Highlander's Hope (7 page)

Scotland? Yvette took a sip of tea, sending Lord Sethwick another curious look from beneath her eyelashes. Whatever is going on?

Mr. Carmichael chortled outright. He attempted to hide his chuckles behind his napkin, feigning a fit of choking.

Yvette wasn’t fooled. The man was laughing, and heartily.

She felt an odd sense of panic beginning to build somewhere in the corner of her mind. Something wasn’t right. Since when did Mr. Collings—that is—Mr. Carmichael have a sense of humor? He hadn’t cracked a hint of a smile during their entire Atlantic crossing.

No, something was off, to be sure.

Shifting her gaze from his shaking shoulders, she glanced at the duke and earl before settling her gaze on Lord Sethwick. Did he look a tad bit worried? His scar was white and his jaw was clenched. No, he’s angry again. Faith, he has a dark temper.

“Why, Sethwick, Harcourt and I could stand up for you, and Mrs. Pettigrove could act as a witness for Miss Stapleton. What say you? Shall we arrange a quiet ceremony for this afternoon?”

What? Yvette’s gaze flew to Lord Ramsbury. Was he serious?

“I’m amendable to the suggestion,” Harcourt agreed, drumming his fingers on the tablecloth. “The only thing delighting me more would be if your beautiful bride threw you over and agreed to have me instead.”

Merciful God, was
he
serious?

Yvette looked to Lord Sethwick in alarm. His features had hardened into stern lines, and his eyes brimmed with annoyance.

“An excellent idea, Your Grace, for the marriage ceremony to take place immediately, that is,” agreed Mrs. Pettigrove. She puffed her massive chest outward and batted her eyelashes.

Yvette almost spilled the cup of tea she had raised to her lips. She set the cup in its saucer with a clank. Tea sloshed over the brim and pooled round the cup. Folding her shaky hands in her lap, she squeezed them until her fingers numbed.

I must put a stop to this charade.

“Your Grace, my lord, I must confess . . .”

Lord Sethwick interrupted, agitation thickening his brogue, “As much as it would please me—us—to accept your generous offer, I’m afraid we must decline. ‘Tis Lady Warrick’s greatest wish to be present at her cousin’s wedding. ‘Tis only fitting. Miss Stapleton was present at hers.”

His gaze met Yvette’s across the table, and his mouth curved into a lazy smile. “That’s where we met.”

Returning his smile, she pressed her hand to her middle. Lud, her stomach was all aflutter.

She averted her gaze from his, then nodded, speaking to the duke. “Yes, indeed. Vangie has looked forward to my wedding since we were girls.” Her gaze shifted to Lord Ramsbury. “I couldn’t bear to disappoint her.”

No lie there.

Yvette plastered a smile on her face “She was thrilled to learn Lord Sethwick and I are to marry.”

Colossal lie there.

The door vibrated again.

“Come in,” Lord Sethwick promptly called.

A half-smile on her lips, Yvette toyed with a cherry on her plate. Lord Sethwick had been a bit too eager to bid them enter. One would think he was anxious for a change of subject.

The clattering of utensils, muted by Mrs. Pettigrove’s squawk of delight, revealed Willard Pettigrove had at last been reunited with his wife. Once more, introductions were made. Yvette breathed a sigh of relief when, several minutes later, the door closed behind the Pettigroves.

She wouldn’t miss that difficult woman. No she wouldn’t, not in the least. She flicked the cherry harder than she intended. It shot across the table and bounced off Mr. Carmichael’s plate before rolling onto the floor. Embarrassed, she looked round the table. Four pair of amused male eyes stared at her.

She lowered her gaze as heat stole its way up her face.

“Haven’t you pressing business to attend to
elsewhere
, Yancy?” Lord Sethwick’s pointed look took in the duke and Mr. Carmichael.

Lord Sethwick had ceased to be subtle. Perhaps he was as eager as she to put aright this betrothal tangle.

That Lord Ramsbury understood was clear. He stood and straightened his coat. “Ah, yes, we’ll be off then. There is something pressing that I . . .” his eyes met Harcourt’s and Carmichael’s amused gazes, “we should see to.”

Chapter 8

Without further ado, the men took their leave.

Yvette was alone with Viscount Sethwick at last. Odd, she hadn’t been nervous in his carriage or chamber.

She hadn’t been betrothed to him then either
.

The sun’s bold rays penetrated the lace curtains, hinting at the temperature mounting outside. Inside, a different kind of heat was building. She had much to discuss with the viscount. She toyed with a curl, fidgeted with her choker, then wadded and unwadded her napkin.

All the while, he sat silently, staring at her.

She grew impatient, her apprehension rising with the temperature.

Being alone with him after this morning’s humiliating events was disconcerting at best. Try as she might, she couldn’t keep her mind from wandering to those moments in his bed. Heat suffused her. She stole a glance at him, pretending to sip her tepid tea. Lord, but she was full of tea.

Seeking a distraction, she looked about the room, noting the floral wallpaper and
trump de l’oeil
garden, complete with a painted fountain, on one wall. She returned her attention to the viscount.

Why didn’t he say something?

What was he thinking? She fisted her hand in the poor napkin. Was he trying to find a diplomatic way to extricate himself from their mock betrothal? Could she blame him? Wasn’t she trying to do the same thing?

Smoothing the napkin, she inhaled a bracing pull of air. “My lord, what shall we to do?” Her worried gaze sought his before returning to the napkin. She folded it and placed it on the table, tracing the seam with her finger.

“Do? Why journey to Somersfield of course.”

Startled, Yvette’s head snapped up. “You’re to be my escort? What of Ian? Why isn’t he accompanying me?” She stopped fidgeting with the napkin. “Are Vangie and the babe well, my lord?”

A smile played around the edges of Lord Sethwick’s mouth. “Call me Ewan, Evvy.”

She bristled. He’d ignored her questions and was being most presumptuous, calling her Evvy. They were not intimate acquaintances. He assumed far too much.

Piqued, she angled her head and met his bold gaze. In her frostiest tone, she admonished him. “I’ve not given you leave to address me so familiarly. Only my family and dearest friends may call me Evvy.”

There. She had brought him up to scratch.

Crooking a brow at her, he chuckled, then laughed outright. It was a deep, pleasant sound that played across her senses. She almost grinned in response. Oh, he was charming. Her twitching lips firmed at his next words.

“How much closer must we be? We awoke in each other’s arms mere hours ago. Need I remind you what was taking place prior to
your
awakening?”

Yvette gave a mortified squeak, throwing her hands over her face. Scalding shame burned her cheeks. She felt the heat on her palms. How could he? Tears prickled behind her lids.

A moment later, she scooted away from the table, her chair scraping loudly in the too silent room. She wouldn’t let him see her cry. She sprang to her feet, and without saying a word or looking his direction at all, turned toward the door. She’d taken two steps when he jumped from his seat, blocking her path.

Lawks, now what? She needed to escape. She might not ever marry, but she didn’t want to be ruined either. He was a cad to remind her she’d made a foolish choice by entering his room and sleeping in his bed. She could accept spinsterhood. There was no dishonor in it. But a woman with a tarnished reputation, one labeled promiscuous and fast, or worse?

That was something different altogether. Yvette didn’t know if she could bear the disgrace and humiliation.

Tears flooded her eyes. She wouldn’t cry in front of him. She wouldn’t. Head lowered, she tried skirting round him and bumped into a chair. She shoved it aside, intent on leaving the room. He stopped her again, this time grasping her arms. Keeping her head bowed and her eyes averted, Yvette held her breath against the sobs lodged in her throat.

“Yvette?”

A fat tear dropped onto his boot, balancing for a moment, before rolling off the polished toe. Another swiftly followed.

Lord Sethwick won’t like his boots being dripped upon.

Yvette almost laughed at the absurdity of her thoughts. But misery, like her tears, dammed any lighter emotion. Regret and embarrassment riddled her. Sniffling noisily, she sucked in a great, watery breath. Lord Sethwick wound her into knots of muddled uncertainty. Why didn’t he let her leave? He owed her nothing, and she wasn’t naive enough to think he was mad for her.

True she was attracted to him, but that didn’t mean there could ever be anything between them. They’d just met for pity’s sake, and her heart was too full of grief and fear at present to consider anything else. She wasn’t so bird-witted as to succumb to the first man that stirred her. A man she knew absolutely nothing about.

Lord Sethwick wrapped his strong arms around her.

Now he’s being kind? This was worse. She wept harder.

She didn’t resist when he scooped her into his arms, then retreated to the chair he’d vacated. Cradling her across his lap, he ran a comforting hand over her spine. “I’m sorry. I’m ten times a fool. Forgive me.”

Why is he apologizing? Yvette tried to shake her head against his muscled chest, succeeding only in wetting the front of his coat. “Not your fault. I should never have been in your bed. Shouldn’t have been touching . . .” She pressed her face closer to his chest. This was humiliating. Why had she been so impulsive? “Papa would be ashamed. He raised me to be a moral woman.”

“You’ve done nothing to be ashamed of. Our, ah,
interlude,
was quite innocent.” His caressing hand stopped for a moment. “You can’t be held responsible for what you . . . what happens when you’re dreaming.” The comforting movement of his hand resumed. “‘Tis beyond your control.”

Yvette supposed what he said was true. It was difficult to think. Her head was wooly and no doubt, her eyes and nose swollen and red. Her weeping slowed to an occasional rasping hiccup as the tremors drained from her body. She wiped her damp cheeks with her hands.

Lord Sethwick shifted, and she settled further into his lap, her head resting on his shoulder. She accepted the handkerchief he removed from his pocket.

“Thank you,” she snuffled into the starched material. She sniffed the fabric. It smelled of him. She dabbed at her wet face before blowing her nose.

Drawing in a steadying breath, shyness swept her. “Thank you for earlier, in my chamber. I’m not sure what Mrs. Pettigrove would have done if it hadn’t been for your quick thinking.”

She shuddered anew at the prospect. Mrs. Pettigrove was loose-lipped, always happy and eager to spread the latest tittle-tattle. She wouldn’t keep silent about the matter. No doubt after Mrs. Pettigrove told her sister, Lady Clutterbuck, the whole of London would know of Yvette’s indiscretion by week’s end.

Lord Sethwick’s response was to pull her closer and tighten his arms about her. She rather liked that. A whisper of a warm touch caressed the top of her head.

“I can’t imagine why I didn’t recognize you in the carriage.” Relaxing against him, she scrunched the soaked handkerchief in her fist. “Perhaps it was because two years have passed, and I did only dance with you once.”

Yvette tried to tilt her head to look at him but his chin rested on her head, preventing the movement. “And the circumstances were most unusual. The hurried wedding, I mean. Then you left right as the dance ended. And I don’t believe you spoke a single word to me.”

Lord above, now she was prattling like an empty-headed ninny.

Nestled within the safe haven of Lord Sethwick’s embrace, her face pressed to his chest, she listened to the rhythmic beating of his heart. Her mind fought a battle.

She ought to remove herself from his person. It was most unseemly.

But, it was comforting having him wrapped around her thus. She fit against him perfectly.

What if someone entered the room, though? Yvette had already been caught in one compromising position today.

“My lord?”

“Ewan.”

“Ewan, you never answered my question about Vangie and her babe.”

His embrace tightened for a moment. “When I left Somersfield, Lady Warrick and the babe she carries were in fine health.” His shoulders and chest began to shake. “Ian, on the other hand was a trifle, uh, shall we say, indisposed?”

Was he laughing? “Is Ian . . . ?”

Continuing to chuckle, Lord Sethwick elaborated. “Never fear. He recently purchased a nasty-tempered stallion. The brute threw him toe over top two weeks past. As he bent over to retrieve his crop, Excelsior bit him in the, um, tender region upon . . .”

“Was the bite serious?” Yvette quickly interrupted, “Will he be all right?”

“He’ll be fine. The doctor says there’ll be a scar, two actually.” Lord Sethwick’s shoulders shook with laughter again. “He’s not permitted to ride until the wound is healed. Thus, I’ve the privilege of seeing you to Somersfield.”

Privilege? He doesn’t mind?

She tilted her neck to look at him, her head resting in the crook of his shoulder. “Perhaps you should let me down now.” Her heart caught when his lips bent into rakish grin.

“In a moment
.
” His grip tightened a fraction. “I think we should continue to claim we’re betrothed.”

“Whatever for?” Her brow knit in confusion. “Mrs. Pettigrove is gone, and ‘tis unlikely our paths will cross again. Her tongue will wag of course, but there’s little to be done about it.”

“If we portray ourselves as happily betrothed, I’m hopeful your stepbrother will leave you alone,” said Lord Sethwick.

Yvette twisted on his lap, trying to search his eyes. “You know Edgar?”

“We have some mutual acquaintances.”

Her gaze hovered on the front of his jacket where the license was tucked inside. She straightened a bit. “And how is it you actually have a license?”

Lord Sethwick chuckled and shifted his legs beneath her bottom. “Ah, the license.” He winked at her. “That’s why I dashed off this morning. Lord Ramsbury helped me secure one on short notice. Mrs. Pettigrove was determined to have proof.”

Yvette nodded slowly. What he said was true. “But Lord Ramsbury said you’d had the license for weeks.”

“Yancy is an old friend, as is Harcourt. Quite simply, the knaves were teasing me. They know we’re not truly betrothed.”

“Do you really think Edgar will leave me alone if he believes we are betrothed?”

Lord Sethwick angled his head. “There’s no guarantee of course, “but ‘tis possible he’ll cease in his pursuit of you.”

She didn’t believe for a minute such was the case, but then, he didn’t know Edgar like she did. She’d seen, and experienced, how vile and determined her stepbrother could be. Edgar didn’t know where Vangie lived, but a coin or two in the right hand would loosen many a reluctant tongue.

Yvette remained silent, mulling over the viscount’s words. Her gaze dipped to the wadded handkerchief in her hand. Merciful God in heaven, she’d made a cake of it. First venturing into his lordship’s chamber, then agreeing to their feigned betrothal.

A thought rudely shoved its way into her mind. Oh bother. There would be no dashing off to Somersfield today. “I don’t have a chaperone. I can’t travel with you.”

“Shh.” Lord Sethwick laid a long finger across her lips. “We’ll secure one before we leave.”

The contact dammed her words. It also softened her body to the consistency of warm, creamy custard. Swallowing, Yvette, with strength of will she didn’t know she possessed, forced herself not to pucker her lips against his finger. Sweet Jesus, what was wrong with her?

“Evvy, playing the role of a couple soon-to-wed will lessen any gossip or rumors about this morning events.”

“What happens afterwards?” She wrinkled her brow. “How will we explain our deception?”

“Seeing you safely to Somersfield is our priority right now. With Edgar in Town, we should leave this afternoon—” He stopped short. “Do you think Mrs. Pettigrove would agree to chaperone?”

Yvette shook her head and cast him a censured look. “Another week of her company?”

Lord Sethwick grinned, “No? Ask Mrs. Quimby if she knows someone then. If not, I’ll send a missive to Mr. Dehring. Surely he can retain a suitable female.”

Nibbling her lower lip, Yvette contemplated his words. If she and Lord Sethwick pretended to be a betrothed couple, then traveling together with a chaperone was perfectly respectable. She stopped worrying her lip and sighed.

Truth be told, she wasn’t the least upset about continuing their ploy. No, playing the role of a betrothed woman was somewhat of an adventure. It was the lying about their troth that plagued her conscience. There was no help for it now though. The seed was sown, and she had no choice but to reap the consequences.

Shrugging her shoulders she agreed. “Yes.”

“Yes?” came the deep rumble of his voice.

Smiling, feeling a sense of relief, she nodded her head. “I agree to continue to act as your betrothed. Only until the need for the deception isn’t necessary, of course.”

Yvette was tempted to revoke her consent when his eyes darkened, and his mouth slid into a self-satisfied grin. He appeared far too pleased by half.

She drew her brows together. Perhaps she needed to clarify her position. “You do understand, I’ve only agreed to a faux engagement? I haven’t agreed to marry you.” It wasn’t as simple as that, simply agreeing to wed. Goodness, there was the betrothal contract, the reading of the banns, the dowry settlement. And love of course. She insisted upon love.

He stared at her, an extended unnerving moment, before drawling, “And I haven’t asked you to.”

She averted her eyes. The color heating her cheeks was brought on by relief, of course, not embarrassment or disappointment.

The sun’s rays had grown bolder, filtering through the curtains and bathing Lord Sethwick in amber light. One ray slanted across her fingers. She could almost envision a slender gold band where the beam lingered.