Once Upon a Highland Christmas by Lecia Cornwall Page A

everywhere. All the places his shirt now covered.
    Surely he was under a spell. He wasn’t immune to a pretty face, wasn’t a green lad when it came to women. But no woman had ever affected him the way Alanna did—­and she was right, he was betrothed to Penelope, well, almost.
    And she belonged to another man.
    He turned away from the door and stalked down the stairs to the library, where he took out the accounts. He needed an hour or two with numbers, dry figures, time to grapple with the job of trying to spread too little money over too much need. That should take his mind off Alanna McNabb.
    The woman who lay in his bed, wearing only his shirt.

 
    Chapter Twelve
    L ADY M A R J O R I E C U R R Y sighed as she sipped her tea in bed. She was the daughter of the sixth Earl of Purbrick, the widow of a viscount, and the last in the long line of Marstons that had sadly ended with her uncle—­well, there was still Iain, of course. His name was supposed to be Marston, not MacGillivray. Her grandfather, the fifth earl, had had three strapping sons, and the future appeared set for the powerful Marston family. But in just two generations, the male line had dwindled down to just one person, Iain, more Scottish barbarian than English gentleman. It was a terrible shame.
    If her uncle had had married a stronger wife, a woman capable of breeding more than a single sickly boy who’d died in childhood, and if his brother had not died young, and if her own brother had not gone off and married a Scottish laird’s daughter for love and took the name of his wife’s clan—­MacGillivray—­and begotten a strong, healthy son, Marjorie would not be here, in Scotland, at this moment. She made a face and set her teacup down. She would be home in England enjoying better tea, at the very least.
    But she was the last Marston, and this was her duty. With her uncle in his grave, she had been forced to make this trip, to take things in hand, as it were. She glared at the cup and saucer on the tray. Even the cup itself was a poor thing, plainly made for utility rather than beauty.
    Like Iain MacGillivray himself—­ordinary and rough around the edges, even if he was useful. It was up to her to mold Iain into the next Earl of Purbrick, even if that was the last thing either of them wanted.
    Marjorie added another spoonful of sugar to the pallid tea in hopes of improving it, sipped again, and grimaced. A Scot as the Earl of Purbrick. It still seemed impossible, and she’d had nearly three months to come to terms with it. They would be the laughingstock of the English aristocracy if she couldn’t make this—­him—­work.
    She gave up on the tea. She had not set eyes on Iain MacGillivray since he was a green, half-­grown boy, brought by his father to visit his English kin at Woodford Park. He’d filled out since then, was handsome, and at least looked the part, thanks to his English blood no doubt—­and that was fortunate, since Penelope would have to marry him. Still, she fretted, a handsome face was no guarantee of a man’s honor.
    Penelope’s father had been fine looking indeed—­breathtakingly so. He’d also been cursed with a fondness for brandy and gambling. Viscount Aldridge had lost his fortune twice over while in his cups, and he’d died young, just after Elizabeth turned two, which had been more of a relief than a great sorrow. Upon his death, his title had passed to a distant cousin, who’d neither known his predecessor’s widow and her two young daughters, nor wanted them in residence at his new home. Marjorie had packed up her daughters and returned to the elegant sanctuary of Woodford Park, where her uncle had been more than happy to welcome her home and make her his hostess.
    Marjorie had hoped—­expected—­that her uncle would make provisions for Penelope and Elizabeth in his will, leaving them enough for decent