Nicola Cornick – The Lady and the Laird (страница 7)

Robert crumpled the letter in his hand. “Presumably because this approach worked better,” he said. “I was not aware that Miss Brodrie was of a romantic disposition.”

He had not, he realized, known much about Dulcibella at all. It was a little late to realize that now, but he had not been interested in her except as a way to unlock his inheritance. He needed a wife—and an heir—urgently. He had proposed to Dulcibella for that reason alone. He had noticed that she was pretty. He had found her laughter grating and her helplessness irritating. That was the sum total of their relationship.

“Daft girl was always reading,” Brodrie said. “Took after her mother that way. I never paid it much attention. She liked those soppy novels, Pamela and the like.”

It was all starting to make a great deal more sense to Robert. He tapped the crumpled letter impatiently against the palm of his hand.

“I don’t believe MacMorlan wrote that,” Jack said suddenly. “I was at school with him. He’s no scholar.”

“Perhaps he was too shy to share his poetry with you all,” Robert said sarcastically. He scanned a few more lines. “He has quite a talent.”

“If Lachlan MacMorlan is shy,” Jack said, “I’m the pope.”

“Gentlemen...” The minister was hovering, anxiety writ large on his plump face. “Is the service to go ahead?”

“Evidently not,” Robert said. “If only Miss Brodrie had confided her feelings in me, she and Lord Lachlan could have had the booking instead.”

Both Lord Brodrie and the minister were looking at him in perplexity. Robert realized that they were wondering if he could possibly be as cold and indifferent as he sounded. He had not cared a jot about Dulcibella, but he did care very much about losing his inheritance. The congregation was shifting and shuffling now as everyone tried to overhear what was going on and pass word to his or her neighbor. Their expressions were shocked, scandalized, amused, depending on the guests and their disposition. Wilfred of Cardross was making no attempt to hide his glee. He, more than anyone, would welcome the ruin of Robert’s plans and the opportunity it gave him to claim back Methven land.

Robert clenched his fists. He was not going to give Cardross the chance to take Golden Isle and his northern estates. They were the most ancient part of his patrimony, and he would hold them by force if he had to do so.

His eyes met those of Lucy MacMorlan. She was looking directly at him. She did not look shocked or scandalized or amused.

Lucy looked guilty.

Robert felt a leap of interest. He knew that Lady Lucy was close to her brother. He had observed them together at various social events and knew they had an easy friendship. It seemed Lachlan might have confided in Lucy about the elopement. Certainly she knew something.

For a long moment Robert held her gaze. Faint pink color came into her cheeks. He saw her bite her lip. Then she broke the contact with him very deliberately, turned to pick up the little green-beaded reticule that matched the ribbon on her bonnet and touched her father gently on the arm to indicate that she wanted to leave. The guests were spilling out of the pews now, milling around uncertainly in the aisles while they waited for someone to tell them what was happening.

“Well?” Brodrie demanded. “What’s to do? Aren’t you going after them, my lord?”

“Sir,” Robert drawled, “your daughter has gone to a great deal of trouble to avoid marrying me. It would be churlish of me to go after her and bring her back.” He pushed the letter into Jack’s hands. “Tell everyone that they are welcome at the wedding breakfast, Jack,” he said. “A pity to waste a good party.” It was he who had paid for the celebrations, Brodrie being too strapped for cash.

“Party?” Brodrie was boggling. “You would celebrate my daughter running off with another man, sir?”

“We have already given the gossips more than enough cause for conjecture,” Robert said. “I refuse to play the heartbroken jilt.” He laughed. “Besides, the wedding is bought and paid for. And you have a daughter married and off your hands. One hopes. Celebrate it.” He sketched Lord Brodrie a bow. “Excuse me. I will join you shortly, but first there is something I must do.”

“By God, sir, he is a coldhearted bastard,” he heard Brodrie say to Jack as he walked away. The man sounded torn between admiration and disbelief.

He did not hear Jack’s reply. But he did not disagree with Brodrie’s assessment.

* * *

LACHLAN HAD RUN off with Dulcibella Brodrie.

The gossip rippled down the pews like the incoming tide. Lucy, sitting at the back of the church between her father and her two sisters, was almost the last to hear it.

“Run away to Gretna Green... Gone this morning... Eloped with Lachlan MacMorlan...”

Lucy felt apprehension tiptoe along her spine. Damn Lachlan. Could he not have sorted this out sooner? It had taken two months and almost twenty love letters to persuade Dulcibella to jilt Robert Methven, and she had to do it now, leaving the man standing alone in front of all his wedding guests.

Lucy felt horribly guilty. She had not really expected to feel so bad. Up until this very moment, she had in fact felt rather pleased with herself. Dulcibella’s surprisingly staunch refusal to succumb to Lachlan’s wooing had meant a big profit on the letters. Lucy had been able to give so much to her charities: warm blankets and medicines and new clothes for the children. But of course there was always a price to pay. And Lord Methven was paying it now. Lucy felt as though she had let him down in some obscure way, as though she had owed him her loyalty and had betrayed him. Perhaps it was because all those years ago he had kept his word and never revealed that he had seen her on the terrace at Forres that night. She had not thought about that in eight years. Yet now she thought that he had kept faith with her while she had repaid him in deceit.

“Papa.” Lucy touched her father’s arm, leaned toward Mairi and Christina. “I fear we are about to become as popular as a fox in a hen coop,” she whispered. “Lachlan has eloped with the bride.”

The Duke of Forres pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose. He looked perplexed. It was his natural state; he was a scholar and a recluse who always gave the impression that half his mind was still in his books. “Lachlan?” he said vaguely. “Has he? I wondered where he was.”

“Halfway to Gretna by now, by the sound of it,” Mairi said. “Typical Lachlan. He always wants what belongs to someone else.”

Lucy looked up. Over the heads of the congregation, she could see Robert Methven talking to his groomsman and to Lord Brodrie. He turned slightly toward her and she saw that there were some sheets of paper in his hand. She felt a clutch of fear ripple through the pit of her stomach. Those sheets looked suspiciously like the letters Lachlan had sent Dulcibella.

Suddenly, without warning, Methven looked up and directly at her. His dark blue gaze was intent. It felt as though there were an invisible thread pulled tight between them. Lucy felt the jolt of that contact down to her toes.

He knows.

Her heart started to batter her bodice, slamming in hard beats. She could feel panic rising in her throat, cutting off her breath. How Robert Methven could possibly know that she had had a hand in this was a mystery, and yet she did not doubt it for a second.

She saw Methven’s gaze drop to the letters in his hand and then rise again to pin her very deliberately in its full blue blaze. He made some comment to his groomsman and took a purposeful step in Lucy’s direction.

She had to get out of there.

“Papa,” she said. “Excuse me. I need some fresh air. I will see you out at the carriage.”

“Of course, my dear,” the duke murmured. “Dear, oh dear, I am not at all sure what to say to Methven. Such appallingly bad behavior on Lachlan’s part.”

“Excuse me,” Lucy said again, hastily. She started to squeeze out of the pew. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see Robert Methven advancing down the nave of the church toward them. She had a sudden vision of him throwing down his gauntlet on the floor of the church and challenging the duke to combat for the dishonor done to his name and his family. A hundred years before, such an idea might not have been so outrageous. It did not in fact seem that outlandish now, especially as Wilfred Cardross was smiling broadly and making his delight at Methven’s humiliation all too plain.

“It could not have happened to a more deserving fellow,” Cardross said. “I must stand Lachlan a whisky next time I see him.”

“Oh, do be quiet, Wilfred,” Lucy said crossly, venting her guilt on someone else. “You always have to crow.”

“When it is a case of seeing a Methven brought low,” Wilfred said, smoothing his lacy cuffs, “of course I do. Besides...” He beamed again. “If Methven cannot fulfill the terms of his inheritance, then half his estates are forfeit. To me.”

Lucy looked at him with deep dislike. Wilfred had been making mysterious pronouncements along these lines over the past few months, ever since he had come back from London. She knew there was some sort of ongoing lawsuit between him and Robert Methven, but since the case was still sub judice, Wilfred could not discuss it. Instead he dropped these irritating and self-satisfied hints. But if Wilfred was right and Methven’s inheritance depended on his marriage, then he would be even more furious to be jilted. Suddenly Lucy felt so nervous that she could not draw breath.