The Scot Who Made June Hot

Chapter 1

Windermere Manor, June 1820

Summer had arrived. The sky was blue and bright sunshine streamed down from overhead.

Lady June Fairchild sat on a window seat watching one of the children from the Dower House play on the lawn below. They really were beautiful children, she thought, as she ran the ivory comb through her long yellow hair. With their mother’s dark coloring and charming smile, how could they not be?

She looked at the sky again. The many days of rain seemed to have abated. Perhaps it would be a beautiful summer after all.

A small flicker of hope was rising in her chest as she thought of the season ahead, one filled with walks in the sun and… The door to her chamber opened and then slammed shut.

Her husband. Only the earl would not bother to close the countess’s door softly behind him.

He wished to announce his presence to her. To enter abruptly and with a bang. It gave him pleasure to try to startle her in even a small way.

It took some self-restraint but she managed not to turn. Simply kept running the comb through her hair.

“Where is your maid? Should you not be ready by now?” By the sound of his voice, he was already annoyed. Something else must have gone wrong and he had come here to take it out on her. Well, it would not be the first time nor the last. A pause. “Is that what you’re wearing? Have you nothing else?”

She made herself turn, slowly, to face him and smile reassuringly. “It is only one o’clock, John.”

“And our guests are due to arrive by five and you must be there to greet them,” he snapped.

She took a breath, trying for patience, fighting the urge to argue. It was pointless with John. She had learned that long ago. Or if not pointless, entirely unworth the pain and sorrow. And so she suppressed the instinct to inform him that it did not take her longer than half an hour to dress and that if he did not like the gown she had chosen, he might choose another or perhaps blame himself, for many of her clothes were older and he had seen them before. If he did not like this fact, he might increase her allowance. But she knew it was dangerous to suggest this for the estate was all but impoverished–and besides, she did not really give a fig about how many dresses she had or how old they were. Only, John did. And he wanted her to care, to be discontented–even though she could not do anything about it one way or another.

“I will be ready,” she said, keeping her voice calm. “I promise you.”

“Dinner must go perfectly.” The Earl of Windermere looked at the pale blue muslin frock hanging near the wardrobe and frowned. “I suppose it will do.”

“I hope so,” June murmured, casting her eyes downwards.

“That is not what I came to speak to you about, in any case.”

Her heart raced. His voice had turned colder. Not a good sign. She had hoped he would depart. Now it seemed he meant to stay.

“Oh? Is it about dinner? You approved the menu last week and I thought it was agreeable to you…”

“Not the damned dinner.” He lifted his hand and now she saw it was not empty. A piece of folded paper was in it. He waved it and his face reddened.

“Have you seen this, Wife?” He preferred to address her as such. It was a way, she believed, of removing even more of her sense of self. Of making her feel even less an individual. She was not June to him. Simply wife. A role that any woman might have filled.

But only she had been stupid enough to do so.

“I do not believe so. But then,” she said reasonably. “I do not know what it is. The Times, I suppose?”

He gave a cruel laugh that she knew was meant to intimidate her and stepped closer to where she sat by the window. “Not the Times.”

She shrank back a little. “Nothing upsetting, I hope. I know how much you are looking forward to this house party.”

“Looking forward to it?” His eyes narrowed. “Everything rests upon this event’s success. Everything.”

“I know you are hoping to capture the Duke of Tulloch’s interest in your investments,” June said softly. “I assure you, I will do everything in my power to ensure things go as smoothly as possible.”

“Oh? You will, will you?” The earl stepped up beside the window seat and dropped the piece of paper beside her like a hot coal. “And yet already this household is embroiled in the most sordid gossip. All because of you.”

Her heart hammering, she reached for the folded paper and opened it carefully.

Dearest Reader,

As the summer sun casts its warm embrace upon the English countryside, a new arrival has stirred the simmering cauldron of London gossip. The object of our fascination? None other than the dashing Duke of T–, who, like a Highland breeze, has swept into our midst from the misty moors.

Ah, but dear readers, let us not be deceived by the noble title bestowed upon him, for the Duke of T– is renowned far and wide for his exploits as a beguiling rake. While some may claim to be put off by his fiery red locks and freckled countenance which mark the duke as a true son of Caledonia, let us assure you that tales of his amorous conquests have traveled from the cobbled streets of Edinburgh to the bustling salons of London, where whispers of his captivating brogue and strapping tartan-clad presence precede him like the herald of a tempest.

But it is not only the ladies of London who may find themselves ensnared by the Duke of T–”s irresistible charm. Nay, even the most steadfast of matrons should beware, for his reputation as a rake of unparalleled skill knows no bounds.

And yet, what whisper is this in my ear? May the hunter yet become the hunted?

This very week, the Duke of T– shall make his way from London to the sleepy countryside to pay a visit to the Earl of W–”s fine estate. Not only may the Duke of T– find much to admire in the splendid scenery, but a lady who is said to epitomize the season will be waiting for him there: Lady J– F–, the Countess of W–, with her golden tresses reminiscent of a hot summer”s day and her light blue eyes that are said to sparkle like a beautiful loch. Will she prove to be the duke”s next conquest?

Or do we underestimate this particular matron? Could it be that Lady J– will be the trap that finally ensnares this Scottish rake? Whispers of the lovely lady”s own scandalous past have begun to emerge this Season. Rumors of a dalliance with a young man of questionable reputation, before she was whisked away to the countryside again by her notoriously jealous husband.

Ah, dear readers, the plot thickens and the stage is set. Let us watch with bated breath as the Duke of T– and Lady J– dance ever closer to the edge of scandal and ruin.

Until next we meet, I remain,

Yours in Brazen Speculation,

The Belle

June felt her face flush as if with fever. She glanced up at her husband.

“I’ve never even met the Duke of Tulloch. It was you, not me, who invited the man. And as for this terrible bit of slander about last Season, you know for a fact I was helping the Baron of Granville’s son through a fit of asthma that overcame him while we were dancing.”

“Yes, and were found secluded with him in an empty room at a ball,” the earl said frostily.

“Found by the physician who was called to attend to poor Alexander,” June exclaimed, feeling her cheeks become even hotter. “You were at the ball with me that night, mere steps away.” A physician with a malicious wagging tongue. Curse the man. Alexander had been choking and gasping for air and all she had been trying to do was get him to a quiet place so that he might catch his breath. She had been doing no more than leaning over him and patting his back–like his own mother might have done. Why, the boy was no more than seventeen years of age. A mere child compared to her own twenty-eight years!

“I did nothing his own mother would not have done,” she said, repeating her thoughts desperately. “His parents thanked me profusely for my assistance, as you must recall.”

“I recall you making a perfect fool of yourself,” her husband said. “And having to escort you from London before you could do anything even more ridiculous before the entire ton.”

This was pointless, she saw, her heart sinking. He wanted her to feel humiliated. There was never any point in arguing with John. And yet the horrible thing was that he wanted her to argue. He wanted her to contradict him. As if he knew that in her heart, she was doing so constantly.

“I was only trying to help,” she said quietly. “I have no intention of making you ridiculous in front of any of your guests.”

“No? And yet this Duke of Tulloch sounds like a fine fellow. A handsome rake, they say.” The Earl of Windermere sneered. “Despite his being no better than a barbarian. Like all the Scots. Edinburgh, indeed. Tulloch’s seat is far from any sign of civilization from what I understand.”

Ah, so this was not really about her at all but about John’s concerns to do with the duke. A man with a more elevated title, a larger estate, and, from what John had already let slip, far more money to run it with. Which was precisely why her husband hoped to charm the Scotsman into parting with some of his riches and funding poor, increasingly-dilapidated Windermere through an investment in a mining scheme. One which seemed very poorly planned so far based on June’s limited knowledge.

“I will stay far away from the duke, if that is what you wish,” she offered. She thought of dinner. “It’s not too late to alter the seating arrangements. I can…”

“Enough.” The earl’s voice cut through her words. “What I wish is for you to be…”

He paused and she could almost hear him thinking. What he wanted was for her to be just charming enough, just winsome enough, just flirtatious enough to enchant the duke. For in so, the duke might be more willing to listen to John’s ridiculous schemes for opening a mine on the Windermere estate, funded, of course, almost solely by the duke himself. There was only so much brandy and whiskey one could ply a man with. And if the duke had a good head on his shoulders, liquor would not be enough.

But place a woman in front of him–and for many men, that might just do the trick.

“You wish for me to be a charming hostess but to know my place,” June said dully. “I understand, John. I really do.”

The earl’s eyes flashed. “You have never known your place.”

“I have always been a loyal and submissive wife,” she retorted before she could help herself. “Which is more than one could ever say for you as a husband.”

There it was. She saw the gleam of victory in his eyes.

And then his hand was raising and swiftly descending.

He had won and she had lost.

The proof was in the pain.