How to Marry a Highlander

“My lord,” Tobias said, “I will return momentarily.”

Lord Eads nodded. Tobias offered his arm to Una and went out.

“Your sisters gave you away, you know,” Teresa said, turning to the earl. “If you were trying to escape me by moving across town, you clearly do not know how much gossip is being bandied about concerning you and your sisters. I heard about this”—she gestured to the hotel—“before breakfast.” Invention.

But it was best to show a powerful offense.

“Blast it, woman. Ye said to move outta the flat, so I moved them.”

He had followed her advice. “I meant into a house, of course.”

“Managing female.”

“We made a deal, my lord.”

“I’m weel aware o’ that.”

“Why didn’t you send me a note telling me of your new direction?”

“Do ye be wanting a man to be sending ye private messages at yer friend’s house nou?”

“You could have disguised it as a posy.”

“I’m no courting ye, Miss Finch-Freeworth.”

True. It was rather the opposite. She could not deny that she liked the feeling of power it gave her to command a great big titled nobleman to do as she wished. At home her parents never paid her wishes any heed. But her dreams of being swept off her feet by a man had involved him doing the sweeping, not her.

That was childish, she supposed. This was real. Her future depended upon it.

“I will accomplish what I have promised.” She said it as much to convince herself as him.

“We’ll see.”

“Why did you say you did not remember seeing me at that ball last year when in fact you did?”

He said nothing for a moment, then: “Guidday, miss.” He bowed.

“Good day, my lord.”

She left. She had a month. Twenty-nine days now, to be precise. It wouldn’t do to badger him unnecessarily. Even Tobias, a gem of a man, didn’t like badgering. She had plenty of time to come to understand the man she was courting, and perhaps even to secure husbands for one or two of his sisters before someone in society discovered her program and she was cut from every drawing room in London.

Now, however, she had no time for pessimistic musings. She must outfit a bevy of bonnie lasses.

Duncan watched her brother hand her into the cab. As she stepped up, her cloak tugged tight against her full, round behind and Duncan’s cravat felt two sizes too tight.

He should not be allowing this. Two days earlier he should have told her to leave him be in no uncertain terms, then he should have said nothing to Una.

But he’d been a bit outta his mind at the time.

She had come to him.

It wasn’t to be believed. He’d thought about her often in the past eighteen months while he’d been trying to make something of the disaster his father left of the estate. He’d not been able to forget her. Only twice in his life had the mere sight of a woman across a room spun his world upside down.

The first time that happened, his fragile Marie paid for it with her life and the life of their wee bairn. The doctor said it’d been the babe’s size—big like his father—too big for his dainty mother to bring forth. Even seven years later, the dark hollowness that had grown inside him from the day he’d held her breathless body in his arms and knew he’d killed her still clung to him. He’d not curse another woman like that. Miss Teresa Finch-Freeworth with her outrageous propositions and warm, vibrant smile deserved better.

He scowled. He’d enough of managing females now, anyway. Seven of them.

Seven husbands for seven brides . . .

She meant to go through with it. If she did, he’d be honor bound to kiss her, touch her, and make love to her. Then to wed her.

He couldn’t allow it. He’d not use a woman like that for any reason, not when he didn’t intend to marry her. But she was as determined as she was bonnie. He’d have to deter her from pursuing her program.

Finch-Freeworth closed the carriage door and with a firm stride returned to him.

“My lord, your sisters seem like gentlewomen and I don’t mind my sister going about town with them. But I’ll know what intentions you have toward her or I’ll make an end to their acquaintance this instant.”

Duncan liked his directness. “I’ve no intentions toward yer sister.”

“She said that. But she’s prepared to go to a great deal of trouble on your behalf. If she succeeds—”

“She willna.” He’d make certain of it. He knew a few places in town where bachelors were in short supply. He’d fill the month with visits to every one of them.

“Probably, but she’s a good-hearted girl and I won’t stand for her being hurt. Or worse.” He stood in a fighting stance now. Clearly he had soldiering in his past. “Are you a man of good character where women are concerned?”

“If ye care to learn o’ ma character, sir, ye’d best be inquiring o’ Yale. He’ll tell ye all ye need.”

There. He’d done it. Wyn Yale—damn his hide—would tell Finch-

Freeworth the truth, and they’d cut the connection. Then the temptation to proceed with her as he’d done the last time a woman’s smile made his heart stop would be gone.

“I’ll do that.” With a bow, Finch-Freeworth departed.

Sorcha appeared beside Duncan. “Who was that?”

“Her brither.”

“Hm. She’s resolved, then.”

“Aye.”

“No as resolved as I am to make something o’ that blast south burn.

Duncan, ye’ve got to allou me to draw funds from the bank to—”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because there no be funds in the bank to be drawn.”

“There must be. Yer hiring four chambers in this hotel an breakfast, lunch, tea, an dinner every day.”

“I’ve no paid a penny for those.” He’d called in an old debt from the hotelier, a man for whom he’d done several jobs the likes of which his sisters would never imagine.

“But, what—”

“Dinna ask, Sorcha.” He set a hard gaze on her. “I’ve told ye afore: Ye dinna want to ken.”

She nodded briskly, but her brow was tight. Along with Una she was the best of the lot. While he’d worked for Myles here in town to earn money to send home, for five years she’d kept the estate running with that money. Her competence in managing the land was all that had stood between his people and starvation.

“I’ve so many ideas, Duncan, but I need capital to pay for them. I’m that frustrated. If I could make a wee improvement here or there, I could do so much.” She was silent a moment. “Ye’ve got to wed an heiress. ’Tis the anly way.”

He stared out the open door. “I canna.”

“Stubborn ox. Too guid for a rich tradesman’s daughter?”

He allowed himself a smile he did not feel. “Aye. Something like that.”

She let that sit for a moment. Then: “Yer lying to me. Una told me the truth o’ it.”

Una was too perceptive. She understood why he refused to wed again.

“Sorcha, ye’ve got to marry.”

“Duncan—”

“I’ll no hear otherwise. Chuise a man. Any man that can give ye a bairn. A widower, if ye wish: a man that’s already proved he can father sons. Bring him afore me an I’ll see it done to yer liking.” By ancient right the Eads earldom allowed a woman to inherit and pass the title to her child. No lord of Eads had ever failed to produce heirs, but there was a first for everything.

Beneath the cap of smooth black hair tied tight at the nape of her neck, Sorcha’s eyes flashed like a brewing storm. “Ye’ll have to tie me up an drag me to the altar.” There was no childish defiance in her face, only cool, clean determination—the other side of the coin from the vibrant, fiery-haired woman who’d stood before him quivering yet insisting he wed her.