Chapter 2
Lady Eleanor Paisley had spent a good deal of her life on her knees. It was true that, if she thought very hard, concentrated with every bit of her will, she could remember a different time, a different life. She could recall that, as a very small girl, laughter had been a common occurrence and her days had been filled with the warm glow of her mother and father’s love.
And there had been that time, that brief, glorious time when she had been loved by a handsome young captain.
She clung to those memories like a man thrown overboard clings to a rope. That and her work with people in greater pain than she were the only things which made it possible for her to face day after day.
She could still recall the hour the warmth had first vanished from her life. One very cold winter night, tucked deep in the northernmost Highlands in a small manor house, her life had changed forever when both of her parents had succumbed to a vicious illness whilst staying in Edinburgh.
The fatal words had come via coach that Eleanor was now an orphan.
With little explanation, her tearful nanny had hugged her close, then packed her things. Still, in her dreams, she could recall being bundled up and put into a carriage with a crest of a lance upon it. The manor house and her nanny, waving wildly, had faded into the snow and screeching December wind. The vehicle whisked her across Scotland to the mountainous western Highlands to her guardian, the Duke of Ayr.
That Christmas had been the cruelest, quietest, most terrible she had ever known. She’d eaten her Christmas dinner alone, then had been rather unceremonious put into a small, frigid bed, clinging the doll her mother and father had given her the previous year to her small chest.
It had been the beginning of a long, cold road.
Once, she’d thought she might be free. It had come to nothing. Worse than nothing, for the death of the man she loved had taken a piece of her heart with him.
But much to everyone’s surprise, her freedom had come in the most shocking of ways.
Her guardian had fallen from the cliffs last year. Few had mourned his passing. Some had even rejoiced.
Climbing down the steep ben and walking over the stone bridge that led to the castle bailey, she glanced up to the wicked ridge in the mountains where her guardian had met his fast end.
She shook the thought away and tugged her thick, gray, wool cloak tighter about her frame. She would not allow thoughts of that old man to interfere with the accomplishment she’d felt helping Nancy Monroe take care of her new baby.
That small, glorious baby was thriving after it had suffered a very dangerous bout with a frightening lung complaint. She, herself, had sent for the wise, old woman, Graine MacBride who lived down the glen. The old woman was a far better choice than the doctor who ventured begrudgingly up from Fort William on occasion.
A poultice of mustard and boiled eucalyptus leaves had done the trick and the baby had begun to breathe easily. Nancy had cried tears of relief.
Though she was tired, Eleanor felt more untold joy at the happy outcome than she had in a year.
Smiling at the memory of the wee babe in her mother’s arms, the two safe and sound, were enough. More than enough.
As she approached the castle’s arched entry, she spotted a lacquered coach with a coat of arms marked with three red hearts. Her step slowed. She knew it. The lord had visited her some months ago to ascertain her wellbeing. After all, she was now a ward of the crown, of all things.
Still, she did not like visitors who came without appointments. She never had. Not since that terrible winter night. Eleanor drew in a deep breath, shaking off the unpleasant feeling that briefly shadowed her happiness. No. Long ago, she’d learned to surmount her feelings. If she had not, she’d never have gotten out of bed when James had died. Quickly, with a determined step, she headed up the stairs and into the great hall. She divested herself of her cloak and gloves.
Murdoch gave her a quick, conspiratorial glance then looked to the library. She nodded her understanding. The butler, who had served for years despite the cruelty of their master, had been a great source kindness in her life. They had made Castle Ayr a place of some greatness and use, despite its master.
Smoothing her hands over her coiffure, she braced herself. Then, she strode into the cavernous room decked in tapestries as old as Robert the Bruce.
Lord Blakemore stood by the great fire, his hands to the high flames. The massive logs crackled, the only sound in the room that vied with the wind which whipped against the windows off the sea loch.
Despite the softness of her steps, he turned then bowed. “Lady Eleanor.”
“Lord Blakemore,” she greeted as she folded her hands calmly before her. She liked the mysterious lord who had come to the castle before. Few people of importance seemed to care about her wellbeing and she had appreciated that he had. It was no small journey, London to Castle Ayr.
“To what do I owe the honor of your esteemed visit?” she asked brightly. “Have you eaten?”
Blakemore smiled. He was a handsome man who could not be forty. And yet, despite his kind greeting, she felt that he was the most unknowable man she’d ever met. It was one of the things that intrigued her about him.
“I ate at the inn, Lady Eleanor, thank you.” He cocked his dark head to the side. “I must admit this is not a social visit.”
She laughed then, crossing to the huge fire. She lifted her hands to the delicious warmth wafting from the fire. She lingered beside him in comfortable affinity before she said, “That would be quite the effort, indeed. And you are an important man. I imagine what you have to say is of some import. Have they found a new duke?”
“Yes,” he said slowly, eyeing her.
“Oh, dear.” It was expected, but difficult to hear. She was unsure what would happen to her when the new duke came. Would she remain? Or would she be sent off, once again? She did not allow herself to worry overly. There was no point. “I suppose that means he shall be in residence soon. Did you wish me to make the castle ready?”
It would not take long. She was quite efficient and had already eradicated most of her guardian’s unpleasant presence.
“Indeed, that would be agreeable,” Lord Blakemore said. “But that is not the news I’ve come to impart. Or, that is only part of it.”
That gave her pause and she faced him fully. “Oh?”
He nodded then announced, “You are to make a great marriage.”
It was all she could do not to grab the mantel for support which seemed terribly dramatic. She was not prone to such things. So, instead, she lifted her chin.
“I am to marry?” she asked clearly.
Lord Blakemore inclined his head. “Yes.”
She knew the possibility that this day might come. One did not have a fortune or family name such as hers and expect to remain uncalled upon. So, she sighed, ever practical. Practicality was now the only thing that would see her through the turmoils of this life.
Clearing her throat, she ventured, “To whom, might I ask?”
“To Anthony Burke,” Blakemore replied with little emotion. “The next Duke of Ayr.”
She cringed as a wave of horror crashed through her. The one time she had met the man, the devastatingly handsome and notorious rake, she’d given him the cut direct.
The awfulness of that moment at the celebrated Talbot ball rushed in on her. She had stared at his impossibly handsome face, stunned, and then looked away quickly. He’d simply been too much. Too much male, too beautiful, too confident, too happy. . . Too appealing.
To her credit, she’d been in a rather bad way. It had not been a year since James had died, and the feeling Anthony Burke had evoked in her person had been most unwelcome. She’d never felt those strange sensations in her belly before and she’d squelched them. Immediately.
And then there had been the other problem.
She closed her eyes and swallowed.
Eleanor could not dance.
Not only could she not dance, a skill she’d never been permitted to learn, but the companion her guardian had assigned her after what he called the soldier debacle, had been a tyrannical goat of an old woman. Mrs. Sloane had been an old crone determined to keep her in line.
It had been with much relish that she had released the foul woman from her position after her guardian’s death. Since then, she’d gloried in her books, badly played music, and what simple pleasures she could find.
She shook her head, still recalling her mortification at her own rudeness.
But rakes such as Anthony Burke, fascinating as they were, were the very last sort of people she’d been allowed to consort with.
Now, she was to marry him?
She laughed. A rich, wild sound.
“Lady Eleanor?” inquired Blakemore softly.
She looked him squarely in the eye and said tightly, “I do not think we are compatible.”
If she was to marry, she preferred it to be someone. . . Completely unlike Anthony Burke. Someone who did not elicit feelings making her believe that a slow fire had been lit within her.
Blakemore’s brow quirked as he fixed an undoubtedly nonexistent fold in his perfectly tailored cuff. “Does that truly matter?”
Did it matter? Well, drat and blast. To the vast majority of the ton, of course it did not. It shouldn’t even matter to her, really. A marriage was a marriage was a marriage since she never intended to love her husband.
But she would have preferred that her husband create no feelings in her whatsoever.
Anthony Burke had created several. Then there was his reputation.
Was she truly to marry a handsome rakehell who likely never spent a moment out of a lady’s bed or a gambling hell?
As she stared at Blakemore’s serious visage, she realized that, yes, that was exactly what was expected.
“He will need a great deal of help,” Blakemore said simply. “You know all of the protocols and rules necessary for him to make a smooth transition.”
“I am not a governess” she protested, feeling panic boil up inside her.
A wry smile tilted Blakemore’s lips. “You underestimate your abilities. And I’m sure he will prove a willing and apt pupil. You might even enjoy teaching him.”
Enjoy it? She thought back to the devastatingly handsome man with a cheeky grin, who looked as if he’d never suffered a day in his life. Would she have to put up with such a frivolous person, who’d no doubt been spoiled every day of his life? Granted, being a bastard could not have been. . . Easy. But he was the bastard of a duke, a duke who showered him with attention and access to the most important people.
And his face had no doubt made it impossible for women to say no to him. Even she had been moved by it.
“But Anthony Burke?” she queried, still trying to wrap her thoughts about this prospect, still wondering why it had to be a handsome, charming young buck. She would have much preferred an older man who would pay her little attention. “He is a—”
“Bastard?” Blakemore asked with a touch of coldness.
She pressed her lips together, alarmed that he might think she could think such a thing. But then again, why else might she seem so reticent? “I was going to say a scandal and not just because of his bastardy.”
“He is. A bit of scandal, but no more so than many young men,” Blakemore confirmed without apology. “He’s also very well liked and more honorable than most men I know. We imagine he will be very useful in the lords.”
Honorable. That gave her pause. She doubted Blakemore would say such a thing unless he meant it.
She considered her prospects.
A political husband. She looked to the arched ceiling with its stones painted blue and interspersed with golden stars. She’d always loved the flying buttresses. There wasn’t a more fanciful room in the castle.
Did she dare believe Anthony Burke was interested in policies which might improve the lives of others? It seemed impossible.
Still, that would be very different than the old duke who did not seem to give one whit for his tenants or the people of his country.
Very well liked. She contemplated those words and felt a wave of apprehension. She’d never been liked in London. The few times she’d ventured into society, she’d been accepted and, of course, because of her wealth and station, respected. But she was not liked. At least, not since James had died.
She’d simply been unable to enjoy raucous events; not when she knew James should have been with her. Not when she knew she had foresworn love.
Was that why they had picked her? Because Tony was liked and she was efficient?
She nearly laughed. How demoralizing.
“I assure you, I am the last person that he likely wishes to wed.”
Blakemore’s brow’s rose. “Quite the contrary. He expressly wishes to marry you.”
“I beg your pardon?” she gasped. It couldn’t be possible. Not after the way she treated him.
“Yes, he’s most eager.” Blakemore stepped away from the fire. “When I last saw him, he even requested the date.”
Anthony Burke was the sort of man that women threw themselves at by the score. Everywhere he went, he was the darling of the room. He could have anyone.
Why in God’s name would he wish her as a wife when she had been so cold to him? When she was the antithesis of everything he seemingly admired in a lady. Where he was playful, she was serious. Where he was gregarious, she was perfunctory.
“We shall not like each other,” she said simply. It was the truth, after all. Her interests surely were not his and she barely knew how to play cards and could not dance. What on earth would they have in common?
But the marriage bed.
She blinked, recalling how strong he had been. How confident.
Quickly, she shook the traitorous thought from her mind.
She wasn’t interested in such things. Not anymore. Besides, kissing had never been particularly appealing. Despite her strange sensations when thinking of the young rake, she doubted they could amount to anything. Passion was for the pages of novels.
“This is an important marriage, Lady Eleanor,” Blakemore informed her, determined to make himself plain. “You, of course, do not have to marry him. But you would be throwing away a great deal if you did not.”
She groaned. It was true. She was no fool.
“I know how important your charitable work is,” Blakemore continued easily. “And if you married him, you could do so much more for the people here.”
That was a truth she could not ignore. Her work was her joy. And most of her work was within the lands of the Duke of Ayr. She had no affinity to the castle itself, though she’d put a great deal of work into it. It had been a place of great unhappiness. But the wild Highlands about it? She loved them with every part of her being.
Just to walk the hills made her heart sing. She knew every inch of them. Every nook, every crag, every ripping burn.
“Imagine what you could do as a duchess with a man as affable as Anthony Burke,” he tempted. “Imagine how he will persuade people to support your causes.”
“He doesna care about such things,” she scoffed. “He does naught but lark about gambling and drinking.”
Blakemore’s lips quirked. “Tony’s finer points are not often heralded. Did you know, he is also a war hero?”
A war hero?
She fought a flinch.
There was only one war hero that she cared about. And he was dead.
It was hard to credit it in any case. That boisterous man? Oh, he appeared strong enough to be a solider, towering above most men about him. Still, he looked as if he’d never done a day’s work in his life.
She sighed.
It didn’t truly matter in the end. A marriage to the next Duke of Ayr would be a coup for any woman. And she didn’t have to like her husband. Perhaps, it was even preferable since she never intended to love him. She’d make it plain they were to be distant. She would not risk fanning the odd flames he’d seemed to ignite in her. Desire really never amounted to much, in any case.
Still, it might have been nice not to dislike him. . .
“I. . . I will consider it,” she said carefully. “If he assures me personally that he will champion my work.”
Blakemore nodded. “That is reasonable.”
“I’m glad,” she drawled, allowing herself to look about the great hall, flummoxed by the afternoon’s turn of events.
She’d been a piece of baggage her whole life, shunted off where directed. And now, it seemed it was about to happen again. So, she had to make sure there would be some positive outcome from this.
Blakemore folded his strong hands behind his broad back. “Then you shall come to London with me and meet him.”
“London?” She thought of Nancy and her baby, wishing to oversee her care a little longer. “Could he not come here and see his new lands?”
“No,” Blakemore said with some apology. “The investiture will occur there and he cannot come up to Scotland at present.”
There it was again. A bit of baggage moved about the country at the behest of men. She’d grown accustomed to it but it was still tiresome that women had so little recourse in this world.
Why, even without a husband or a father, she still did not have independence. Young ladies were simply not to be trusted. It was a deuced nuisance.
Still, she paused. If she went to London, if she met Anthony Burke again, and he promised to support her in improvements on the duke’s lands. . . Perhaps marriage to him mightn’t be so very terrible.
She would gain a great deal of independence as a married woman, a duchess. The power she would wield would be irrefutable. Not that it mattered, but she would be the envy of every single young woman and their mama in Britain.
All across the country, ladies were, no doubt, desperately hoping to answer the call to be the next Duchess of Ayr.
Still, Anthony Burke.
Her stomach tightened at the very idea and not just because she had been so unkind to him. It seemed that everything came easily to the young man.
Even a dukedom.
He was a notorious hellion. What kind of a husband could he possibly make?
She forced herself to think slowly, reasonably, to quell the rioting emotions within her. It was just as she had trained herself to do ever since James’ death.
He would be a powerful husband. One who likely would not harbor much affection for her.
That was ideal, was it not?
And she was tired, so very tired, of having so little say in her own life. Even this castle was not hers. She had no home. No place to go when the new duke came to take up his seat. Perhaps, if she married him, she could not only be his duchess, but a lady with funds and influence to finally do as she had so wished for so long. And, given his habits, he would never fall in love with her. He was a man who loved women. Despite what some claimed, rakes didn’t change their stripes. And that. . . That would insure she kept the vow she’d made after James’ death.
“Well then, Lord Blakemore,” she said, with as much optimism about the odd proposal as she could. “When shall I meet him?”