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Authors: Joan Overfield
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in the mirror.
The past two sleepless nights had left her pale and wan, and far more emotional then she could like. She felt as delicate and brittle as the glass figurines she had collected as a child, and feared that the slightest pressure would shatter her into a thousand pieces. It wasn’t right, she told herself crossly. All she wanted was to live her own life as she saw fit. Why should she be forced to wed either a disgusting mound of flesh or a dangerous and mocking devil, to have control over what was rightfully hers? The unfairness of it all made her want to take her fist and smash the mirror.
Then the control that had been her salvation these many years reasserted itself, and she fought her way back from the edge of tears. Now was not the time for foolish weeping, she told her refection. In less than an hour her entire fate would be decided, and if she meant to have the smallest say in that decision, she could not allow herself the luxury of emotion. She would have to be twice as cold and calculating as the man she was meeting if she meant to win—a prospect daunting enough to make the knot of tension in her chest tighten with almost painful intensity.
When Grandfather had first made his suggestion, she’d thought him mad. It had to be madness to believe such a thing could possibly work. And yet the more her grandfather had spoken of it, the greater sense it began to make.
A marriage
of convenience
, she’d thought, the idea slowly taking shape in her mind.
Her
convenience, if they could but win the sergeant’s cooperation in certain matters. A cooperation her grandfather felt certain they could have, although he would not tell her why.
That was why she wanted to speak with him before he met with her grandfather. The duke might be confident he would agree, but she couldn’t afford the luxury of his being wrong. Even now her uncle could be on his way from London with a special license or an order for her commitment in his pocket, and if all was not arranged before his arrival, she’d be in every bit as much trouble as she’d been when she’d fled from London. More in trouble, she amended, thinking of the rage the earl was likely to be in when he arrived. Her uncle hated losing, and those who managed to best him were usually punished in some clever and evil way.
With that thought firmly in mind she’d passed the long night staring at the ceiling and carefully laying out her plans. The first difficulty was to win the sergeant’s cooperation, although upon reflection she didn’t think it would be so very hard. Her years in her uncle’s company had taught her that however much men might like their whores and their horses, there was nothing they cared for more than the gleam of gold. For all he was a Scot and a soldier, she couldn’t believe Sergeant MacColme was cut from so different a cloth, and she knew if she but offered him enough money, he would do as she wished.
The next problem she foresaw was the man’s pride—a pride she now realized was deep andas fierce as the Highlands from which he came. If she didn’t word her offer just so, he was likely to toss it in her face and go storming back to Scotland.
“Excuse me, my lady.” The little maid assigned to her bobbed a curtsy from the doorway. “Will you wish to be changing your gown? ’Tis past noon.”
It was on the tip of her tongue to say no, but then she thought the better of it. She was woman enough to find confidence in a pretty gown, and upon consideration she also thought it might be best if she were to meet Mr. MacColme looking every inch the lady.
Twenty-five minutes later she was staring at her reflection, her expression critical as she studied the glass for the smallest sign of imperfection. The gown she was wearing was a
robe Anglaise
fashioned of pink and yellow striped silk, draped over an underskirt of pink brocade. Sleeves dripping with lace ended just above her elbows, and her hair, arranged
à la conseiller
, gave her
The past two sleepless nights had left her pale and wan, and far more emotional then she could like. She felt as delicate and brittle as the glass figurines she had collected as a child, and feared that the slightest pressure would shatter her into a thousand pieces. It wasn’t right, she told herself crossly. All she wanted was to live her own life as she saw fit. Why should she be forced to wed either a disgusting mound of flesh or a dangerous and mocking devil, to have control over what was rightfully hers? The unfairness of it all made her want to take her fist and smash the mirror.
Then the control that had been her salvation these many years reasserted itself, and she fought her way back from the edge of tears. Now was not the time for foolish weeping, she told her refection. In less than an hour her entire fate would be decided, and if she meant to have the smallest say in that decision, she could not allow herself the luxury of emotion. She would have to be twice as cold and calculating as the man she was meeting if she meant to win—a prospect daunting enough to make the knot of tension in her chest tighten with almost painful intensity.
When Grandfather had first made his suggestion, she’d thought him mad. It had to be madness to believe such a thing could possibly work. And yet the more her grandfather had spoken of it, the greater sense it began to make.
A marriage
of convenience
, she’d thought, the idea slowly taking shape in her mind.
Her
convenience, if they could but win the sergeant’s cooperation in certain matters. A cooperation her grandfather felt certain they could have, although he would not tell her why.
That was why she wanted to speak with him before he met with her grandfather. The duke might be confident he would agree, but she couldn’t afford the luxury of his being wrong. Even now her uncle could be on his way from London with a special license or an order for her commitment in his pocket, and if all was not arranged before his arrival, she’d be in every bit as much trouble as she’d been when she’d fled from London. More in trouble, she amended, thinking of the rage the earl was likely to be in when he arrived. Her uncle hated losing, and those who managed to best him were usually punished in some clever and evil way.
With that thought firmly in mind she’d passed the long night staring at the ceiling and carefully laying out her plans. The first difficulty was to win the sergeant’s cooperation, although upon reflection she didn’t think it would be so very hard. Her years in her uncle’s company had taught her that however much men might like their whores and their horses, there was nothing they cared for more than the gleam of gold. For all he was a Scot and a soldier, she couldn’t believe Sergeant MacColme was cut from so different a cloth, and she knew if she but offered him enough money, he would do as she wished.
The next problem she foresaw was the man’s pride—a pride she now realized was deep andas fierce as the Highlands from which he came. If she didn’t word her offer just so, he was likely to toss it in her face and go storming back to Scotland.
“Excuse me, my lady.” The little maid assigned to her bobbed a curtsy from the doorway. “Will you wish to be changing your gown? ’Tis past noon.”
It was on the tip of her tongue to say no, but then she thought the better of it. She was woman enough to find confidence in a pretty gown, and upon consideration she also thought it might be best if she were to meet Mr. MacColme looking every inch the lady.
Twenty-five minutes later she was staring at her reflection, her expression critical as she studied the glass for the smallest sign of imperfection. The gown she was wearing was a
robe Anglaise
fashioned of pink and yellow striped silk, draped over an underskirt of pink brocade. Sleeves dripping with lace ended just above her elbows, and her hair, arranged
à la conseiller
, gave her
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