Chapter Two
Bryson tried not to stare at Miss Ramsay, but he couldn’t tear his gaze away. The sway of her hips wasn’t what transfixed him—though his cock pulsed at the hint of round buttocks beneath her dress. Nae, it was simply that she walked away. What if he didn’t see her again? What if she left town? He groaned inwardly. He was acting like a fool.
What did it matter if she left town? He could follow her anywhere.
Stirling clapped him on the back. “Shall we go?”
Bryson broke from the spell. “Of course.”
Stirling turned. Bryson force himself to follow.
“I hope to finish our business today,” Stirling said. “Chastity plans for us to leave Inverness later tomorrow after Mrs. Stone’s luncheon. I have many preparations today in order to be able to leave on time.”
“Leave?” Bryson looked at him in surprise. “Where are you going?” The words left his mouth before he realized how presumptuous the question sounded.
Stirling flashed white teeth. “Chastity wishes to visit our estate near Lossiemouth.”
Bryson’s heart stuttered. “Will Miss Ramsay accompany you?”
They broke from the trees and Bryson’s horse came into view, one among several clustered about the tying posts.
“Perhaps,” Stirling replied. “She received an invitation to the Colonies, where she has family.”
“The Colonies?” Bryson blurted. “She said she came from Skye.”
“Aye, but she wishes to visit the Colonies.”
“That is a long way for a young woman to travel alone.”
“I doubt she will be alone.” Stirling leaned closer and said in confidential tones, “I doubt she will go at all.”
Relief flooded Bryson.
“Several young bucks are pursuing her. I suspect one of them will capture her heart.”
Bryson halted. “The devil, you say? Surely, she’s not considering their suits?”
“Why ever not?” Stirling asked. “They are respectable young men. Well, one is a tad bit older, but he is a viscount, so that is a strong incentive. Her family would be delighted to have her become a viscountess.”
Bryson’s heart raced. Which viscount sought a wife? Horror struck. “Viscount Hensley?” He narrowed his eyes on Stirling. “You cannot possibly be considering his suit.”
Stirling laughed. “It is not up to me, lad. She and her aunt will make the decision.”
“I am no fool, Stirling. Your word carries weight. They will, no doubt, heed any advice you offer.”
“Who am I to interfere in her affairs?”
“You are Sir Stirling James, Marquess of Roxburgh, future Duke of Roxburgh.”
Sterling scowled. “Christ, man, you make me sound like the Messiah.”
“In this case, you are. You have it within your power to save her from a life of drudgery as Hensley’s wife.”
“I wouldn’t call it a life of drudgery,” Stirling mused. “Her circumstances would be much improved.”
A horrifying thought struck. “By God, you facilitated the match.”
Stirling shook his head. “As I said, I hold no sway in the matter.”
Bryson worked his hands into fists at his sides. “Encouraged then. I have heard—bloody hell, all of Inverness has heard, and probably half of Scotland, too—how the Marriage Maker makes matches.”
Starling laughed again. “You credit me with far too much influence. I have, on occasion, made introductions. That is all.”
Memory flashed of a wedding several months ago. He stared in horror. “You had a hand in Lady Buchman’s marriage.” He had wondered why the marchioness married so suddenly. Bryson’s gut twisted. He hadn’t given much credence to the rumors that no one in the Marriage Maker’s sights could escape. If the rumors were true, that meant the match between Miss Ramsay and the viscount—
Stirling’s low chuckle yanked Bryson from his thoughts. “I never took you for a man who listens to idle gossip.”
He didn’t. Only, what he’d heard about The Marriage Maker wasn’t idle gossip.
Later that evening, Bryson accepted the full brandy glass Sir Stirling offered him. “Third time’s a charm,” he murmured, and took a healthy drink.
“I beg your pardon?” Stirling sat in the chair to his left.
Bryson released a breath and kept his gaze on the fire burning in the hearth. “I was just thinking that perhaps this glass of brandy might take my mind off things.”
“Things?” Stirling sipped his brandy. “We had a successful day. Your father will be pleased.”
Bryson nodded. “He is as giddy as a schoolgirl at the prospect of the partnership. He considers shipping one small step away from privateering—which, as we all know, is simply government sanctioned pirating—and he finds privateering a romantic notion.”
Stirling laughed. “He isn’t completely wrong. Given Napoleon’s war, any ship on the open sea risks an encounter with pirates.”
“Which is why my mother will not allow him on that ship.”
Stirling lifted his glass in salute. “To Lady Newhall. Clearly a woman of sense and intelligence.”
Bryson always thought he favored his mother in that regard. Now… He finished the brandy.
“Another?” Stirling asked.
Bryson considered, then nodded. Stirling refilled his glass, again, and again…
At last, the clock struck ten, and Bryson stood. The room swayed slightly. “I believe it is time I take my leave.”
“So soon?” Stirling asked.
“My mother taught me never to overstay my welcome.”
Stirling’s eyes twinkled. “One must always listen to his mama.” He stood, and they started toward the door. “Will we see you at Lady Lexington’s party tonight?”
Bryson caught himself before he blurted the word ‘we,’ and said in a casual tone, “‘We’?”
“Chastity, Miss Ramsay and myself.”
No doubt, Miss Ramsay would wear a silk ball gown—turquoise with a low bodice, like the dress she’d worn that morning. They would dance. He would entice her to walk in the garden, pull her close and taste those full lips—and the sweet rosy peaks of her breasts. His cock began to harden.
“Will you be there?” Stirling asked.
“I hadn’t planned on attending.”
They reached the open door.
Bryson gave a slight bow. “Thank you for the brandy.” He spun and strode into the hallway.
Twenty minutes later, Bryson entered the darkened foyer of his townhouse, stripped off his great coat and hung it on the coat rack to the left of the door. He strode across the foyer to the staircase directly ahead and began to climb the stairs, mind fixed on the full decanter of whisky waiting on the table in his room.
By the time he reached his chambers, he’d half decided to wake his valet and have a hot bath drawn. That and the whisky were sure to put him to sleep. He slowed two steps into the room, his gaze on the hearth’s low fire. For an instant, he envisioned Miss Ramsay on the carpet in front of the hearth, red hair glistening in the firelight, arms wrapped tightly around him as he thrust inside her.
“There you are, darling,” purred a sultry female voice.
His senses swam. Could it be? But the answer came almost before he truly comprehended the question. Bryson spun to face the naked woman in his bed.
“How did you get in here, Kathryn?”
She stretched like a cat. “I have my ways. Now, come here. I haven’t seen you in two days. I have missed you terribly.”
Even without the benefit of liquor, he recognized the lie. Mrs. Kathryn Sands wasn’t capable of tender feelings, which was the very reason he’d taken her as his mistress—that, and her dedication to pleasing him. He made it a point of honor to return the devotion, along with a generous monthly allowance. There wasn’t the slightest danger she would fall in love with him, nor he with her. For her to be here, in his home, without invitation, was a breach of their understanding. She was up to something.
He scanned the room and caught sight of her clothes folded neatly on the chair near the window. Bryson crossed to the clothes, snatched them up, and threw them on the bed.
“Get dressed.”
“Darling—”
“Now,” he snapped.
Her eyes widened. “Bryce, what is amiss?”
“Pray, do not embarrass yourself further. Innocence does not become you.”
She sat upright. “Surely, you are not angry because I am here?”
“Either dress yourself, or I will wrap you in that sheet and put you in a cab.”
“You wouldn’t dare.”
He stared.
Her mouth thinned. She scooted off the bed and, for the first time in their relationship, she didn’t tease him when she dressed.