Chapter Two

A s Willamina hurried from the maze, several times she had to stop herself from looking back to see if Lord Primrose was watching her rejoin the party. Truth be told, she would much rather spend the evening with him than making the rounds with people she did not know.

Her cousin, Gil, had insisted she attend and try to integrate herself into Edinburgh society. She only listened to him because he currently controlled her assets now that she was a widow. Immediately after Gerard died, her father had taken over whatever holdings and coffers Gerard had owned. That arrangement worked well, and her father had afforded her the freedom to live alone, but since the untimely death of both her mother and father, her fate now rested in the hands of her cousin.

Unfortunately, Gil was not of the same inclination to let her do as she pleased. Instead of allowing her to remain at home in Inverness, he demanded she move to his estate in Edinburgh.

She curtsied at a man that bowed in her direction and lifted a glass of champagne from an offered tray.

Of course, that was not her only reason for leaving Inverness. Her name was quite popular there in the gossip sheets and scandal seemed to follow her after Gerard's death.

Surveying the crowd scattered across the vast manicured lawn, she wondered if any of the women would be interested in attending a seance? She would have to convince Gil to host one first though.

Unlikely, considering that was why she found herself in her current predicament. Back in Inverness, she had hosted multiple seances. She found them fascinating. Mediums that proclaimed they could talk to loved ones that have passed caught her interest.

Hosting them had become a joy and she had had many women enjoy her parties and the psychics she hired to entertain them. And that they did. She was happy to play a part in connecting them to their lost loved ones. To see the medium passing on messages, stating that those who had passed were at peace, and not to miss them, they would meet once again.

It was all so enthralling, even if they could never connect her with her own lost loved ones. She supposed that meant they had moved on and were too happy in their afterlives to take time to communicate with the living. In the end, that was all she wished for them.

Willamina continued through the crowd, sipping her champagne, trying to mask her grimace. The bubbly drink was too dry for her taste. She much preferred sweeter wines, but she would drink it, nonetheless.

The women in Inverness were grateful to her for bringing such information to them—until they were not.

She supposed she only had herself to blame. Wanting to bring in someone different, she thought it would add some more excitement to the seance. She should have known better. All it did was ruin her reputation and cause her friends to shun her.

How was she to know the woman was a scam artist? In all of the gatherings she had hosted before that one, and of all the mediums she had hired, none of them were fake. But her last party?

It proved to be a disaster.

Clearly, when the woman stated she was psychic and could see things from beyond the grave, it was malarkey. Knocking on Willamina's door, wearing a ghastly bright orange gown. Well, not really a gown. More like a covering. It was huge and billowy, with gold threads sewn into it in swirling spirals. Her fire red hair was swept into a bun and covered with a cap made of the same orange material but had a huge green and blue peacock feather sticking straight out the front.

Large, gaudy jewels adorned the rings on her fingers, and even bigger jewels adorned the thick gold chain hanging around her plump neck.

When she introduced herself as Lady Esmerelda, Willamina was taken aback. The woman's look surprised her. It was most unexpected from her previous experience with others she had hired. But Lady Esmerelda came well recommended from a former friend.

Now Willamina learned that the person was no friend and instead one of her husband's many lovers. Why she held a grudge against her, Willamina had not the faintest of ideas. But that mattered naught now.

The clearly un-medium-like Esmerelda was a phony. And once everyone was there and she started talking nonsense, her eyes rolling back in her head, speaking words that made sense to no one, and then pointing to the guests and speaking in the most demonic voice Willamina had ever heard, her friends could not take their leave fast enough.

Since then, she had been labeled a pariah of society. Not once had she ever asked anyone to pay her monies to attend her parties. Whatever coin had been exchanged was done at their own accord, and never to her.

Unfortunately, now they believed she was just trying to take them for their money. As if the mediums were somehow splitting their earnings with her—which they were not. The news they had received from their loved ones from the grave no longer mattered. True messages, mind you, not fake ones.

Nay, all of that was quickly forgotten.

And that was how she now found herself in Edinburgh.

She spotted an empty bench and took a seat, watching the people as they passed, hoping they would not heed her any attention.

"Lady Watson."

She should have known her peace would be short-lived. Standing, she set her glass of champagne down and dropped into a curtsy before assessing the man standing in front of her. Craning her head up, the man was exceptionally tall, but that was where her interest ended. Beady, brown eyes, just a wee bit too close together perused her from her head to her toes, before he dragged his gaze back up and lingered on her cleavage.

Flipping her fan open, she waved it in front of her chest, using it as a barrier to protect herself from his stare.

"Lady Watson," he repeated, his eyes finally meeting hers. "Your cousin said I could find ye here. I hope ye dinna mind the intrusion?"

From this angle she could see the sharp crook in his nose. It appeared that Mr., well, she did not know his name as of yet, but whoever he was appeared to have broken his nose a time or two.

Truly, she was sure she could expect Gil to send an endless stream of suitors her way. Whether she wanted him to or not. She had only hoped that he would be more discerning in his choices.

"He said I should introduce myself to ye. Rupert Wingot. I would verra much enjoy a dance later?"

His gaze had wandered back to her breasts while he awaited her answer. It would be rude to deny him the dance, no matter how unpleasant it promised to be. She noted her cousin a few paces away, watching her every move.

"'Twould be lovely." She forced a smile. "Thank ye. If ye will excuse me, I believe I see an old acquaintance."

Rupert bowed and stepped aside, letting her pass. She felt his eyes on her as she walked away in the opposite direction of her cousin, trying not to rush her steps too much. Though really, she only wanted to get out of his presence and the prying eyes of Gil.

She knew no one here aside from Gil, of course. But the fabrication freed her from Rupert's company—for now.

"Miss Watson."

What now? She spun, excuse at the ready, but any words died on her lips as Lord Primrose called to her.

He took a quick step back in surprise. "I apologize, Miss. Ye appear to be upset. I do hope I am no' the cause of your distress."

Heart rushed to her cheeks. "Nay." She fanned herself in short, quick bursts. The warmth that flooded her body was entirely due to Lord Primrose's proximity and had naught to do with the air temperature.

He leaned close and whispered in her ear, his breath hot against her skin. "Truth be told, Wingot's attention is enough to make even the strongest person upset." His chuckle was deep and rumbled down her spine.

Looking around him, she noticed Wingot watching them suspiciously.

"I may have fibbed a wee bit and told him I spotted an old friend to get away."

"Smart lady."

His smile and praise made her body tingle. She cursed its reaction.

"Mayhap we should move in this direction so as no' to raise his curiosity."

"Aye."

He plucked two glasses of punch from a tray and handed her one.

"Thank ye, my lord." She sipped from the flute as they walked in the opposite direction of Wingot. She much preferred the taste of the punch compared to the champagne she had earlier.

Gil stepped into their path. "Cousin, I see ye've met Lord Primrose." Her cousin dipped his head in greeting at the man at her side.

"Buchanan, 'tis nice to see ye again." The two men shook hands in greeting. "I didna realize that Miss Watson was your cousin."

"Ye mean Lady Watson."

Willamina almost choked on her tongue. Darn Gil for giving away her secret. Though why she was trying to keep her title a mystery, she could not explain. Doing so served her no purpose.

Lord Primrose's blue eyes, alight with mirth, clashed with hers. "My sincerest apologies. I had no' the faintest idea. I hope ye did no' take insult in my incorrect address."

She shook her head, her tongue heavy as if her mouth were full of mud.

"Well, Primrose, we shall have to meet for a drink and a game soon."

And just like that her cousin led her away from Lord Primrose and the party.

Willamina had to stop herself from looking back at him as they made their way through the crowd and out to their waiting phaeton.

She could only hope she got the chance to see Lord Primrose again.

*

"Ye must marry by the age of twenty-eight to retain the title of Earl of Rosebery."

As Finlay finished his glass of whisky, the line from his father's will played over and over in his mind. He was running out of time. His birthday fast approached and he was no closer to being married now than he was when his father passed three years ago.

Why ever the man put such a clause in his will, Finlay had no explanation. Both of them knew that Fingal was incompetent to lead the Primrose family into continued prosperity. It was not something said out of spite, but of experience, watching him throughout the years.

They may be twins, identical in appearance, but that is where the similarities ended. Different personalities. Different paths in life. Different morals and ethics.

His brother would be their family's ruin if he were to ever take charge.

He thrummed his fingers against the wooden surface of the desk, playing out a steady staccato rhythm.

"Think, Finlay. Think ."

Miss Watson, nay, Lady Watson came to mind.

She was beautiful. Well spoken. Strong-willed, and he detected a touch of a sense of humor in their short exchange. But she was also a wee bit mysterious. Why had she not told him she was a lady when she introduced herself? Why keep that a secret?

He wanted to see her again. To know her past.

She could be the wife he was looking for.

Though her cousin, Buchanan, swept her away with great haste when he spotted them speaking.

Mayhap he would call upon her on the morrow. With her beauty, surely there would be a long line of suitors queued at Buckwood Manor.

He would just have to be the first.

Or, have a damn convincing argument as to why she should choose him.

Mind made up, he poured himself another glass of whisky and pushed away from his desk. It had been a long day, and he was ready for it to be over. The house was quiet as he made his way to his room. He could only assume that meant that Fingal was staying at his own home tonight. Rose Hall, the home Fingal and his wife, Yvette, were given on their wedding day, was on the estate's grounds, though far enough away that Finlay didn't really have to bother with them.

Knowing his brother, he more than likely had gotten kicked out of one of the pubs, and after making his way home, was now losing himself in his wife.

Finlay sighed. He could imagine Lady Watson warming his own bed. Her brown hair splayed across the pillow. Her pale cheeks flushed pink. Her soft skin…

He groaned and pushed a hand through his hair as his cock stirred.

No matter how long the day was, this night was going to be even longer. Images of Lady Watson would be burned into his mind until he got the chance to see her once again.