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Chapter Ten

Parkhill Hall-Edinburgh

Late morning

22 March 1721

Relieved of her borrowed cloak and settled onto a plush brocade striped chaise in the green salon, Marjorie and Branwen on either side of her, Bethea looked to Camden.

Would he announce their news, or should she?

Keane paced back and forth, his hair unkempt and dark stubble covering his jaw. Face ruddy and black eyebrows slashed into a stern line, he seemed incapable of speech. Well, of polite speech, that was.

Wrath radiated off him in thick, tense waves, and every few steps, he fired Camden murderous glowers that would have smote a lesser man into cinders.

Marjorie observed her husband, a fretful frown puckering her forehead.

He knows. Keaneknows Camden and I are married.

Bethea narrowed her gaze and cut Camden a reproachful look. Skewing a rather starchy eyebrow, she mouthed, “Well?”

He cleared his throat and clasped his hands behind his back. “As I’ve already told my cousin, circumstances required Bethea and me to marry this morn.”

Branwen gasped, the color draining from her face as she grasped about clumsily, searching for Bethea’s hand to clutch in hers.

“Marry? You’re married?” Marjorie said, her shock apparent but subdued. She was never one to overreact without an explanation, but even she looked utterly confounded. “Please, do explain.”

Concern filling her brown eyes, she followed Keane’s rigidly controlled movements with her gaze.

“Aye, do.” Thunder reverberated in her husband’s voice, and lightning sparked in his eyes.

Bethea feared he was on the verge of apoplexy, and her mind raced for a way to diffuse the volatile tension, thick enough to slice with a saber.

“It began when I took Branwen to the ladies’ retirin’ room.” Bethea quickly recounted the events, only leaving out the kiss she and Camden had shared. Not only was that too private, but it was also sure to rile Keane further. And there’d be no annulment should that tidbit become public knowledge.

Standing before the fireplace, one hand on his hip and the other cradling his nape, Keane stared hard at her and then Camden. “God damn that bastard. I’ll strangle Montieth with my bare hands,” he bit out through clenched teeth.

“Keane,” Marjorie softly admonished, the understanding in her eyes softening her reproach. “The girls.”

Bethea and Branwen exchanged a knowing glance. They were hardly girls, and they’d heard much worse in the great hall, stable, and bailey.

Speaking of girls, however, where were Cora and Elana, Marjorie’s pixyish red-haired daughters? Probably sequestered in their chamber, lest things become heated between their beloved Uncle Camden and equally adored stepfather.

“Leannan.” Sweetheart. Keane heaved a weighty sigh, aggravation and frustration alternating across his countenance. “Even ye must concede this is a bloody mess. Surely everyone at the ball kens of Bethea’s disappearance.”

Bethea winced inwardly, a hint of despair cresting in her chest. She’d naively hoped the incident had been kept quiet. Or that only a select, critical few were aware she’d vanished.

“I canna be sure, of course,” Camden said. “But from my conversation with Etherin’ton, I’ve concluded Montieth intended to swoop in and play the hero by rescuin’ her from him.” His expression and voice turned flinty. “Then, the bugger intended to ruin her to force her to wed him.”

“As if I ever would.” Revulsion caused Bethea to shudder, and Marjorie patted her arm in commiseration. “I’d rather die than marry that doughy, putrid pizzle.”

“Pizzle?” Branwen asked, struggling, unsuccessfully, to subdue the twitching of her mouth.

Marjorie choked on a laugh and swiftly pretended to cough behind her hand.

Keane opened and closed his mouth, no doubt wondering how in the hell Bethea even knew the word, and likely praying she didn’t know its meaning.

She did, indeed.