The Highlander's Forbidden Mistress (The Lairds Most Likely 7)

Chapter 1

Derwent Hall, Essex, December 1823

"You will arrive at Mowbray Place on Christmas Eve, and not too late either. Mamma likes her dinner at five o’clock on the dot."

Selina Martin struggled not to wince at her fiancé’s hectoring tone. Was it her imagination that the walls of Derwent Hall’s library with their Etruscan decorations closed in on her? Whether they did or not, she felt suffocated. "Yes, Cecil."

She and Cecil Canley-Smythe had been guests at this luxurious manor in Essex all week, while Cecil and Lord Derwent discussed business matters. But the visit had not proven a success. The other guests had been a disreputable selection, however blue their blood, and Cecil hadn’t approved of the way they’d carried on with one another. Nor had the disreputable gathering approved of Cecil, with his propensity for laying down the law, even while in someone else’s house. Tonight at dinner when Cecil announced that he and his betrothed were leaving in the morning, Selina had noted a general air of relief.

"You will also speak to the boy about restraining any excessive high spirits over the Festive Season. Mamma cannot abide undue noise."

"The boy" was her nine-year-old son, Gerald. Sometimes she doubted whether Cecil even remembered Gerald’s name. A problem when he was about to become Gerald’s stepfather.

Selina told herself she could bear this. She could bear anything for her son’s sake. "Yes, Cecil."

"And I hope you’re not doing anything silly with your wedding dress. Mamma expects the ceremony to proceed with suitable dignity. You’re a widow, and I’m a respectable man of mature years. Any unseemly frivolity won’t reflect well on a person of my standing."

Mature years? He had that right. Despite how tightly he was tied to his mother’s apron strings, he was fifty-five. Selina was only twenty-seven, even if right now she might feel like she was a hundred and seven.

Curling her fingers at her sides until her nails bit into her palms, she kept her voice calm. "I’ve chosen a plain cream frock without a train, Cecil. Nobody will accuse me of extravagance or vanity."

Selina hadn’t selected her modest gown entirely because of Cecil’s dislike for frivolity. Even purchasing such a plain dress had stretched her meager financial resources.

"I’m pleased to hear it. Now after I leave tomorrow, I’ll be busy every day with my mills in Northumberland. Don’t look for any letters. I won’t have time to write to you."

"I understand. I won’t trouble you either, unless something urgent comes up."

"Urgent?" He frowned in displeasure. "I’m not expecting anything urgent."

Well, the bride might yet jump off Westminster Bridge to avoid her nuptials, but that probably wouldn’t count as urgent in Cecil’s estimation. Whereas if Selina sewed a scrap of lace onto her wedding gown, he was sure to class that as an emergency.

"I can’t imagine anything untoward will turn up," she said, with the meekness she’d learned to use during her first marriage to soothe her husband’s erratic temper.

A log popped in the hearth, making her glance past her hulking fiancé with his wet lips and balding head to where a long, high-backed settle faced the fire. The imposing piece of furniture with its solid mahogany back dominated the room.

"See that there isn’t." Cecil regarded her with a disapproval that she was sure she didn’t deserve. "Mamma has always been worried that your youth makes you unreliable. I told her that you’re a sensible woman, and that marriage to a rich man won’t turn your head. Don’t make me a liar."

Selina wanted to tell Cecil’s mamma to button her wrinkled lip, but defiance served no purpose. She chose this path with her eyes wide open. A show of spirit now would only toss her back to the wolves. Her and her son. "You can rely on me, Cecil."

His manner softened, and he gave her a smile. "I know I can, my dear. That’s why I asked you to be my bride."

He no longer sounded like a sergeant dressing down a tardy recruit, but somehow that was worse than a scolding. The "my dear" made her hide a shudder. Because while Cecil was determined that in public she behaved like a sober widow, she suspected his private intentions weren’t nearly so circumspect.

He wanted her in his bed. She’d known it from the first.

Lucky her.

"I’ll make you a good wife."

"If I had the slightest doubt, I’d never have proposed. The world has always praised your devoted care of your late husband, despite his unfortunate wildness, and your comportment in widowhood has been exemplary." He stepped closer. "Now it grows late, and we both have a long journey in the morning."

While Cecil headed north, she returned to her humble lodgings in Marylebone to wait out the fortnight before the wedding on Boxing Day. The second week of that period at least offered Gerald’s company, once his school closed for Christmas. But while she loved her son, she wasn’t entirely looking forward to that either. Gerald had only met Cecil once, and he hadn’t liked him. He wouldn’t be slow to make his resentment of his future stepfather felt.

He was too young to understand why his mother gave herself into Cecil’s keeping, and she’d done her best to hide how desperate things were in the Martin household. Selina had so many doubts about her forthcoming marriage, but the tragic truth was that if she didn’t marry Cecil, she might end up on the streets. And if she did, she’d lose Gerald.

So she raised her chin and summoned a smile and battled to ignore how her stomach knotted with revulsion when Cecil kissed her cheek. In their eight weeks of betrothal, he’d never kissed her on the lips. But the reprieve was only temporary. She had no illusions that he’d keep his distance, once his ring was on her finger.

Damp lips skimmed her skin, and the overpowering scent of Pomade de Nerole made her dizzy. He stepped back before she could gag, thank heavens. "Shall I escort you to the staircase?"