Highlander's Hope (6 page)

“Yvette,” Lord Sethwick took her hand in his, giving it a small squeeze, “all will be well
.
”

Studying his intent gaze, she saw his sincerity, even as she recognized his eyes revealed something else, an intensity that sent her pulse skittering again.

“Will you
trust me?”

His deep, soothing voice penetrated the fog encompassing her mind. Trust him? Not Likely. She didn’t know him. Casting a sideways glance at Mrs. Pettigrove at the chamber door, Yvette whispered, “I left my dagger under the pillow,” instead of answering his question.

Astonishment registered on his face. “Your dagger?”

“Yes,” nodded Yvette, casting Mrs. Pettigrove a wary glance, “under the pillow.”

“Eh, what’s that?” demanded Mrs. Pettigrove, her curious gaze swinging between them after she closed the door on Mr. Quimby.

Ewan flashed a smile at her. “Miss Stapleton left an article in my chamber.” He looked to Yvette. “I’ll see that it’s returned to you.”

“Thank you, my lord.”

“Call me Ewan. After all, we’re betrothed,” he whispered, smiling mischievously.

Yvette’s turned her lips upward despite her misgivings. Lud, he was charming.

Raising her hand to his firm lips, his thumb caressed her palm. He placed a lingering kiss on her fingertips. The roughness of his unshaven face sent ripples of pleasure skipping across her flesh.

“Dress
and wait for my return. Promise you won’t leave this room.”

“I promise, my lord.” She was unable to deny his request to stay in her chamber, yet hesitant to address him by his given name.

He chuckled and released her hand. “My name is Ewan.” Striding to the adjoining door, he gave her one last penetrating look, then left, closing the door behind him.

Miss Pettigrove pried her gaze from his closed door and turned her beady stare on Yvette. Pursing her mouth she asked, “Precisely how long have you and his lordship been affianced?”

Chapter 7

Less than three hours later, three hours in which Yvette repeatedly dodged Mrs. Pettigrove’s questions about her betrothal to Lord Sethwick, he rapped on their door.

Her emotions fluctuated between bewilderment and peckishness at both Mrs. Pettigrove’s snooping and his betrothal claim. How dare he assert they were betrothed, especially to a rumormonger like Mrs. Pettigrove? To be fair, he didn’t know she was loose-lipped, yet, he had created a fine bumblebroth with his lie.

Yvette was piqued with him. So why couldn’t she tear her gaze from him?

His hair was brushed and he had shaved. A chocolate brown cutaway coat stretched across his wide shoulders. Creamy ivory breeches, tucked into gleaming black boots, revealed long, athletic legs. A paisley patterned waistcoat held hues of jade green, deepening the color of his eyes to dark teal.

He bowed over Yvette’s hand, and she inhaled his now familiar scent.

She had dressed with deliberate care, selecting a gown to boost her confidence, yet appropriate for mourning. The violet bombazine was one of her favorites. Around her neck she wore a violet velvet choker, the center adorned with an onyx cameo. In her ears dangled amethyst and onyx earrings. Her hair was styled simply and intertwined with violet ribbons. Several loose curls framed her face.

“If you’re ready ladies, let’s go below stairs and break our fast.” He extended an elbow to each woman and the three left the chamber.

Mrs. Quimby met them at the bottom of the stairway and showed them to a private dining compartment. An array of tempting foods was displayed on a sideboard. She hovered nervously.

“Ladies, please accept my apologies for any distress you were caused this morning. Myles and I want to assure you, we’ve never had an intruder on the premises before. We keep the doors and windows securely bolted.” She met each of their gazes. “The authorities have been notified.”

Mrs. Pettigrove astounded Yvette by responding with kind understanding. “Mrs. Quimby, I don’t hold you responsible for the unfortunate event earlier.”

The petty look she darted Yvette suggested the same mercy wasn’t, as yet, extended to her. Mrs. Pettigrove, her plate heaped with a liberal portion of food, waddled to the chair Viscount Sethwick held for her. Yvette followed, stopping short of the round table. He moved to the chair opposite Mrs. Pettigrove, rather than one positioned on either side of the munching matron.

“Miss Stapleton,” he indicated the chair he stood behind.

Yvette lowered herself onto the seat. “Thank you, my lord.”

He dipped his head, his breath tickling her ear, and murmured, “Call me Ewan, Evvy.”

The way he said her name—as if he was savoring the most marvelous, decadent desert—caused her heart to trip over itself, and to beat unsteadily for several delicious moments—even if his request was only this side of improper.

The viscount took a seat between the two women.

Yvette considered him. Vangie must have told him her pet name. She attempted to eat a scone, but abandoned the idea when her stomach rebelled. She nibbled a couple of cherries, but they too sent her insides cavorting. Sipping a cup of steaming tea helped to steady her nerves.

Idly admiring the teacup’s delicate blue rose pattern, her mind sought answers to the question haunting her. How on earth, was she to solve this fiasco of an engagement to Viscount Sethwick?

She made no attempt at conversation, but sipped her tea and listened to Mrs. Pettigrove’s prattle. Why did the viscount keep sending Yvette those assessing looks? It was as if he attempted to read her mind.

Had Mrs. Pettigrove no idea she was being boorish? Her twaddle strained his manners. The pinched look on his face made that quite apparent. Yvette bit the inside of her cheek to stop the smile that threatened. Lord above, did Mrs. Pettigrove truly think he cared in the least that shellfish gave her a rash and caused her lips to swell like,
two great sausages
?

She cast a peek at the viscount. He stared at Mrs. Pettigrove, his sausage laden fork halfway to his mouth. Were his lips twitching? The smile Yvette had been restraining burst forth when his amused gaze drifted to her.

He raised the fork and took a deliberate bite.

Mrs. Pettigrove’s grating voice interrupted the moment. “Lord Sethwick, I’m loath to remind you, but you did promise to provide evidence of a special license.”

Merciful God, did Mrs. Pettigrove’s snooping know no bounds? Mortified to be caught in such a flagrant lie, Yvette looked at him. Now what were they to do?

“To be sure, I did indeed.” Unruffled, Lord Sethwick patted his mouth with his napkin before laying it beside his plate. He reached inside his coat, then removed the document for the intrusive matron’s perusal.

He possesses a license? How is that possible?

Unfolding the formal looking papers, Mrs. Pettigrove made a pretense of reading them. Yvette hid a smile behind her napkin. She knew Mrs. Pettigrove couldn’t read a word, let alone see the numerous wiry, gray hairs on her chin, without her spectacles. The viscount might have handed her an advertisement to relieve digestive disorders, or baldness,
or eliminate unsightly facial hair
, and the busybody wouldn’t have been able to distinguish the difference.

“The date?” probed Mrs. Pettigrove.

Taking another bite of sausage, Lord Sethwick chewed it before answering. “The license was issued May first, well in advance of Miss Stapleton’s arrival.”

Unable to tear her gaze away, Yvette stared at the license in rapt silence. How had he acquired one so quickly?

Giving a stiff nod, Mrs. Pettigrove returned the document to him. “It
appears
to be in order.”

Lord Sethwick returned it to his inside pocket.

Yvette wasn’t surprised the oversized matron seemed less than enthusiastic with the discovery.

Her mouth full of scone, Mrs. Pettigrove asked, “When did you say the marriage will take place?”

Lawks, her persistence is galling. Yvette flashed a sidelong glance to the viscount. He’s not perturbed in the least. She shifted her gaze to the license, lest he catch her studying him. How would he answer Mrs. Pettigrove’s uncouth question?

A sharp rap echoed at the door. Yvette breathed a sigh. Thank Goodness. Lord Sethwick wouldn’t have to answer the question after all. She raised her head and forced her gaze from the document in his hand.

He stared at her intently, then called, “Enter.”

“Lord Sethwick, please excuse the interruption,” a deep, vaguely familiar voice greeted. “‘Tis urgent I speak with you.”

Half-turning to look at the newcomer, Yvette could not contain her frightened gasp. She shot halfway out of her chair before Lord Sethwick’s hand snaked across the table and grasped hers, restraining her.

“Ewan!” In her panic, she addressed him by his given name.

“Miss Stapleton, Mrs. Pettigrove, may I introduce my associate, Trenton Carmichael?” said Ewan. “You know him as Nigel Collingsworth.”

Yvette sat down so hard her bottom smacked the chair with a stinging thud. Despite the day’s promise to be quite warm, she shivered, chilled to the bone. Searching the viscount’s face she repeated, stunned, “Your associate? I don’t understand. He was chasing me yesterday.”

Mrs. Pettigrove’s gooseberry eyes were round as the moon watching the exchange. “Mr. Collings, er, Carmichael was chasing you, Miss Stapleton?”

No one responded to her probing.

Holding Yvette’s hand, Lord Sethwick explained, “He wasn’t chasing you. Trent was trying to protect you by catching the man who
was
chasing you.”

“A different man was also chasing you? Whatever for?” Mrs. Pettigrove sounded envious.

Everyone ignored her.

Mr. Carmichael addressed Yvette. “I regret frightening you yesterday. It wasn’t my intent.”

Another knock sounded.

“Come in.” Lord Sethwick was less gracious this time.

Faith, what handsome men
.

Yvette managed not to gawk at the two men who entered the chamber. At least she thought she did. They must be friends of Lord Sethwick’s. Nobility no doubt.

“Sethwick, you rogue, keeping the arrival of your lovely bride-to-be a secret,” teased a tall gentleman dressed in black from toe to top.

Ewan suppressed an oath. What were Yancy and Harcourt doing here? He leveled a scowl at Yancy. He’d bet his favorite hound this was the secretary’s idea of a joke. Ewan had used Yancy’s considerable connections to acquire the special license this morning, and Harcourt had been present when Ewan had asked for the favor.

Blast and damn. There was nothing for it then. Scooting his chair back, Ewan rose to make the introductions. “Mrs. Pettigrove, Miss Stapleton, may I present His Grace, Rochester Lucan-Ashford, the Duke of Harcourt, and his lordship, Bartholomew Yancy, the Earl of Ramsbury and Secretary of War?”

Ewan raised a brow at the men. “Your Grace, my lord, Mrs. Millicent Pettigrove and Miss Yvette Stapleton. You’re already acquainted with Mr. Carmichael.”

He avoided addressing Yvette as his betrothed, intending to spare her some embarrassment. His two comrades were having none of it though. The men descended on her, like vultures on carrion. He had known they would, just to irritate him, but had hoped otherwise.

The Duke raised her hand to his lips. “
Enchanté,
Mademoiselle Stapleton. Sethwick’s a most fortunate man indeed. Alas, if only I’d met you first.”

His dramatic sigh and the way he let his sentence trail off irritated Ewan. And he knew that was precisely why Harcourt had done it.

Not to be outdone, Yancy made a leg. “Sethwick spoke of your beauty, but his humble words could not describe angelic perfection. ‘Tis no wonder he’s guarded your identity until now.”

Ewan snorted in disgust at his friends’ flagrant goading. Yvette sent a curious look his direction. Unfamiliar heat crept up his neck and face. Blast and damn, now he was blushing.

That Harcourt saw it was apparent from the sardonic grin twisting his lips.

“
Won’t
you join us?” Ewan grudgingly invited, his deliberate scowl belaying his words.

“We’d love to, old chap,” sniggered Harcourt, looking to Yancy. “Wouldn’t we?”

“Indeed, we would,” agreed Yancy, a smug smile on his lips.

Ewan’s scowl deepened. So, they were going to ignore his hint, were they? It was his blasted fault. He’d given them this fuel when he’d rushed into Yancy’s office earlier, demanding a marriage license.

Two chairs were brought forward from the corners of the room. Only Carmichael accepted the offer to dine. Harcourt and Yancy each took a seat, apparently intending an extended visit.

Ewan eyed Carmichael’s swollen cheek and bruised face. He must have put up quite a fight to get those. At one time, Carmichael had been a professional pugilist.

Mrs. Pettigrove, a smear of marmalade atop her upper lip, stopped eating to leer at each of the men in turn.

Ewan surmised she had never dined with such an assortment of males, and her appetite for the opposite sex was taking precedence over her voracious appetite for food.

“I say, Carmichael, what happened to your face?” Harcourt’s gaze slid to Ewan, then returned to Carmichael.

“Yes, what
did
happen? I thought you had an
assignment
last night?” Why Carmichael hadn’t alerted him to Marquardt’s intrusion.

His mouth full of food, Carmichael’s gaze swept the table. A flush stole across his battered face. He swallowed. “That’s why I sought you this morning. I was attacked while on watch.” He cast a hesitant glance in the women’s direction. “They knocked me out cold. I awoke in the alley next door.”

“They?” Ewan frowned.

Carmichael nodded, “Three,” before turning his attention to his plate once more.

Ewan leaned against his chair and crossed his arms. His gaze skimmed Yvette. She seemed confused. She kept casting furtive peeks at Carmichael. When Ewan shifted his gaze away from her, he discovered Yancy staring at him with a mocking grin on his face. Harcourt was ogling Yvette.

“Harcourt, when did you arrive in Town?” Ewan hoped to steer the conversation away from his engagement.

Harcourt answered indifferently, his piercing eyes never leaving Yvette. “Only yestereve, if you must know.”

Yancy shifted, then explained why the duke was in his company. “Harcourt arrived at my office at the crack of dawn, Sethwick. ‘Tis fortunate I keep early hours. You never know
who
may arrive unfashionably early with impractical requests.”

Ewan shot him a warning glare. His gaze swept around the table. Yvette was looking at him again, a puzzled expression on her face. She senses the undercurrent, blast it. He knew what Yancy and Harcourt were about. The two louts thought it great fun to pop over and tease him about his sudden betrothal.

“So, when
do
the nuptials take place?” Harcourt’s gaze, flicked to Ewan, before sliding back to Yvette, and examining her much too closely for his comfort.

“Were I to have a bride as exquisite as Miss Stapleton,” Harcourt dared, “I’d commence with the ceremony and what comes after, with all due haste.”

Yancy entered the fray, a wide grin on his face. “Do tell, Sethwick. When can we expect the bans to be posted? Or do you intend to use the special license you’ve been toting around for
weeks,
after all?”

Ewan remained silent, shooting daggers at both men with his eyes. He pushed his full plate away, having lost his appetite.

“Course, you could save yourself a great deal of trouble and hightail it to Scotland with your beautiful bride-to-be,” hinted the duke. “Gretna Green mayhap?”

Ewan fidgeted.
Merde
, they are both insufferable!

“Indeed,” agreed Yancy, “you Scots do make getting married profoundly
easy.”