Page 16 of The Highlander’s Improper Wife

“What’s this?” Mabel said.

Caroline grasped the doorknob as she glanced over her shoulder to see Mabel reaching for the edge of the purple sash sticking out from beneath the pillow. Caroline sucked in breath. Mabel grasped the sash and pulled it and the dress free. The costume fell to full length in front of the housekeeper. She squinted at the dress, clearly confused, then understanding dawned on her features.

She swung her gaze onto Caroline. Caroline stood immobile. The jig was up. Uncle would—Uncle would what? Her fingers tightened on the door handle. Why hadn’t she seen it before? Her uncle had never cared for her fortune. He was wealthy and, unlike so many of his contemporaries, managed his wealth well.

He intended to buy his way into the most elite circles of London with her fortune. If the new Lord Blackhall called off the wedding because his bride-to-be had defiled herself by attending the masque, Uncle would be furious, but he would simply find another noble in need of money. The scandal wouldn’t be enough to stop a desperate suitor from taking her as wife, and would be forgotten inside a month—just enough time for a quick wedding and honeymoon.

Her heart twisted. A honeymoon without Taran. Was a life with his disdain better than life without him? A tremor rocked her belly. Was she willing to have him at any cost, even trickery? Another thought chilled her. Betrayal or no, Taran Roberston, Viscount of Blackhall, would satisfy family obligation and marry the woman wealthy enough to restore his family’s finances. His father, the old Earl, would see to that.

Caroline ran her gaze across the length of the costume, then looked at Mabel with a raised brow. “What does it look like?”

Mabel’s lips thinned. “Looks like a costume intended for a masque.”

Caroline shrugged. “‘Twas my last night of freedom. What did you expect?”

The housekeeper startled her with a loud snort. “You will not be fooling me or your uncle so easily.” She strode to the fireplace and threw the dress into the hearth.

Caroline lunged forward. “Mabel!” She reached the maid’s side and tried to snatch the dress from the blaze of blue flame.

Mabel seized her arm and yanked Caroline around to face her. “No one will believe you attended that masque any more than I do.”

Caroline twisted and looked at the dress. Marred beyond recognition. Another instant, and it would be gone altogether.

Mabel released her.

Caroline stared at her. “Why?”

The housekeeper started for the door. “Your bathwater is ready. The men will bring it up. I will return presently to help with your hair.”

Caroline jumped with the light click of the door shutting behind Mabel. She lowered herself onto the bench at the foot of the bed. What had just happened? Her beloved Mabel had just sealed her fate, that’s what had just happened. When the bath was filled, perhaps she could drown herself in the water.

Chapter Seven

Taran set his plate of eggs and sausage on the breakfast table, then seated himself opposite his father. “Never fear, Father, unlike John, I shall pay the mortgage on Strathmore and purchase the two Friesian stallions you have your eye on before I break my neck.”

His father stopped short in placing a napkin on his lap and met Taran’s gaze. “Do not speak ill of the dead.”

“Ah, yes.” Taran reached for the cup of coffee before him. “I will be sure to get my bride with an heir before my untimely death—cannot have her marrying some other hapless viscount before her property is firmly seated in the Blackhall family.” He lifted the coffee cup in salute and took a sip.

The earl laid his napkin over his lap. “Foul this up and I will be forced to marry the girl myself.”

Taran looked up from setting his cup on the table. “Why did you not marry her?”

“Her uncle felt she would look more favorably upon your suit.”

Taran watched his father pick up fork and knife and begin cutting the sausages on his plate. He hadn’t hesitated in his answer. The fact he was thirty years the girl’s senior meant nothing. She was a commodity, and John Blackhall, Earl of Blackhall, had the price her uncle sought—an earldom. Lady Caroline Whitmore would someday be the Countess of Blackhall. He pitied the girl, though wondered if his brother John would have been any better to her than their father.

Taran picked up his fork. How much better a husband would he be? Today, their wedding day, he could think of nothing, save last night and the woman he’d bedded—no. Being bedded required a four-poster bed and a large feather mattress in front a crackling fire. He had fucked her, though not properly. The private admonition didn’t stop his cock from hardening at the memory of how she’d cried out when he’d entered her.

The vixen was made for a man’s touch, and touch her again he would. Once the honeymoon was over, he would find her. Surely by then she would be married and have fulfilled her duty to her husband. Tension tightened his gut. She belonged to another man.

No, she was to wed another man. She belonged to him.

The door to the breakfast room opened, and William entered. “My lord,” he nodded to the earl, then to Taran.

Taran pointed to the seat to his right with his knife. “Sit. Have some breakfast.”

The viscount nodded towards a servant standing near the sideboard as he lowered himself into the chair. “Coffee, if you please.” William looked at Taran and grimaced. “How in God’s name can you eat? You are to wed in two hours, and the breakfast to follow is sure to be a feast. Lady Caroline’s housekeeper is rumored to be a cook fit for a king.” William added cream to his coffee. “Where did you get off to last night?”