Secrets to Seducing a Scot

TWENTY-TWO

The morning room glowed with the light of a rare sunny day. The cerulean wallpaper reflected the color of the cloudless sky, and sunbeams fell upon the landscape paintings hanging on the walls.

Zoe sat on a settee in her pretty pink frock. Promenading across the squares of light cast upon the rug from the windows was her French master, Monsieur Leveque.

Or as Zoe liked to call him when she fantasized about their wedding, Luc.

Monsieur Leveque—Luc—was reading a passage from Molière’s L’École des Femmes, a comic play that clearly brought him a great deal of pleasure. He laughed as he conveyed the madcap machinations of Arnolphe, a man in his forties, in trying to marry a girl of seventeen because he desired, above all, a virtuous wife. Luc acted out each part, and Zoe was having a great deal of fun watching him.

He was, in fact, a good actor, and his fresh masculine beauty would be welcome on any stage. He wore his hair in the style of the day, his mahogany curls feathering forward around his face. His tan tailcoat hugged his slender frame, and his white cravat was modestly arranged under his cleft chin. His eyes were the same emerald green as Mr. Slayter’s, though not nearly as fierce. In fact, they were gentle, playful eyes, and when they looked at her, her heart skipped a beat.

Luc had the pale, smooth skin common to French people, with generous lips and an aquiline nose. He looked younger than his twenty-three years, but it didn’t matter to Zoe how old he was. She wanted to marry him.

It was a blessing that her governess, Miss Tracey Archibald, did not speak French. Even though she was always present when Luc gave her lessons, she could not understand a word they said. It allowed Zoe and Luc to have the most delightful conversations. Luc spoke to her not as if she were a child, but as a woman, and she was immensely grateful to him for it. He told her all about his fruitless search for a wife—in French, of course—and Zoe dreamed of becoming that woman for him. She even practiced writing her married name … Zoe Leveque. She signed it with such a lovely flourish, she hoped it would one day become her own.

It didn’t matter that he had made no overtures … yet. She understood that he was trying to establish himself as a dramatist. He loved the theater, and—being equally proficient in English and in French—he dreamed of seeing one of his plays produced in either language. He spoke often of his literary models, William Shakespeare and Pierre Beaumarchais, and he dreamed of being as famous as they.

Zoe was counting down the days until his birthday. She had been feverishly embroidering a sweetheart pillow, and she couldn’t wait to give it to him. It was fate that their birthdays fell in the same month. He would turn twenty-four on the first of September, and two weeks later she would turn fifteen. Past the age of consent.

She clapped as he came to the end of the first act. “Bravo, Monsieur Leveque. Très génial.”

“Merci bien,” he replied, effecting a curt bow and smiling sheepishly at her. “Avez-vous tout compris?”

“Parfaitement. Vous avez donné une exécution magnifique.”

There it was again, that fresh, honest smile that made her feel as if she were the only one in the world he would share it with. Please, Luc, just one kiss! I will be yours forever! His lovely eyes danced across her face, with those long lashes that were too beautiful to belong to a grown man. Bashfully, she smiled, her breathing suspended in expectation of a look, a whisper, a peck—anything that would tell her that he loved her as much as she him.

Suddenly, a rap at the front door echoed across the entrance hall, turning Luc’s head. Zut! Zoe grumbled to herself. A pox on whoever it was for breaking this spell!

“Allow me,” he said to Miss Archibald, who sat nearest the door. Luc rose and went to answer it.

Zoe pouted until Luc escorted the visitor to the morning room.

“Monsieur … eu … Weston,” Luc began, his French accent lifting her spirits, “may I prezent La-dee Zoe, and her governess, Miss Arsh-ee-ball. Make yourself comfortab’. I will return with Monsieur Slayter.”

Zoe curtsied before the guest. Mr. Weston was a handsome man, with a bright sparkle in his brown eyes. His sandy hair was lovely, and his finely tailored navy-colored coat exuded a fragrance of sandalwood.

“Good morning, ladies. Please forgive my unexpected visit.”

“Mr. Weston,” said Zoe, “won’t you sit down?”

“Thank you, no. I’ve come all the way from London, and after four days in that wretched carriage, I’m quite relieved to be able to stretch my legs.”

“We have some guests with us from London. Ambassador Marsh and his daughter, Serena. Do you know them?”

Mr. Weston smiled. “I have the honor of knowing them both. I know Miss Marsh quite well, in fact. I was hoping to be able to see her. Is she in?”

“That depends,” Malcolm’s voice rumbled from the doorway. “May I ask the nature of yer business?”

Mr. Weston turned to face him and extended his hand. “Yes. I’m her publisher, Archer Weston. I’ve had a letter from her. I hope I didn’t arrive at an inopportune time.”

“Archer?” Serena’s voice carried from down the hall. In a moment she shouldered past Malcolm. “Oh, Archer, I’m so glad to see you!” Serena wrapped Archer in a firm embrace, and only Zoe seemed to notice the thunderous look that stormed over Malcolm’s face. “What brings you here?”

Archer smiled and pulled a lettersheet from his coat pocket. “Your crie de cœur. You sounded quite despondent. I came as soon as I could, firmly resolved to cheer you up. Here … I’ve brought you a little gift.” Archer handed her a parcel wrapped in brown paper.

Serena put a hand on his face. “What a dear man you are! Oh, I missed you so! I can’t tell you how much it’s gladdened my heart to see you. Why didn’t you tell me you were coming so I could have it to hope for? Archer, have you met Lady Zoe? This is her governess, Miss Archibald. And this is Malcolm Slayter—” Serena was startled by the look on Malcolm’s face. Though tightly leashed, his anger was palpable. “—my … protector.”

It hit her full force. To call him her protector now presumed a great deal. At that moment, it seemed as if it was she who needed protection from him. Her expressions of affection toward Archer had earned her a lightning bolt of jealousy from Malcolm.

“Protector, you say?” remarked Archer. “Has it come to that?”

Malcolm looked him up and down. “I’m afraid so. And before I can allow ye to converse with Miss Marsh, I must ask ye to submit to a private interview. If ye please, sir?”

He waved a stiff hand toward the library. For a moment Serena was afraid for Archer’s welfare.

“If you wish it.” Archer took some hesitant steps ahead of Malcolm, who closed the door behind them.

Serena mouthed a silent prayer. Foolish, foolish girl! In light of her and Malcolm’s growing fondness, she had been too effusive with Archer. She had to tread more carefully.

“Zoe, would you mind continuing your French lessons in your father’s study? I’d be very grateful.”

“Who is that man, Serena? Is Mr. Weston your suitor?”

“In a manner of speaking.”

“But I thought you said that you and Mr. Slayter were—”

Serena interrupted her. “If you leave right now, I promise to tell you everything.”

Zoe smiled. “He must be quite special to perturb you so. You look like the cat that swallowed the canary.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. I’m just happy to see an old friend.”

“Papa used to tell me that a guilty conscience needs no accuser. And you, Serena, are standing amid a cloud of yellow feathers.”

Serena pursed her lips and whispered a warning. “Go on, you insolent brat, or I’ll tell Monsieur Leveque that you were the one who stole his gloves. I wonder what he would think of you if he knew you slept with them under your pillow.”

“Very well, I’m going. But I want to hear more. Mr. Slayter looked as if he was fit to kill someone.”

“Leave it to me. I’ll get him to calm down.”

Zoe turned around in the doorway. “When you do, you must let the vicar know. It’ll be the first time we’ve had a miracle at Copperleaf.”

A miracle was indeed what she needed. Serena sat in the airy room, perspiration sheeting her brow. She’d had no intention of giving away her feelings for Archer, especially not in front of Malcolm. Malcolm had been kind to her, and their recent tryst was unforgettable. But she had been so long away from home, and Archer represented many aspects of the life she left in London. Perhaps she had been just a trifle too demonstrative. She waited for the door to the library to open, fidgeting as if she had a corset full of toast crumbs.

Finally, Archer emerged tugging on his coat. Annoyance marred his features.

“I say, what goes on here? I’ve just ridden six hundred miles to see you, and I’m greeted by a behemoth of a servant who paws at me searching for weapons that I don’t carry.”

“I’m sorry, Archer,” she said, with snap of her eyes to Malcolm. “Precautions are being taken.”

“Why, for heaven’s sake?”

“It’s a tangled story. I’ll ring for tea.”

Archer adjusted his cravat. “Well, does he have to be here? With us?”

Serena glanced at Malcolm. His carefully tethered anger was reaching its limit. She spoke in gentle tones.

“Malcolm, would you kindly wait outside?”

“I’m afraid I canna. Yer father is not here at the moment.”

“Archer is an old friend from London. I’d like to reacquaint myself with him and hear of home. It’s perfectly all right.”

“I can be assured of it if I remain here with ye.”

“It may be a tick or two south of proper, but there’s no need of you to serve as abigail. Archer is a perfect gentleman.”

His gaze slithered to her face. “My presence is compelled by duty. And I feel an obligation to remind ye that a lady such as yerself should not be permitted to be alone with a man.” His tone reeked of a hidden meaning, and she knew exactly what he was getting at.

Fury rose to her cheeks. “Mister Slayter,” she began in her most imperious tone, “I do not appreciate the insult to the propriety of either myself or Mr. Weston. Your presence is not required in this salon. You will wait outside until you are summoned.”

Her dismissive attitude seemed to have stung both his pride and his heart.

“For once, Miss Marsh, I am only too happy to comply.” He turned on his heel and slammed the door behind him.



That infernal woman!

Blood thundered in his ears as he stormed off to the solitude of the stables. The stable yard was silent except for the birds chirruping in the pear trees, but if his anger were a sound, it would shake the very hills.

Inside the stable, the pungent smell of animal assaulted his nose. He walked his horse, Old Man, out of the stall and tethered him in the stable yard.

By God, he had half a mind to quit this assignment, and let the devil take his own daughter back. He grabbed a boar’s-hair brush and dragged it through Old Man’s long grizzled mane.

He didn’t understand that exasperating creature Serena. They spent half the time in each other’s arms, and the other half at each other’s throats. Just when he thought she had come to really appreciate his devotion to her, she turned and embraced that … that … English fop!

The horse craned his neck in Malcolm’s direction and neighed in protest.

Malcolm stilled his brush. “Sorry, Old Man. Dinna mean to take it out on ye.”

A piece of straw crunched behind him. Instinctively, he turned in the direction of the sound, his hand ready to access any of the four weapons that he had at his disposal.

“Who did ye mean to take it oot on?”

It was Gabby Walker, the housekeeper.

Malcolm untensed. “Just bletherin’ to my horse.”

“Shouldna wonder why. He seems to have more sense than ye do.”

Malcolm’s eyebrows met as he looked down at the copper-headed woman. “Eh?”

Gabby advanced to the horse and caressed its neck. “The beastie forgives yer rough treatment because he knows ye mean him no harm. Ye would be wise to do as much with Miss Marsh.”

“How did ye—” Zoe must have told Gabby about Archer Weston’s arrival; little wonder, that. But how did she know—

Gabby put a hand on his arm. “Any woman who’s had a sweetheart can see the coddlin’ ye have for her. Biting and scratching is Scots folk’s wooing.”

Malcolm sighed in frustration as he leaned on Old Man. “I must’ve been mad to take up with a Sassenach wench.”

Gabby shrugged as she caressed the horse’s ears. “Thoroughbreds may be better than quarterhorses, but what’s the difference if ye’re going to ride them the same?”

Malcolm exhaled a confused breath. “There’s a limit to what I will take. As soon as that woman saw her rich London friend, she fell into his arms.”

“A wealthy man’s wooing need seldom be a long one.”

“It’s not his money she’ll be after. She’s got money of her own. It’s his … his … God knows what she sees in him!”

Gabby grunted in assent. “What does she see in ye, then?”

He turned the question over in his mind before his defenses shot up around him. “Whatever it was, she’ll see it no longer. I’m through trying to win her over.”

She cast him an amused look. “Is that what ye’ve been doing?” Gabby shook her head, the ginger curls bouncing against her cheek. “Ye’ve a strange idea of courtship, Mr. Slayter.”

Malcolm waved his arms, punctuating his words. “And what am I supposed to do? Quote yards and yards of romantic poetry? Sing her songs? Bring her flowers and sweets like a lovesick schoolboy?”

“Hardly that. A town lady like Miss Marsh has probably had her fill of flowers and sweets. If ye want to get on the right side of Miss Marsh, ye’ve got to show her how ye feel. Not in a way that any man can do, and certainly not in words.” Gabby picked a pear up off the ground.

“How do I do that?”

She cleaned the pear off with her apron before starting back for the house. “That’s for ye to figure oot. Try asking the horse.”



It was a royal mess.

After listening to Archer rant about being searched and interrogated upon arrival like a common criminal, Serena had to endure stories of how her audience had grown annoyed over her absence from the column these many weeks. Some ladies had even started writing letters about parties they’d been to in an attempt to replace Serena as the writer of her own column. Archer admitted he had seriously considered opening up the “Rage Page” for submissions, making Serena feel even more dejected. And when Archer tried to kiss her, it failed to give her the spark she had always felt with him, even when he announced his intention to speak to her father about pursuing a courtship. Instead, her mind wandered to a certain irate Scot, whom she thought was just outside the door but instead had disappeared altogether.

She finally left Archer in the hands of the housekeeper, who had preceded him up the stairs to show him his room. Her fight with Malcolm and her disenchantment with Archer made Serena feel stuck like an insect in amber, and she decided to go see the only man who ever gave her wise advice.

“Come in,” said Earlington from inside his bedroom.

Serena opened the door and witnessed her father swallowing the tonic meant to steady the beating of his heart. She bit her lip in consternation as he made a pinched face. “How you are feeling, Father?”

“Well, Serena, well. I can feel my heart grow stronger with each passing day. As long as I take my infusion of digitalis, I shall be fine. It’s only when I don’t take it that I’m in trouble.” An aftertaste made him grimace once more. “Ugh. The cinnamon water adds a taste, but it’s still as bitter as venom.”

“Will there come a day when you don’t have to take it anymore?”

He shrugged. “That’s for the doctor to say.” He patted a place on the bed beside him. “How are you, poppet? I haven’t seen you all day.”

She flounced on the bed beside him. “Father, I’d like to press a question to you, and I’d like your honest counsel. What would you say if I told you that I was beginning to feel a certain … tenderness … toward a gentleman?”

Earlington smiled widely. “This wouldn’t by any chance have to do with a certain visitor who’s just arrived ?”

Serena smiled sheepishly. “In part.”

He put a hand on her own. “I’ve always thought well of Archer Weston. He’s a decent chap, good mind … he’s not titled, but you know that I’ve never been an adherent to those sorts of outdated modalities. The Americans are forward-thinking in that respect. Not a lord or lady among them, and their matches are just fine.” He lowered his head to look up into her face. “That is who you meant, isn’t it?”

Serena shifted uncomfortably. “Yes. That is … no. Well, what do you think of Mr. Slayter?”

Earlington retracted his hand, the significance of which was not lost on Serena. “I like Mr. Slayter just fine. But isn’t he a bit too … rough around the edges for someone like you?”

She had opened the door to those doubts, and now they assaulted her on every side. “I suppose so. As far as appearances are concerned. But I do feel something for him.”

Earlington cocked his head. “I expect it’s gratitude—he did rescue you from a horrible situation—and he also protects you every day. But you need to remember, Serena, that it is his job. It is what he is being paid to do. Besides, he is a Scotsman, and …” His frown deepened. “I know he’s a good man—and he’s been helping me considerably in strategizing how to deal with Brandubh McCullough. But I’m not certain that he’s the type of man that I would want for you. I don’t mind that you enjoy a friendship with Mr. Slayter, but if you begin to lose your heart to him—”

A lengthy pause prompted her to speak. “Father, you left that sentence hanging in the air.”

“I know,” he replied with a futile shrug. “I can’t finish the sentiment. I have an entire slew of paternal platitudes, but leveling them at you would make me feel like a hypocrite. You see, poppet, Mrs. Walker and I have been enjoying a friendship as well.”

Serena shook her head in confusion. “Mrs. Walker, the housekeeper? The woman who barely talks except to speak in proverbs?”

Earlington grinned. “She’s a very wise woman. And I feel a certain tenderness for her, too.”

Serena felt similar reservations about her father falling for, of all things, a Scottish housekeeper. But since she’d met Malcolm, so many things had changed. “Does she make you happy?”

“Yes, she does.” He stood and went to the window.

“I don’t know, poppet. Old age encroaches upon you swiftly. It’s rather like the first day of snow. One day you wake up, and everything is white. And then your health starts to go, and then your profession, and you start to feel about as useless as rain on the ocean.” Earlington turned to face her. “This simple, beautiful woman came to me and told me to doubt my doubts and believe my beliefs. Somehow, she reminded me that who I was is who I still am. And that has made all the difference to me.”

Serena bowed her head. It was the opposite with her. Malcolm had made her see that who she was is not who she is now—and she quite liked it that way. But Archer had brought with him a memory of the familiar Serena, and she put on that persona like a comfortable gown, even though it felt out of fashion. And there was that fear, too, of her heart being wounded all over again. She could not let Malcolm—or any man—do that to her.

Earlington approached her. “And what of the genteel ruffian, Malcolm Slayter? Does he make you happy?”

“He did. But now, I don’t know.”

“Has the relationship turned sour?”

“No, it started sour. Now it’s just turned into an unmitigated shambles.” Serena stood up and hugged her father. “Why does love have to hurt so?”

“Oh, poppet. Love doesn’t hurt. People hurt. The love we bear them doesn’t change.”

Serena grinned jadedly. “Is that the wisdom of the ancients?”

He shrugged. “It’s the best I can do. I’m not as good at it as Gabby is.”