He stared at her, saw the foolish hope in her eyes. That look, that hope had made him fall in love with her, made him believe anything was possible. He shut his eyes against the feeling stirring in his breast. “Ye can’t truly think I believe inlove, do ye?”
She reached out a hand, laying it on his arm. He couldn’t feel it, but light flared where their shadows touched, glowed. “You did once—an Englishman’s daughter and a Scot—who would have imagined it in those terrible times? It was almost impossible.”
“Itwasimpossible.”
She laughed, and the sound echoed through the tower, startling a bird to flight. It flapped into the night with a frightened cry. Georgiana ignored it. “It was only impossible for them, not for us. I doubt we’d be here now, together in this place again, if our love had died too.”
No, his love for her had never died. Not even here, on the other side of death. He loved her still, yet what point was there in that? Was it to be an eternity of pain instead of a mere lifetime? “What has any of this to do with Alec?” he demanded. Was it his imagination, or could he smell her perfume?
“My granddaughter’s name is Caroline.” Her voice was soft, fond, gentle.
“Caroline? You want to match her to my grandson? How can you be sure they’d even suit? Wouldn’t the current Earl of Somerson object to a match with a penniless Scots laird o’ nothing?”
“Leave him to me. We need only bring my Caroline and your Alec together, remind them, perhaps, of—” She cast a meaningful look at their trysting place.
“Has she any money?” he asked ruthlessly, trying to ignore the tender memory. “He needs to marry a lass with a bloody fortune if he’s to save this place!”
She dismissed his concern with a wave of her hand. “She has a respectable dowry, of course, but that hardly matters. They’ll find a way, but not because of money—love, Angus, love.” The sound of the word swirled in the air around him. It softened his heart.
“I’m not against trying,gràdhach, but we can’t force them to fall in love, or be sure it’ll last.”
She smiled sweetly and sighed, and the white heather growing under the walls shivered restively. “ ’Tis almost summer, Angus. Remember how easy it was to be in love in the summer? All we need do is bring them here. The rest will take care of itself.”
Angus frowned, still dubious that anything to do with love or marriage could ever be that simple.
Beyond the sanctuary of the tower, belligerent clouds covered the moon, and thunder muttered a dark warning.
A storm was about to descend on the peaceful valley of Glenlorne.
CHAPTERONE
“I’ll have your decision now, if you please.”
Lady Caroline Forrester stared at the carpet in her half brother’s study. It was like everything else in his London mansion—expensive, elegant, and chosen solely to proclaim his consequence as the Earl of Somerson. She fixed her eyes on the blue swirls and arabesques knotted into the rug and wondered what distant land it came from, and if she could go there herself rather than make the choice Somerson demanded.
“Come now,” he said impatiently. “You have two suitors to choose from. Viscount Speed has two thousand pounds a year, and will inherit his father’s earldom.”
“In Ireland,” Caroline whispered under her breath. Speed also had oily, perpetually damp skin and a lisp, and was only interested in her because her dowry would make him rich. At least for a short while, until he spent her money as he’d spent his own fortune on mistresses, whist, and horses.
“And Lord Mandeville has a fine estate on the border with Wales. His mother lives there, so she would be company for you.”
Mandeville spent no time at all at his country estate for that exact reason. Caroline had been in London only a month, but she’d heard the gossip. Lady Mandeville went through highborn companions the way Charlotte—Somerson’s countess—devoured cream cakes at tea. Lady Mandeville was famous for her bad temper, her sharp tongue, and her dogs. She raised dozens, perhaps even hundreds, of yappy, snappy, unpleasant little creatures that behaved just like their mistress, if the whispered stories were to be believed. The lady unfortunate enough to become Lord Mandeville’s wife would serve as the old lady’s companion until one of them died, with no possibility of quitting the post to take a more pleasant job.
“So which gentleman will you have?” Somerson demanded, pacing the room, his posture stiff, his hands clasped behind his back, his face sober. Caroline had laughed when he’d first told her the two men had offered for her hand. But it wasn’t a joke. Her half brother truly expected her to pick one of the odious suitors he’d selected for her and tie herself to that man for life. He looked down his hooked nose at her, a trait inherited from their father, along with his pale, bulging eyes. Caroline resembled her mother, the late earl’s second wife, which was probably why Somerson couldn’t stand the sight of her. As a young man he’d objected to his father’s new bride most strenuously, because she was too young, too pretty, and the daughter of a mere baronet without fortune or high connections. He’d even objected to the new countess’s red hair. Caroline raised a hand to smooth a wayward russet curl behind her ear. Speed had red hair—orange, really—and spindly pinkish eyelashes.
Caroline thought of her niece Lottie, who was upstairs having her wedding dress fitted, arguing with her mother over what shade of ribbon would best suit the flowers in the bouquet. She was marrying William Rutherford, Viscount Mears—Caroline’sWilliam, the man she’d known all her life, the eldest son and heir of the Earl of Halliwell, a neighbor and dear friend of her parents. It had always been expected she’d wed one of Halliwell’s sons, but Sinjon, the earl’s younger son, had left home to join the army and go to war rather than propose to Caroline. And now William, who even Caroline thought would make an offer for her hand, had instead chosen Lottie’s hand. Caroline shut her eyes. It was beginning to feel like a curse. Not that it mattered now. William had made his choice. Still, a wedding should be a happy thing, the bride as joyful as Lottie, the future ripe with the possibilities of love and happiness.
Caroline didn’t evenlikeher suitors—well, they weren’t reallyhersuitors—they were courting her dowry, and a connection to Somerson. They needed her money, but they didn’t need her.
“Is it truly such a difficult choice? You are twenty-two years old. Time is of the essence.” Somerson said coldly. “Surely one gentleman stands out in your esteem. Do you find Speed handsomer, or perhaps Mandeville’s conversation is more enjoyable?”
No and no!
She looked up at her half brother, a man twenty-four years her senior, and one of the most powerful earls in the realm, ready to plead her case, but saw at once that was pointless. He’d married the daughter of an equally powerful earl, had nine children, and seemed happy enough with his wife, though Charlotte was a virago, a gossip, and a glutton. She weighed eighteen stone, and was never without a plate of sweetmeats close to hand.
Speed was the male version of Charlotte. Somerson was just like Mandeville, obsessed with his own importance.
No, there would be no point in arguing, or refusing. Somerson had decided, even if she had not, could not. Caroline’s stomach turned over, and she closed her mouth. Her half brother’s face was hard, and without the slightest bit of sympathy. She was simply a matter he wanted settled as quickly and quietly as possible. Caroline was an unwanted burden now her mother was dead. She knew he’d choose for her if she refused to do so, and it was impossible to say which gentleman would be worse. She shifted her feet, which made him stop pacing to regard her like a bird of prey.
