Chapter Seven #2
“You hesitate,” Bray said.
“Why? Why me?” Alec demanded, suddenly angry. His whole life had changed in the past day.
Bray shrugged. “Why not? You’re a handsome young man with a title—and a castle,” he soothed. “Did I mention that Sophie comes with her mother’s jewelry? All of it, more diamonds and rubies and emeralds than any woman could wear in a lifetime.”
“She wouldn’t have cause to wear them at Glenlorne,” Alec muttered.
“No matter. Sophie will grow to love Scotland. I’m sure there’ll be no need at all for her to return to London.”
Warning bells clanged again. It was clear now that the Earl of Bray wished to be rid of his daughter.
He was all but selling the poor girl to a man he hoped would keep her in the farthest reaches of the kingdom, never to be seen again.
It obviously didn’t matter if Sophie was happy, or if Alec could make her so.
He felt pity for the girl, and wondered what she’d done to deserve such a fate.
Did she even know this was happening? It struck him like a bolt.
The letters.
If this had something to do with the letter that he’d dropped, the one Westlake said Bray had found, then Sophie’s fate was his fault. He felt his stomach rise uneasily.
“Think of the money, Glenlorne,” Bray urged.
Alec swallowed. Fifty thousand pounds meant no more lies, no more stealing or spying.
Instead, he could live a life of honor, wealth, and privilege.
It was tempting. He rose to his feet. “I’ll need to consider this more carefully.
I’m leaving for Scotland tomorrow. I’ll have my man of affairs contact you.
” Waters, wasn’t that the name on Devorguilla’s letter?
Bray’s hand on his arm stopped him. “Come now, Glenlorne. There are no banns required in Scotland. You could take her with you, marry her once you reach Scotland.”
Alec stared down at the blue veins under Bray’s knuckles, at the jeweled rings that adorned his hands.
No English father wanted his daughter marrying over the anvil.
It was unseemly and scandalous, even if the groom was an earl.
He thought fleetingly of the red-haired lass he’d helped on her way to just such a fate, felt guilt.
If he hadn’t dropped that letter, he would never have seen her on the street, and Bray would likely be in a far more elegant gentleman’s club, negotiating a far different match for Sophie.
He suddenly felt responsible for the unhappiness of both women—and for the misery of his half sisters and Devorguilla too.
“Perhaps a long betrothal, so we can get to know one another,” Alec hedged.
“When I return, we can arrange it. A year, shall we say?” He wondered where the lass he’d met in the street was now.
Married, he hoped, deliriously happy with her faithful, stalwart husband.
She was a brave wee thing. Love had made her willing to do anything for a chance at happiness.
She’d be the kind of wife who would stand by a man in his hour of need, love him always—if things went as she hoped, of course.
What kind of wife would pampered, petted Sophie make?
She’d make him rich.
“A year!” Bray scoffed. “You feel I’m being too hasty, do you?
Shall we make it sixty thousand pounds? Here’s what I’m willing to do.
Since you must leave at once for your estates—and I fully understand you must take up your duties at once—I’ll arrange for Sophie to travel to Scotland.
You can show her the glories of Glenlorne before the wedding. Would that do?”
“I’m not—” Alec began, but Bray rose to his feet, and held out his hand.
“She’ll be there within a fortnight. That will give you time to break the happy news of your impending nuptials to your kin—or is ‘clan’ the right word?”
“It was once an outlawed word, I believe, especially in England,” Alec said. Clans, the Gaelic tongue, the plaid, even bagpipes had been forbidden by the English Crown for decades after Culloden.
Bray chuckled. “His Highness plans to change all that. He adores Highland dress. Sir Walter Scott promised to find him a tailor who could make him a proper suit of Scottish garments, and bring a bagpiper to play for him.”
“If he can find one,” Alec muttered.
Bray ignored the quip. “I can see you are a patriot, a man of honor. Sophie prides herself on setting new trends, starting new fashions. The prince enjoys things Scottish, but it will take a female, a lady like Sophie to bring it into style. Imagine that if you will. Every Englishman will be tracing his Scottish roots, and Scotland will rise to glory once again—with pipes, plaids, and Gaelic.”
Alec swallowed a groan. English interest in Scotland had never, ever, boded well.
He stared at Bray’s outstretched hand. Whatever reason Sophie was being married off, he was at least partly to blame.
And his sisters needed the money. Wasn’t that why he’d come here tonight?
He imagined arriving at Glenlorne, as penniless and useless as his father, another worthless mouth to feed, even if he was earl.
Jasper Kendrick was right. Marrying money was the fastest way to a fortune, perhaps the only way.
He had to marry someone, he supposed. Bray had shown him he had no choice.
Reluctantly, he clasped the hand of his future father-in-law.