Rivals of Fortune / The Impetuous Heiress (26 page)

“Oh, Roddy, don't
you
begin to be a dead bore,” drawled Lady Alicia Alston, gazing out over the great hall of Perdon Abbey with a distinctly jaundiced eye.

The Honorable Roderick Massingham, second son of the Earl of Murne, sighed and leaned an elbow on the carved oak banister of the ancient minstrel's gallery. The one trouble with Alicia, he thought, was that she was so deuced easily bored. It took all a fellow's time just to keep her mildly amused, and he couldn't remember when he had last seen her really laugh. Often, struggling to hold his own against her lightning wit, he wondered if the thing was worth the effort.

Watching Alicia's discontented profile, Roddy decided yet again that it was. Though he had known her for most of his twenty-six years, he had never become accustomed to her beauty. It struck him every time he looked at her. It was because of her mother, of course. The Duke of Morland, Alicia's father, had startled London society by bringing home the dazzling daughter of a Swedish count as his bride, and Alicia had inherited her silver-blond hair, ice-blue eyes, and slender, willowy body that was entrancing despite her height. It would help if she weren't so tall, though, Roddy thought. It was difficult to impress a woman who stared one straight in the eye. And Alicia was far too accustomed to giving orders and being obeyed. That was her father in her. Roddy nodded wisely to himself. Old Morland was known for his high-nosed ways. It was all very well in him, but he should have kept a tighter rein on his daughter. When she used that certain tone of voice, Roddy often caught himself doing what she commanded before he thought, and only afterward wishing that he had protested first.

But they were all that way, the group of young fashionables who surrounded the
ton
's most spectacular deb. Or hardly that now, Roddy corrected himself. Alicia had been out for, what, six years? She had refused several very eligible offers. Ned Trehune was making a cake of himself, calling her “the Ice Queen” since she turned him down. And if she wouldn't have a belted earl…Roddy sighed again. One of the throng of suitors who hung about Alicia had to win her. Was it so ridiculous to believe that it might be he? With a sinking suspicion that it was, he looked up to find Alicia watching him.

“You look just like a stuffed frog, Roddy. What
is
the matter?”

When she cocked her head at that angle, and lowered her eyelids just that way, Roddy thought, he always felt an inutterable fool. “Nothing's the matter. Thinking.”

Alicia's beautifully molded lips curved upward. “You, Roddy?”

“What are we doing this afternoon?” he answered hurriedly. “Didn't old Perdy say something about a riding party?”

“Perdy!
Why
did I let him cajole me into coming here? I might have gone to Vienna to visit Papa at the Congress. But no, I listened to Perdy, who promised all sorts of new amusements. I should have known better.”

“Well, you should,” agreed Roddy. “After all, Perdy.”

They contemplated their host, Viscount Perdon, in disgusted silence for a moment.

“How is the duke?” inquired Roddy then, recalling his manners.

“Oh, you know Papa, always terribly busy.” Alicia's tone was airy. She didn't want Roddy inquiring too closely into her imagined trip to Vienna, for Papa would probably not have been pleased to see her there. On his increasingly rare stops in England, between diplomatic chores, he welcomed her company for as much as three days together, but at the end of that period they invariably began to irritate one another. Each was too accustomed to their own way, and entirely
unaccustomed
to opposition. “Did you see that chaise arrive a little while ago?” she added to change the subject.

“The fusty one with the old-fashioned boot? Yes. Prime cattle, though.”

“Who was it? Some fresh guests, I hope. I am so tired of the same faces—here, in London, in Leicestershire hunting.”

Roddy professed ignorance. “With that outmoded carriage, can't be anyone from town.”

“Provincials? That would be unlike Perdy. But they might amuse us.”

He shrugged. “Could find Perdy and ask him.”

“Oh, I don't know.” Alicia stared into the great hall again, frowning. She was horridly bored. Her friends bored her, Perdon Abbey bored her, and the thought of another Season in London, soon to begin, bored her most of all. She had seen everything the
haut ton
had to offer. She had received its adulation as her due and become the undisputed leader of the younger smart set. But she was weary of that as well. From the moment of her birth, Alicia had gotten whatever she wanted, with only her mother's premature death to mar her happiness. Now, at twenty-five, she had run out of requests. “I suppose we may as well.”

“What?” Roddy had been racking his brain for amusing ideas, and he had been just about to suggest they search out some of the others and organize a game of croquet. He felt the plan was weak, and when Alicia spoke just as she might have if he had mentioned it, he was almost afraid she had been reading his mind.

“Look for Perdy,” she replied impatiently, starting toward the stairs.

“Oh…oh, right. He's probably in his study.”

Alicia made a derisive noise.

“Well, he can sit there, can't he?”

“He can
sit
wherever he likes. But to call it a ‘study' when Perdy hasn't the brains of a lap dog…” She shook her head, lifting the flounced skirt of her blue morning gown to walk downstairs.

They found Viscount Perdon asleep in a red leather armchair. Its back had been turned toward the door in a pathetic attempt at concealment.

“Perdy,” said Alicia, shaking his shoulder sharply. “Wake up. It is eleven o'clock in the morning!”

With a snort, as if surfacing from the ocean depths, their host jerked upright. “Wha…oh, Alicia. Must you do that? You frightened me nearly out of my wits. It's very bad for one's health to wake suddenly, you know. Causes—”

“It's even worse to sleep at midmorning.” She eyed Perdy's plump, sandy-haired form and unbuttoned waistcoat. “After an
immense
breakfast.”

“Now, Alicia.” The viscount looked apprehensive.

“Perdy,
why
did you ask me here? To drive me mad with boredom?”

“Now, I say. Lots of people to amuse you. Roddy.” Perdy indicated him. “Jane Sheridan. You like her. Jack Danforth. Emmy Gates.”

“I know who is staying, Perdy.” Alicia's light blue eyes narrowed as she surveyed him. There was something odd here that she hadn't realized before. Perdy was notoriously lazy; he rarely invited guests, and when he did, they were a select few of his male cronies, who could be relied upon to look after themselves and not to expect prodigies of entertainment.

The current house party was unprecedented. She should have seen it as soon as he began pressing her to visit. It was quite out of character. “What are you up to, Perdy?”

“M-me?” But he quailed under her gaze like a rabbit before a fox.

Intuition led her to add, “Does it have anything to do with those people who arrived today?”

Perdy went pale, gaping at her. “People?” he echoed in a strangled voice.

“Who is it, Perdy? What have you done?”

Their host swallowed, groped for his handkerchief, and passed it over his face. “Not my fault,” he muttered.

“What isn't?” Abruptly, Alicia sat on the arm of his chair. Her voice became cajoling. “Now, Perdy. Tell us.”

Roddy stifled a laugh as the viscount raised his head hopefully. “It was my Aunt Sophia.”

“Yes?” Alicia was the picture of sympathy now. “What did Lady Corwin do?”

“Said I must invite my cousins, second or third cousins really, and see that they met some people. Give them a push, you know.”

“So it is your cousins who have arrived?”

Perdy nodded, looking dejected. “It's what put me out, so I thought a bit of a nap…
he's
bad enough. I've met him before. But
she
…” He mopped his brow again. “It ain't my fault, Alicia. I couldn't help it. You know Aunt Sophia.”

“Umm.” Alicia seemed lost in thought.

“You will stay out the week, won't you?” added Perdy anxiously. “It's only two more days.”

When Alicia said nothing, Roddy replied, “Of course we will. All of us.”

“So there is a he and a she,” mused Alicia. “Who are they, Perdy?”

“The Earl of Cairnyllan and his sister Lady Marianne MacClain. And their mother, of course.”

“Cairnyllan? I don't think…”

“Scotland,” muttered Perdy unhappily.

Alicia eyed him. “And what is so bad about them?”

“Him, I said. I've never met Marianne. Though from what Mama tells me…but she can't be worse than Cairnyllan.
He
makes my blood run cold.”

“Good heavens, is he a hunchback?”

Perdy stared. “Of course not. Nothing like that in our family. Who told you so?”

Alicia's blue eyes twinkled. “No one. But if he makes your blood run cold…”

“Well, he does. But it's his eyes, not his back. He looks at me as if I were a dead cat—several days dead.”

This raised his hearers' eyebrows. None of Perdy's friends thought him keen-witted, but he was well-liked.

“He don't care for the
ton
, you see,” added Perdy in explanation. “Disapproves of fashionable fribbles.” He nodded as if remembering some incident. “Very cutting, his tongue.”

“Indeed?”

Both men, instantly wary at this familiar exclamation, turned to gaze at Alicia. She was smiling slightly.

“What are you planning?” asked Roddy.

“Planning?”

“Don't play the innocent with me. I know that look.”

“Roddy! I was simply thinking that we may find this visit quite amusing after all. You must tell me
all
about your cousins, Perdy.” She smiled down at him, and Perdy met her eyes with worried fascination.

“Well,” he began, “Marianne is to come out this Season, you see.”

* * *

When the Perdon Abbey house party gathered for a light luncheon at one, there was a distinct feeling of excitement in the air. Roddy and Alicia had alerted their friends to the new arrivals, and everyone was curious to see them. But even more, they could all see that Alicia was plotting something. From long experience, they knew that this meant, at the least, interesting developments ahead.

The newcomers were the last to appear. The others had already gone into the cold buffet in the dining room, and thus had a good view of the three when they entered a few moments later. Many would have been daunted by the battery of appraising glances thrown their way, and indeed, the small older woman shrank back slightly. But no one was looking at her. The man and girl framed in the double doorway claimed everyone's attention.

Both had stunning red hair, and both were dressed in passable style, though by no means in the height of fashion. But there the resemblance ended. Ian MacClain, Earl of Cairnyllan, was a large man—tall, with great shoulders and arms and well-formed, muscular legs. His face was reddened by the sun, and his blue eyes were startling against his skin. They, like everything about him, seemed to crackle with vitality. He looked as if he would like to tear off his neckcloth and stride outdoors, where he would clearly be more at home. He gazed back at the group around the table with contempt, and none of them imagined he was pleased to be at Perdon Abbey.

His sister, on the other hand, looked overjoyed. She too was built along generous lines, but her deep bosom and curve of hip appeared slight beside the earl's bulk, and one chiefly noticed large, dark blue eyes in a pale oval face, a pert nose, and invitingly sensuous lips. She came forward first, holding out both hands to Perdy.

“Hello, cousin. My room is splendid.” She gazed about, smiling as she spoke, with no trace of a Scottish accent, and it was obvious she was gauging her effect on all of them.

Perdy shuffled uncomfortably and freed his hands. “Ur, hullo, Marianne.” He paused, as if uneasy about this form of address, then plunged ahead. “Want you to meet my friends.” He muttered names rapidly and inaudibly. “Lady Marianne MacClain,” he finished, gesturing vaguely. Then, realizing that he should have presented the girl's mother first, he flushed. “And Lady Cairnyllan,” he added in a louder voice, “my, er, aunt?”

“Second cousin once removed,” corrected Marianne with no trace of embarrassment. “Ian and I are twice removed.”

This was too much for Perdy. “Ian MacClain, Earl, you know, Cairnyllan,” he blurted, and then turned determinedly to the buffet.

The earl had moved forward, escorting his mother, and now he nodded to the group without enthusiasm. He looked at them, thought Alicia, as if they were some unusual, and not particularly attractive, breed of livestock. But she noticed that when his eyes passed over her, they showed a momentary flicker. She smiled inwardly. Since the age of fifteen, Alicia had enjoyed men's reactions to her beauty, which she knew was extraordinary. Lord Cairnyllan was unlikely to stammer or gape, but she was sure that in a moment or two he would maneuver his way to her side and try to capture her attention with his best conversational gambit. She felt a familiar quickening at the idea; the game of flirtation was one of the few things that still amused her, though she very seldom encountered a worthy partner.

But the earl did not approach her. He stayed beside his mother, filling a plate for her and then sitting near her at the table. His attention appeared to be divided between Lady Cairnyllan's comfort and Marianne's behavior, which obviously concerned him. Alicia did not even catch him in surreptitious glances.

Puzzlement over his amazing attitude preoccupied her through the first part of the meal. It was not until Roddy, who'd been casting more than surreptitious glances in Marianne's direction, stopped to peel an apple for her that Alicia cocked her head and lowered her eyelids slightly, saying, “Lord Cairnyllan, you are Scotch?” At her tone, the young people around the table looked up expectantly.