Chapter One
Alessandro Diego ChristopherForsythe, ninth Earl of Rayne, had only been in England for one month, and already, he had shot a man and acquired a betrothed.
To be fair, he had shot the Duke of Montrose when defending himself from the drunken fool, who had been hell-bent upon shooting him in the head. And the betrothal had yet to become official because Lady Catriona Hamilton, sister to the fool he had wounded, was proving a most recalcitrant future countess.
“I am sorry, my lord,” apologized the dowager Duchess of Montrose for the fourth time. “I cannot imagine Lady Catriona will be much longer.”
They were seated in a formal salon, a full tea service spread before them, awaiting the arrival of the lady he had promised to wed after shooting Montrose. In truth, Montrose had demanded the obligation from him as a debt of honor.
Rayne intended to leave England and return to Spain with as much haste as possible, but he also recognized he had a duty to the title and the entail. Marrying Lady Catriona had seemed, at the time, an efficient solution to two problems. He could satisfy a bleeding—and highly drunken—man’s demand, and he could also obtain a bride without being required to court her.
Provided Lady Catriona could meet his requirements in a bride.
Which was becoming less and less likely by the moment.
“Perhaps she is ill once more, Your Grace,” he said at last, unable to keep the irritation from lacing his voice.
This was his third visit to the Duke of Montrose’s townhome to visit his prospective betrothed. On his first attempt at meeting her, she had been suffering from a severe case of megrims. On his second try, Lady Catriona had fallen ill with a lung infection.
He drummed his fingers against his thigh, the sound falling heavily in the silence that had descended between himself and Lady Catriona’s mother, who wore the look of a woman disappointed with the world beneath her white cap. And he could hardly blame the dowager for such a sentiment.
Her son, the Duke of Montrose, was a scapegrace drunkard who dipped his prick in every willing female in London. And if gossip was to be believed, her daughter had been ruined and summarily sent to Scotland by Montrose to hide from the scandal she had created. She had then been rescued by her brother’s stupidity, but refused to meet the man who would be her savior and pluck her from the maws of said ruination.
The duchess’s eyes fell upon Alessandro’s tapping fingers.
He stilled them.
“Please accept my sincere apologies, Lord Rayne,” she whispered, sounding mortified.
“I believe I shall take my leave now, Your Grace,” he announced.
Alessandro had wasted enough time being made a fool by Lady Catriona. Montrose would have to settle upon some other answer for his debt of honor. He would find a different wife, one who was not the scandalous, minx sister of a drunkard duke.
The dowager made her apologies as he offered her a curt bow and saw himself out. Irritation mingled with fury as he stalked down the hall. He did not appreciate his precious time being wasted by a spoiled girl. Time was a luxury he could not afford to waste, for each day he lingered in England was a day that could have been meaningful in Spain, his mother’s homeland. The homeland of his heart.
A flutter of movement caught his eye, giving him pause. It had been, he thought, the swish of a lady’s pale, rose gown disappearing over the threshold of a chamber down the hall. Instinct told him it washer. And whilst he knew he ought to take his leave as he had announced he would do and see himself to the door, he found himself spinning on his heel and pursuing that gown.
Pursuing that maddening creature who had dared to refuse to be introduced to him. He followed her without thought for propriety or even sanity. What did it matter if he eschewed convention and sought out Lady Catriona alone? She was already ruined, and he was already known as the mad Earl of Rayne. As rarely as he returned to England, even Alessandro knew his unflattering sobriquet.
He reached the closed door into which she had disappeared and opened it, striding through without hesitation, closing the portal at his back. The room in question was a library. A rather small affair, lined with two levels of shelves, flanked at each end by a set of overstuffed chairs. But Alessandro did not linger on the books or the chairs.
He had eyes only for the woman, her chestnut hair pulled into a simple chignon that put the graceful column of her throat on display. Her back was to him, and he took a moment to drink in the sight of her at last.
“Lady Catriona.” He spoke her name into the silence, gratified when she spun about, a hand fluttering over her heart, and emitted a most unladylike squeal.
For a moment, she stared at him, and he stared back, confounded. Lady Catriona was not at all as he had imagined she would be. She looked nothing like her immense clod-of-a-brother—thank the Lord for that mercy—her form curvaceous in bosom and hips, just as he preferred. Small ringlets framed her heart-shaped face, and her eyes were the blue of the ocean, her lips a pink Cupid’s bow that begged for kisses.
Fortunately, he was not the kissing sort of man. Nor was he the sort who was easily swayed by beauty, for Lady Catriona undeniably possessed more than her share of it. She was stunning, her loveliness not just ethereal but unusual, so unique he could not deny his initial reaction to her.
At least, not until he tamped it down and reminded himself, she had made an ass of him on no less than three occasions.
“Have you nothing to say for yourself, my lady?” he asked, stalking nearer to her, though he knew he ought to simply leave. “You look remarkably hale for a lady possessed of such a delicate constitution. First megrims, then a lung infection. Your sainted mother did not even bother to offer an excuse for your absence today. Tell me, what was it, my lady? A stomach ailment? A scrape? Perhaps you stubbed your toe.”
Her eyes narrowed upon him, her bearing seizing up, as if the sight of him was loathsome to her. “You were meant to be gone by now. Why are you still here, Lord Rayne? And why have you followed me?”
He almost laughed at her daring. But he was not amused by her impudence. He stopped only when he was close enough in proximity to touch her. To note how thick and long her lashes were, how her eyes held untold depths of gray within them.
“I came here to propose marriage to you, just as I have done on the previous two occasions when you were also too struck with illness to see me,” he said coolly, whisking an assessing gaze over her. “But now I confess, I am grateful for your discretion, Lady Catriona.”
