How to Marry a Highlander (falcon club ) Read online

  “Who are the Baker-Fryes?”

  “Money, miss. Piles of merchant gold. Father just passed on and this one inherited the lot. Here to see to business.”

  “Is his wife traveling with him?”

  “Not married, miss.” He scoffed. “Why should he be when he’s got scores of servants? If I didn’t need a missus to mend my stockings and cook my dinner, I’d be a single man too.”

  Duncan watched in alarm. A wealthy young man had dropped down as if from heaven. He could see the gears turning in her mind, storing every detail.

  “Thank you for that enlightening information,” she said, and with a quirk of her pretty pink lips went into the parlor and ordered tea.

  Her brother sat with a paper on his knee, the only person present other than a tiny grey-haired lady dressed in black. Sorcha entered and took up her cup with a snap of her narrow wrist that dashed tea across Duncan’s dearly acquired new breeches.

  “Oh,” she said with a sharp flash of her eyes. “Pardon, brither.”

  His other sisters entered and conversation turned to ball gowns. He left.

  There were limits to his dedication to his mission.

  In the foyer he passed the wealthy young American.

  “Sir,” Baker-Frye said with a nod, then glanced into the parlor. His steps faltered. Duncan followed his astonished gaze to Moira standing near the doorway. She cast down her eyes and curtsied to him.

  Baker-Frye drew his hat off and bowed from his waist. “Madam.”

  “Guidday, sir.” She lifted her lashes with a shy smile.

  Finally the American dragged his gaze away and ascended the stairs.

  Poor fellow. It happened to most men when they first saw Moira. But Duncan had never before seen his diffident sister respond.

  He glanced back at Miss Finch-Freeworth. Her eyes shone as she transferred her attention from Moira to him. She wiggled her cinnamon brows and took a breath of obvious satisfaction that swelled her bosom above the modest neckline of her gown.

  The air abruptly seemed thin indoors.

  Tomorrow he would renew his attempts at distracting her from the wager.

  For today, he’d concede defeat.

  6

  He called for her too early, he suspected. But he didn’t want to miss the opportunity to distract her from her mission today.

  Straightening his cravat as he waited for the door of Yale’s house to open, he knew he was a fool. He’d spent half the night thinking of her pretty smile, lily pad eyes that could laugh with a twinkle, magnificent bosom, and round behind. He’d spent the other half of the night deep in dreams that upon waking had him hot and uncomfortable.

  He was early because he wanted to see her.

  Twenty-six days. He could bear this for twenty-six days.

  A footman led him to a parlor where Miss Finch-Freeworth was perched upon the edge of a straight-back chair before a writing table, her head bent to her page.

  “Lord Eads,” the footman said and withdrew.

  She jerked around, her lush pink lips making an O.

  “My lord! You came this morning!”

  No. But if he had to witness her creamy breasts jumping against her bodice many more times he’d be hard pressed to resist the temptation for that sort of relief. The lush circle of her lips didn’t help any.

  “Guidday, Miss Finch-Freeworth.” He bowed. His waistcoat was tight across his chest, his shoulders were cramped in the coat, and he despised top boots. But he’d not go about like a ruffian and shame his sisters or this good-hearted lass—this tempting, outrageous lass who knew far too much about a woman’s carnal needs than an unmarried lady should.

  Hastily she dashed sand across her work then covered the page.

  “Have you come to invite me to ride?” She glanced at his ensemble, lingering for a moment on the fall of his breeches, and her cheeks took on the hue of a ripe peach. Her gaze snapped up.

  “What’re ye writing?” His voice sounded rough.

  “You’ve done that thing again, where you ignore what I have asked and ask me a question instead.”

  “Aye, I’ve come to take ye riding.” Though he’d prefer a different sort of riding than the sort she had in mind.

  Her attention flicked momentarily to his breeches again, then swiftly up.

  Her pretty green eyes were wide.

  Perhaps she did have that sort of riding in mind.

  He tried to find his brain. Despite his better judgment, he moved toward her. “What’re ye writing?” he repeated.

  “Oh.” She waved her fingertips over the pages dismissively. “Nothing really.”

  “Poetry?”

  “Poetry?”

  He halted close enough to see that the rosy glow had suffused her neck and the soft globes of her breast above her gown too. He dragged his gaze upward.

  “Leddies always seem to enjoy poetry.”

  “Not this lady.”

  “’Tis a relief.” Relief. Nowhere near in sight. Not the sort he most needed.

  He shouldn’t have come. She bit her pretty pink lip and flicked the tip of her tongue to moisten it and Duncan nearly groaned aloud.

  “Why?” she said, her eyes glimmering now. “Since you claim you are not courting me, you needn’t write me poetry.”

  “Ye’ve a clever tongue, Miss Finch-Freeworth.” A tongue he’d like to see more of. But if he was imagining a virgin’s tongue in action, clearly he’d been celibate for far too long. “An I dinna claim I’m no courting ye. I’m in fact no courting ye.”

  “Then if you will await me here, my lord, I will go change into my riding dress and call for my mount to be saddled so that you can take me riding in a decidedly un-courting-like manner.” With a quick smile she curtsied and crossed the parlor, leaving in her wake a light scent of lemon.

  For a moment he allowed himself to enjoy her scent. He would never again let himself come close enough to her to indulge his senses entirely. In the flat he’d made the mistake of touching her skin. He’d not do that again.

  He glanced down at the writing table at the blank page with which she’d covered her writing. He looked back toward the door. It stood open, but if she were anything like most of his sisters she’d be at least a half hour preparing to go out.

  The temptation was too great. He could never know her intimately. This could be his only opportunity to know her at least privately. And he’d committed much worse crimes for much worse reasons in the past.

  He brushed the cover sheet aside. Her hand was neat, with a feminine curl to the capitals and a light freedom in the stroke. A peculiar sensation stirred beneath his waistcoat. He liked her hand. It was like her.

  Her prose was light and clever, yet with the same warmth and animation that shone in her spring eyes. The lines told of a village matron who tended toward gossip and her two daughters, and their adventure ordering teacakes for the Ladies of Harpers Crest Cove Auxiliary Benefit. Their series of mishaps was amusing, the characters were drawn with wit and an eye toward satire that was, however, ultimately compassionate. He pushed the page aside and read the one beneath. Then he covered them and went to the window.

  She appeared at the door minutes later. Her voluptuous figure was encased in a skirt and short coat the color of sunrise with a crisp white shirt beneath and a jaunty little hat adorning her hair. “I’m ready.”

  “Yer luvely.”

  Her cheeks glowed. He shouldn’t have said it. He shouldn’t be thinking it.

  He shouldn’t be imagining how much he would enjoy removing that pretty dress from her curves one item at a time.

  “Thank you, my lord. My horse is also ready. Are you?”

  No. Once she mounted, her gown would be tucked around that round behind and he’d never have a chance—not at ignoring his body’s reaction to her or at relief. He hadn’t thought ahead of the potential dangers of this outing. It was possible he hadn’t been thinking at all since the moment she had appeared in his flat and proposed marriage to him.


  “Aye. I’m ready.” He set his jaw and went forward to suffer through the most torturous ride in the park he had ever thoroughly enjoyed.

  Teresa stood at the edge of Lady Beaufetheringstone’s gorgeously appointed ballroom immersed in the golden glow of sparkling chandelier candles and glittering champagne glasses, and allowed herself a silent breath of relief.

  The orchestra cheerfully sawed out the notes of a country dance and guests stepped to the tune amidst the laughter and chatter of those watching. It was a magical evening and Teresa was barely even bothered by the conspicuous absence of a reneging Scottish earl.

  Only that morning when he had escorted her and her sisters to the shops where they encountered no gentlemen except one portly popinjay entirely arrayed in puce, the earl had promised he would attend the ball tonight.

  Faithless barbarian. But he owed her nothing yet. Mr. Baker-Frye had taken up Moira in his carriage to the park, and the bookseller had personally delivered a rare volume to Abigail at the hotel. Otherwise, despite a sennight of hard work altering gowns and schooling Lily and Effie on proper behavior, bachelors had not been banging down the Eads ladies’ door.

  Tonight, however, that was being corrected.

  “You did it,” Tobias said beside her.

  “I did it,” she agreed.

  Earlier, as the seamstress sewed darts in the bodice of Teresa’s white muslin so it would hug Effie’s smaller bosom, Elspeth had complained about the expense of the gown that Diantha lent her. She would not don it until Diantha assured her that much of the income from Mr. Yale’s estate went toward the plight of suffering children in the Welsh mines and only some of it toward pretty clothes. Mollified, Elspeth allowed Annie to affix a chain of cameos around her long neck.

  Sorcha had refused to attend the ball. But her sisters were all gowned and coiffed beautifully, even Abigail, whose cheeks glowed as she slipped away to Lady B’s library. Lily and Effie were giggling at the refreshment table, their dance partners waiting attendance upon them. Moira was surrounded by young gentlemen, Lady B in their midst making introductions. And Una and Elspeth were dancing.

  Teresa could not have prayed for better.

  “Why aren’t you dancing?” Tobias asked. “And where is Eads? I thought he’d meant to attend.”

  “I did,” the earl said behind her.

  She pivoted. He wore a black cutaway coat, gorgeously arranged neck cloth, and dark waistcoat, with a drape of blue and black plaid pinned to his shoulder. The kilt that fell to his knees revealed his muscular calves.

  “My lord.” Teresa curtsied somewhat unsteadily. He bowed with great elegance. No one watching could have imagined that their chance encounter eighteen months ago in this very ballroom had resulted in a scandalous secret wager.

  Una approached with Elspeth.

  “Ladies, you dance charmingly,” Tobias said.

  “I occasionally allou maself a country dance for the benefit it affords the lungs and heart,” Elspeth said. “’Tis like a bracing walk across a meadow.”

  “I daresay,” Tobias said pleasantly. “But what of the minuet or quadrille?”

  “Or—heaven forbid—the waltz?” Una said.

  Lady Elspeth paled. “Niver the waltz.”

  “Perhaps Lady Lily would like to waltz,” Teresa said to her brother. “She mentioned her fondness for it just this afternoon,” she invented.

  “A lady after my own heart,” Tobias said with a smile. “Do you enjoy the waltz too, Lady Una?”

  “Verra much, sir.”

  He offered his arm. “Then it’s lucky the orchestra seems to be in accord with our preferences.” He led her away.

  Teresa felt the earl’s attention on her as she looked toward his youngest sisters. Effie had a cup of punch in each hand. Lily was laughing gaily.

  “What’re they doing there?” Elspeth said. “Effie’s cheeks be aflame, like last Christmas when she took too much . . . Ach, Lord’s mercy. Brither, ye’ll wish to see to this,” she said ominously and set off toward the twins.

  “What happened last Christmas?” Teresa asked.

  “Whiskey.”

  “I see. But Lady B is only serving punch tonight, so Effie is safe.”

  “Why are ye trying to throw Lily at yer brither’s head?”

  She snapped her eyes up. “I—That is . . .”

  Amusement creased his cheek and his hair hung loosely. She wanted to reach up and touch it to test if it was as silky as it looked. He was a remarkably well-made man and ladies all around them were staring from behind their unfurled fans.

  “He seems to like her,” she said.

  “Be ye such a fine judge o’ a man, then?”

  “Apparently not, for I thought you would not come this evening.”

  “I’m a man o’ ma w—”

  “Word. Yes, you’ve said that. Still, I will forgive your lateness if you ask me to dance.”

  “I dinna dance. But there be plenty o’ swains here for ye to chuise from.”

  “I cannot dance with those gentlemen. I consider myself betrothed.”

  He grinned. “Yer mad.”

  “I probably am. It must be all that country air from bracing walks. It does strange things to the head.” Like make her believe she could coerce a Scottish lord into wedding her. She’d made an enormous mistake. But at least she was helping seven young women find the loves of their lives, even if she would never be allowed her own. “But do look over there, my lord.” She gestured toward Moira dancing with Mr. Baker-Frye. “Aren’t they gorgeous together? He is staying at the King Harry.”

  “Is he?”

  “Oh yes. He is a merchant from Philadelphia. Fabulously wealthy, of course. Lady B was happy to include him on the guest list. She isn’t particular about a gentleman’s pedigree when he’s as handsome as Mr. Baker-Frye.

  And he really is so handsome, don’t you think?”

  He lowered his brow.

  “Are you scowling because I arranged their introduction or because you cannot say whether or not he is handsome?”

  “I’m no scowling.” His eyes sparkled. “’Tis ma thoughtful look.”

  “I see. Well then, do bend your thoughts to how Mr. Baker-Frye appears more than halfway smitten. This ball is turning out to be a fabulous success for your sisters, it seems.”

  A crash sounded from the direction of the punch bowl. They both looked around.

  Not from the direction of the punch bowl—in fact, from the punch bowl itself.

  Shards and chunks of crystal were everywhere. Lily’s eyes and mouth were wide in dismay. Effie’s maidenly white skirt was awash in punch.

  “Guid lord, Lily!” rang Effie’s lilting Scottish brogue over the orchestra’s lilting Austrian waltz. “Couldna ye wait till I’d anither cup afore ye went and spilt it all over me?” She burst into peals of laughter.

  Elspeth snagged the lobe of Effie’s right ear and gave it a good shake. Lily grabbed Elspeth’s wrist, lost her balance, and thumped to her bottom in the puddle of punch.

  All around fans fluttered at top speed. Dozens of pairs of eyes stared.

  The waltz lilted on.

  Teresa lifted her chin, averted her gaze from the dark scowl of the large, handsome man beside her, and walked toward the refreshment table.

  While she’d never been clumsy herself, Teresa did not think Lily deserved Elspeth’s stern lecture or Effie’s drunken rehash of every detail of the disaster as they drove home. Tobias had accompanied Una, Moira, and Abigail in the other carriage, so Teresa disembarked before the King Harry, bid the sisters goodnight, and joined her brother for the ride home. Lord Eads had ridden, and she was for once glad not to see him and bear the consequences of what she had allowed to happen.

  Allowed. As if she could control seven strong-willed Scotswomen! She would have better success finding husbands for every unwed lady in Harrows Court Crossing, including the elderly spinster sisters who lived above the parsonage and the butcher’s old sow. Except herse
lf, of course.

  “It was going so well,” she sighed.

  “They’re new to it yet,” Tobias said easily. “They’ll learn. And Lady B didn’t mind it.”

  She peered at him. “You seem cheerful. Did you enjoy yourself?” Despite Lily’s mishap?

  “I did.” He turned his face toward the window and the light from the street lamp without illumined his drawn brow.

  “Toby? Are you regretting having given your consent to this project after all?”

  “No. It’s only . . .” He shook his head. “It’s nothing to worry your head over.

  Ah, look, we have arrived. You must be fagged to death.” He handed her out and sent the carriage on its way.

  “Won’t you ride home?”

  He took a deep breath and stood tall and square shouldered on the walkway. “I could use a stroll to—well, to clear my head. And my rooms aren’t far. Now you go on and I’ll watch you inside.”

  She went onto her tiptoes and bussed him lightly on the cheek. “I don’t know what is amiss with you, but I do hope it will be well in the morning.”

  He nodded shortly. She went up the steps and he waved as the door closed behind her.

  “What time is it, Michael?” she asked the sleepy footman as he drew the night bolt.

  “Half past one, miss.”

  “I suppose Mrs. Yale has long since gone to bed?”

  “Yes, miss.”

  She would’ve liked a cozy chat with Diantha. But the baby was waking her friend at all hours; it would not be fair to bother her now. And of course Diantha might not be alone in bed. She was fortunate enough to be married to a man she loved and who loved her in return.

  “Thank you, Michael. I will sit in the parlor for a bit. I’ll put out the candles on my way to bed.”

  “G’night, miss.” He bowed and disappeared into the back of the house.

  She took up a candle and went into the parlor to the writing desk, and drew her latest pages out of the drawer. A few minutes working on her newest story would cheer her. Freddie would split his seams when he read about the blacksmith and curate’s wife getting trapped in the old cider house. A smile twitched her lips.