incorrigible flirt?
“Outstanding, Mallory,” he muttered to himself. “Not only do you have a fiancée you didn’t want in the first place, you’re likely to be cuckolded before you’re dragged to the altar.”
The guests at Dalkeith had all been assigned rooms along a corridor that ran straight as a plumb line for more than the length of a cricket pitch. Since each door was marked with a placard indicating the occupant, he strode along the hallway looking for his name. Finally he found one whose small card beside the door had “Lord Alexander Mallory” worked in beautiful script on it. This designation had been crossed out and “Lord Bonniebroch” was scrawled under it in a much coarser hand.
Much coarser. Doesn’t that sum up Scotland all around?
He pushed open the door and entered a surprisingly well-appointed chamber. The walls were paneled in dark oak and the six-point buck mounted over the stone fireplace lent a distinctly masculine air to the space. The bed curtains and linens had been freshly aired and the multi-paned windows looked out onto the broad lawn where Alex had lately led his cricket team to victory.
His foul temper improved slightly.
The valet who’d been assigned to him had already laid out his evening clothes in a neat row across the end of the bed. His trousers and jacket had been freshly brushed. His cravat was crisp and white and looked to have just the right amount of starch in it.
Water had been drawn in a great copper hip bath and when he tested it with his hand, it was still warm. A full kettle rested on the fireplace hearth so he’d have plenty more hot water when he needed it.
Alex crossed over to the pitcher and basin that rested on a walnut commode beneath a large mirror. He frowned at the dark beard shadow on his cheeks, splashed water on his face, and wondered if he had time for a shave before he dressed for dinner. The valet had laid out his shaving accoutrements on the commode.
“At least the Scots have servants who seem to know their business,” he grumbled.
“Indeed, milord, we know a good deal more than that, which a body might learn if any took the trouble to listen to us.”
A light flashed in the corner of his eye and Alex looked up sharply at his reflection in the mirror. There was an elderly gentleman standing behind him.
The fellow’s beard and mustache were neatly trimmed, but the gold earring in the flange of one ear gave him the aspect of an old pirate. Brows like a pair of runaway scrub brushes hung above dark, piercing eyes. The man doffed a tam that was hopelessly out of fashion. The scant hair on his head had been scraped back into a neat queue. He was a little bird of a man, small-boned and sharp-featured, but he carried himself with exaggerated dignity that made him seem more substantial. The fellow flipped his hat with a flourish, and sketched an elaborate bow that belonged to another century entirely.
In fact everything about the man harked back to an older time, from the frilly lace at his cuffs to the vibrant plaid of his outlawed kilt.
“Who are you and what are you doing here?” Alex asked. The fellow was soft-footed as a cat. He hadn’t heard a single footfall.
“Callum Farquhar, Esquire, at yer service, milord.” His low Scottish burr was just on the edge of sound.
One of the Dalkeith servants. If this was the valet who’d laid out Alexander’s things, he’d come in handy indeed. “Very well, Mr. Farquhar, you’re just in time to give me a shave.”
Farquhar drew himself up to his full, if unimpressive, height.
“Oh, no, milord. T’wouldn’t be seemly. Ye see, word reached us that the new laird of Bonniebroch was come to Dalkeith so I took the liberty of hieing meself here to present meself to ye before ye take possession of yer estate.” He puffed out his chest like a wren fluffing its feathers against the cold. “I am not attached to Dalkeith, ye see. I have the honor of being the steward of Bonniebroch and have
“Outstanding, Mallory,” he muttered to himself. “Not only do you have a fiancée you didn’t want in the first place, you’re likely to be cuckolded before you’re dragged to the altar.”
The guests at Dalkeith had all been assigned rooms along a corridor that ran straight as a plumb line for more than the length of a cricket pitch. Since each door was marked with a placard indicating the occupant, he strode along the hallway looking for his name. Finally he found one whose small card beside the door had “Lord Alexander Mallory” worked in beautiful script on it. This designation had been crossed out and “Lord Bonniebroch” was scrawled under it in a much coarser hand.
Much coarser. Doesn’t that sum up Scotland all around?
He pushed open the door and entered a surprisingly well-appointed chamber. The walls were paneled in dark oak and the six-point buck mounted over the stone fireplace lent a distinctly masculine air to the space. The bed curtains and linens had been freshly aired and the multi-paned windows looked out onto the broad lawn where Alex had lately led his cricket team to victory.
His foul temper improved slightly.
The valet who’d been assigned to him had already laid out his evening clothes in a neat row across the end of the bed. His trousers and jacket had been freshly brushed. His cravat was crisp and white and looked to have just the right amount of starch in it.
Water had been drawn in a great copper hip bath and when he tested it with his hand, it was still warm. A full kettle rested on the fireplace hearth so he’d have plenty more hot water when he needed it.
Alex crossed over to the pitcher and basin that rested on a walnut commode beneath a large mirror. He frowned at the dark beard shadow on his cheeks, splashed water on his face, and wondered if he had time for a shave before he dressed for dinner. The valet had laid out his shaving accoutrements on the commode.
“At least the Scots have servants who seem to know their business,” he grumbled.
“Indeed, milord, we know a good deal more than that, which a body might learn if any took the trouble to listen to us.”
A light flashed in the corner of his eye and Alex looked up sharply at his reflection in the mirror. There was an elderly gentleman standing behind him.
The fellow’s beard and mustache were neatly trimmed, but the gold earring in the flange of one ear gave him the aspect of an old pirate. Brows like a pair of runaway scrub brushes hung above dark, piercing eyes. The man doffed a tam that was hopelessly out of fashion. The scant hair on his head had been scraped back into a neat queue. He was a little bird of a man, small-boned and sharp-featured, but he carried himself with exaggerated dignity that made him seem more substantial. The fellow flipped his hat with a flourish, and sketched an elaborate bow that belonged to another century entirely.
In fact everything about the man harked back to an older time, from the frilly lace at his cuffs to the vibrant plaid of his outlawed kilt.
“Who are you and what are you doing here?” Alex asked. The fellow was soft-footed as a cat. He hadn’t heard a single footfall.
“Callum Farquhar, Esquire, at yer service, milord.” His low Scottish burr was just on the edge of sound.
One of the Dalkeith servants. If this was the valet who’d laid out Alexander’s things, he’d come in handy indeed. “Very well, Mr. Farquhar, you’re just in time to give me a shave.”
Farquhar drew himself up to his full, if unimpressive, height.
“Oh, no, milord. T’wouldn’t be seemly. Ye see, word reached us that the new laird of Bonniebroch was come to Dalkeith so I took the liberty of hieing meself here to present meself to ye before ye take possession of yer estate.” He puffed out his chest like a wren fluffing its feathers against the cold. “I am not attached to Dalkeith, ye see. I have the honor of being the steward of Bonniebroch and have
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