled. “He is most presentable.”

“Presentable? He’s more than presentable.” Murien began smoothing her gown. “How do I look?”

Fiona admired Murien’s choice of gowns. It was cream over white, the heavy, cream-colored lace draped over a white silk undergown. Small pale blue and pink flowers were woven into the lace, their tiny, pale green leaves adding faint touches of color.

The overall effect was one of fairylike delicacy, something Murien’s own pink and gold coloring supported. And indeed, if one didn’t look too closely into her eyes, Murien looked fresh and innocent and achingly beautiful.

Murien patted her hair. She’d pinned it up in a simple knot that emphasized the graceful length of her neck and the delicate turn of her shoulders. Fiona didn’t think Murien had ever looked so perfect.

They could only hope it was enough. For some reason, Devon St. John hadn’t been as enthusiastic about Murien as they’d hoped. Oh, he was pleasant enough, complimenting Murien on her beauty and paying her every attention. But he made the same efforts for Fiona, often including her in conversations that Murien obviously wished her out of. It was all rather confusing. Did he like Murien? Or was he merely being polite?

The sound of footsteps echoed down the hall.

“Quickly!” Murien said, hurrying to sit by the fire. She picked up her discarded embroidery frame and adjusted her skirts. “He’ll be here any moment!”

Fiona took her place across from Murien, and together they waited. The footsteps walked closer ... louder and louder. They paused outside the door, and then began to fade away.

“Blast it,” Murien whispered. “I thought that footman of yours was going to direct him in here!”

Fiona stood. “Just wait. I’ll fetch him myself.” She smoothed her own gown of pink muslin before crossing to the door and opening it.

It wasn’t Devon who was walking away, but Malcolm. He turned on hearing the door open, pausing with one foot on the lowest step. He’d had a smile on his face, but when he saw her, it faded from sight.

Her heart ached. At one time, he’d lit up every time she walked into the room. She swallowed her disappointment and made a quick curtsy. “My lord.”

He nodded, his handsome face grave. “Lady wife.” His gaze flickered past her to the door. “How goes your campaign?”

“Better than yours, I dare say. Which you would know if you had breakfast at a decent hour. Neither you nor our guest was there.”

A faint hint of smugness crossed his face. “St. John and I agreed to eat earlier than usual so that we might have a morning ride. Then he went to visit Kat.”

“You should have told me about that,” Fiona said, wincing a little at the petulancy she heard in her own voice.

Malcolm smiled, that bright flash of teeth and a crinkling of eyes that always made her want to smile back.

He was a handsome man. He wasn’t tall, but then she liked that, for large people overwhelmed her. He was quicksilver and charm, a lethal combination where Fiona was concerned.

She realized she missed him, missed their morning breakfasts together, missed his visits to her room ... Tears threatened to well.

To hide her distress, she said, “Murien and I were waiting on St. John. I just saw him in the courtyard.”

“I fear you are going to lose this wager before you even begin it. He seems quite taken with Kat.”

Fiona stiffened. “Indeed, I am not. In fact—”

Footsteps sounded once again, this time slower and more shuffling. The elderly footman led Devon up the stairs. He bowed on seeing Fiona. “I was told you were expecting me.”

She smiled and placed her hand on his arm. “Indeed I was. Pray come in. Murien and I wanted to ask your opinion on something.” With that, she drew St. John to the drawing room door.

From where he stood on the landing, Malcolm could see Murien standing by the fireplace, her expression one of artful innocence. Damn it, but she looked beautiful. . . beyond beautiful, even. He thought of Kat this morning, in her plain gown and slightly mussed hair, and he grimaced. He was going to have to do something about that. And soon.

Malcolm’s heart sank when he caught sight of Devon’s admiring expression as he faced Murien. Bloody hell, there was no justice in this world.

Just before Devon went through the door, he paused and sent Malcolm a quizzical glance. “Are you coming?”

“No, no! Perhaps we can meet in an hour for a game of billiards?”

“Of course. I hope you are prepared to lose again.”

With a grin, Devon followed Fiona the rest of the way into the room.

As Fiona moved to shut the door, her gaze met Malcolm’s. For an instant, a tense silence bound them. Malcolm had never wanted anything more than to throw caution and his pride to the winds and reclaim her for himself. What would she do if he marched up to her and threw her over his shoulder, then took her to their room and locked them both away for a week?

The urge was almost overwhelming. But first he’d have to make a promise he didn’t know if he could keep. He let the words die on his tongue. Fiona’s gaze faltered and dropped. Her shoulders slumped and she turned away and then pushed the heavy door closed.

Grumbling to himself, Malcolm turned and made his way up the stairs, hoping against hope that Devon was made of sterner stuff than most men.

The next morning, Devon flipped one end of his cravat over the other, then twisted them in an intricate knot. It took almost fifteen minutes, but when he finished, his cravat was tied in a fabulous creation known as “the mathematical.”

His valet, Tilton, watched a respectful distance away, preserving the utmost silence. As Devon finished, he cast an amused glanced at the valet. “You can speak, you know. I don’t need silence just to tie a cravat.”

Tilton sniffed. “They say Beau Brummell required absolute silence and that the slightest noise would cause him to go into a fit.”

“Brummell was a fool. A well-dressed fool, but a fool nonetheless.” Devon made the final adjustment to his cravat. “There. How’s that?”

“Superb, sir. Simply superb.” Tilton regarded the cravat a moment more, and then, nodding faintly, he picked up the coat he’d just brushed. “A pity you got so dusty yesterday morning.”

“I was riding. That happens to my riding coat when I use it.”

“You’ve been riding before, but never have I seen so much dirt.”

“That’s because I rode in the woods and not in a genteel park with tended pathways.”

Tilton curled his nose. “How shabby of Lord Strathmore not to have a park for your amusement.”

“I shall tell him you think so.”

“Pray do. Otherwise I shall be forced to share my opinion with the upper footman in the hopes that he might tell the second housemaid, who is, I have been informed, sleeping with His Lordship’s valet. I would hate for Lord Strathmore to hear my opinion in such a hodgepodge manner.”

“Consider it done,” Devon said, waving a hand.

Tilton paused. “Would you indeed, sir?”

“Of course. One should never ask a servant to do what one is not willing to do oneself. I may want you to spread some gossip for me one day.”

The valet sniffed, his thin nostrils flaring. “I suppose next you will be offering to iron your own waistcoats. What a delight for me.”

Devon raised his brows. “I wouldn’t take it that far.”

“Then I’m to understand that in return for my extra services, you are only going to claim such duties as carrying gossip and, if pressed, an occasional note for a tryst, and not such duties as laundry, pressing the creases from your shirts, or polishing your boots?”

“I have to leave something for you to do. Otherwise I might realize I don’t need you, and you could lose your position.”

“Don’t tempt me, my lord,” Tilton said. “The Duke of Claridge has been asking for my services for years now.”

“That old clod-digger? You’d be miserable. He doesn’t dress, he merely rolls into his clothing. Besides, I have it on good authority that his funds are tied up on the ‘change and he pays his servants in a very clutch-fisted manner.”

“Then Viscount Addinton. He cuts a good figure.”

“When he isn’t drunk. If that’s the turn you wish to take, I wish you well.” Devon knew Tilton would never leave his service; the valet had far too high an opinion of himself to work for anyone with less style. Besides, Devon paid handsomely and Tilton had little to complain about.

Devon glanced about the room Tilton had just moved them into. The valet had arrived the day after Devon and had wrought a miracle in one of the less damp chambers. Gone was the dust, grime, and gloomy air. The sheets and coverlet were fresh and crisp and even the rug was a brighter color than the others in the castle.

Truly, Tilton was worth his weight in gold. Devon picked up his gloves and tucked them into a pocket. “I’m off to ride with Miss Kat.”

“Cat, sir?”

“Miss Katherine Macdonald. Kat.”

“Ah. That would be His Lordship’s half sister.”

Devon cut him a glance. “You’ve heard about her?”

“Indeed, sir. I’ve heard all about Miss Macdonald
and
Miss Spalding.”

Devon cast a glance at where the ring had been on the night table. He frowned. “Tilton, I thought I put the ring in the candle dish. Did you move it?”

Tilton’s gaze followed his. The ring was no longer in the candle dish, but beside it. “No, sir. I did not move it.”

Devon crossed to the table and picked up the ring. “Perhaps I just forgot. Take this and put it somewhere safer.”

“Of course, sir.” Tilton took the ring and placed it in a box with Devon’s cravat pins. “There. It’s fortunate you do not believe in the power of the ring, for I have it on the best authority that you have come to Kilkairn to meet your future bride.”

“Just what have you heard?”

“Only that speculation is rife over who you will choose, Miss Macdonald or Miss Spalding. Wagering is heavily favoring Miss Spalding.”

Devon frowned. “I favor neither. I’ve no wish to get married.” Which was why he was on his way out of the castle now. It was a good thing he had Kat to while the day away with, for he could not be certain he’d escape Murien’s spell otherwise.

“Sir, I am well aware of your feelings toward matrimony. And so I informed the other staff, but I fear I come into the servants’ hall too late to have any influence.”

For some reason, it irked him that the servants were speculating on his future. “Old gossips, the lot of them.”

“They are quite antiquated, sir. I feel as if I’ve stepped into a world filled with gout and a disturbing fascination for flatulence.” Tilton cast a glance about the green room. It was still a long way from meeting Tilton’s standards. “I shall attempt to organize your room a bit more today, although I have little hopes of actually causing an improvement.”

“You’ve already wrought miracles,” Devon said. Though there really wasn’t much to be done about the smoking chimney or the stained walls.

Devon glanced at his pocket watch, then started. He’d be late if he didn’t leave soon. Now all he had to do was get out of the castle without being forced to pay homage yet again to Fiona’s sister. “Don’t expect me to return until after dark.”

“What a long ride. I do hope your horse will be able to maintain such a pace.”

“I hope
I
can maintain such a pace,” Devon said. He grinned at the valet and then left the room, hat tucked beneath one arm.

He ran lightly down the stairs and had just reached the front entryway when a door opened off the great hall. Fiona stood in the opening. “There you are, Mr. St. John!” she said in a breathless tone.

Devon stifled a feeling of impatience. “Good morning, Lady Strathmore.”

“I’m so glad I caught you. Murien and I were just sitting here talking about how pleasant it would be if you visited.”

“I am on my way out, so I can only stay a few moments.” And that was all. He followed her into the room, bowing to Murien when he entered.

Murien was standing beside the pianoforte, holding some sheet music, looking as beautiful and radiant as she had the day before. Devon knew what the music sheets portended; she wished to play for him as evidence of her correct upbringing. All women were raised the same, and it was a damned shame.

“There you are,” Murien said in warm voice, smiling at him.

“Here I am.”

“You’re dressed for riding.”

“Indeed.”

She laughed softly. “I am sorry. I didn’t mean to state the obvious. Where are you riding today?”

“The woods.” He wondered if Kat’s laugh was as seductive as Murien’s; he’d seen her smile, but had never heard her laugh. He resolved to fix that situation today.

“How lovely!” Murien said. “I daresay it will be nice and cool in the forest.” And with that, she took her place at the pianoforte, leaving her sister to entertain him.

Devon had to give Murien credit, she knew what she was about. She didn’t press him for his attention, but merely indicated that she was there and was a pleasant and beautiful companion. Which was why he had no intentions of spending more than a minute’s worth of time with her, not while the talisman ring was still in his possession.

Devon wasted no more time making his escape. If he waited until Murien began to play, he’d be stuck there for the next hour. As quickly as he could, he made his excuses and left.