LITMIR.BIZ

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had been Robert’s final undoing. He wanted to know if it felt as sensual between his fingers as it looked. Lady Lucy also had a heart-shaped face and rosy red lips, porcelain skin and endearing freckles. Robert wanted to know how those lips tasted and how far down those freckles went.

      Lucy was perfection. Everyone said so. She was a perfect daughter, a perfect lady and she would one day make a perfect wife. Robert had heard that she had been betrothed straight from the schoolroom to some ancient nobleman who had keeled over before they wed. Since then Lady Lucy had rejected all offers because apparently no one could live up to the perfection of her fiancé. Robert found that odd, but there was no accounting for taste.

      He stole another look at Lady Lucy’s perfect profile. It was a great pity that he could not make her an offer, but he was completely hamstrung by the terms of his inheritance. Dulcibella Brodrie was one of the few women, if not the only woman, who fit his criteria.

      He realized that he was still staring at Lucy. He was not much of a gentleman, but he did know that it was bad form on his wedding day to stare at a lady who was not his bride.

      “Eyes front, Methven,” barked his grandmother in the tones of a parade ground sergeant major. The Dowager Marchioness of Methven sat alone in the front pew, a small stately figure in red silk and diamonds. When his grandfather had cut him off with no word, she had been the only member of Robert’s family to keep the faith with him during his time abroad. She had done it in defiance of her husband and she had sent his cousin Jack to him in Canada when the young man had wanted to see something of the world. Robert adored her, though he would never tell her as much. The two of them, Jack and his grandmother, were all the family he had left.

      The door of the church crashed open. The organ swelled into “The Arrival of the Queen of Sheba.” Robert could sense the minister’s relief. There was an anticipatory creak and shuffle as the congregation craned their necks for their first glimpse of the bride.

      The music stuttered to a halt. Lord Brodrie, Dulcibella’s father, was striding down the aisle. Alone. There was no bride on his arm.

      Robert had previously observed that Lord Brodrie was a man in an almost constant state of anger, and his rage was quite apparent now. His face was bright red with fury, his white hair stood up in livid spikes and his blue eyes flashed with ire. In his hand he was brandishing several sheets of paper. One of them fluttered to the floor at Robert’s feet.

      “She’s run off!” Brodrie announced.

      “Congratulations on your perspicacity, Jack,” Robert murmured.

      The shock that had held the congregation mute splintered into a riot of sound. Everyone seemed to be talking at once, gesticulating, turning to his or her neighbor to dissect the scandalous news.

      Robert bent to retrieve the page. It was not, as he had first imagined, a letter of explanation or even an apology. It was part of a love letter.

      “I can bear it no longer. I am tormented night and day. I cannot speak. I cannot eat. The thought of you in another man’s arms, in another man’s bed, is intolerable to me. The thought of Methven making love to you when you are mine... You are the very breath of life to me! Come away with me before it is too late....”

      There was a great deal more in the same vein, but Robert skipped over it. He had read quite enough for it to turn his stomach. It seemed, however, that Dulcibella had liked that sort of thing given that the letter writer had persuaded her to elope.

      “Who wrote this stuff?” Jack asked. He was trying to read over Robert’s shoulder.

      “It’s signed Lachlan,” Robert said.

      “That must be Lachlan MacMorlan,” Jack said, squinting at the signature. “He was completely besotted with Miss Brodrie. I didn’t think he would do anything about it, though. Thought he was too lazy.”

      “I’ll string his guts from the castle battlements,” Brodrie said violently. His face was a mottled red and white now. He looked as though he was about to burst a blood vessel. He was shaking his fist, in which he clutched several more handwritten sheets. “Debauching my daughter with romantic poetry!” he roared. “The craven coward! If he wanted her, why could he not fight for her like a man?”

      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?”

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