The Earl's Convenient Wife

‘You look far too pretty to be a business deal. Jeanie, tomorrow you’ll be the Lady of Duncairn.’

‘I... He doesn’t use the title.’ She’d tried joking about that to Alasdair. She’d even proposed using it in castle advertising but the black look on his face had had her backing right off. You didn’t joke with Lord Alasdair.

Just Alasdair. Her soon-to-be husband.

Her...lord?

‘It doesn’t stop the title being there, My Ladyship.’ Maggie bobbed a mock curtsy as she echoed Jeanie’s thoughts. ‘It’s time to go to church now, m’lady. If m’lady’s ready.’

Jeanie managed a laugh but even to her ears it sounded hollow. She glanced at her watch again. Two minutes. One.

‘Ready, set, go,’ Maggie said and propelled her to the door.

To marry.

Third-time lucky?

* * *

He was standing at the altar, waiting for his bride. He’d never thought he’d be here. Marriage was not for him.

He hadn’t always believed that, he conceded. Once upon a time he’d been head over heels in love. He’d been twenty-two, just finishing a double degree in law and commerce, eager to take on the world. Celia had been a socialite, five years his senior. She was beautiful, intelligent, a woman who knew her way around Scottish society and who knew exactly what she wanted in a marriage.

He couldn’t believe she’d wanted him. He’d been lanky, geeky, unsure, a product of cold parents and too many books, knowing little of how relationships worked. He’d been ripe for the plucking.

And Celia had plucked. When she’d agreed to marry him, he’d thought he was the luckiest man alive. What he hadn’t realised was that when she was looking at him she was seeing only his title and his inheritance.

But she’d played her part superbly. She’d held him as he’d never been held. She’d listened as he’d told her of his childhood, things he’d never told anyone. He’d had fun with her. He’d felt light and free and totally in love. Totally trusting. He’d bared his soul, he’d left himself totally exposed—and in return he’d been gutted.

For a long time he’d blamed his cousin, Alan, with his charm and charisma. Alan had arrived in Edinburgh a week before he and Celia were due to marry, ostensibly to attend his cousin’s wedding but probably to hit his grandmother for more money. He hadn’t been involved with Jeanie then. He’d had some other bimbo on his arm, but that hadn’t cramped his style. Loyalty hadn’t been in Alan’s vocabulary.

And it seemed it wasn’t in Celia’s, either.

Two days before his wedding, Alasdair had realised he’d left his briefcase at Celia’s apartment. He’d had a key so he’d dropped by early, before work. He’d knocked, but of course no one had answered.

It was no wonder they hadn’t answered. He’d walked in, and Celia had been with Alan. With, in every sense of the word.

So now he was about to marry...another of Alan’s leavings?

Don’t think of Alan now. Don’t think of Celia. He said it savagely to himself but the memory was still sour and heavy. He’d never trusted since. His personal relationships were kept far apart from his business.

But here he was again—and he was doing what Celia had intended. Wedding for money?

This woman was different, he conceded. Very different. She was petite. Curvy. She wasn’t the slightest bit elegant.

She was Alan’s widow.

But right now she didn’t look like a woman who’d attract Alan. She was wearing a simple blue frock, neat, nice. Her shoes were kitten-heeled, silver. Her soft brown curls were just brushing her shoulders. She usually wore her hair tied back or up, so maybe this was a concession to being a bride—as must be the spray of bell heather on her lapel—but they were sparse concessions.

Celia would have been the perfect bride, he thought tangentially. That morning, when he’d walked in on them both, Celia’s bridal gown had been hanging for him to see. Even years later he still had a vision of how Celia would have looked in that dress.

She wouldn’t have looked like this. Where Celia would have floated down the aisle, an ethereal vision, Jeanie was looking straight ahead, her gaze on the worn kirk floorboards rather than on him. Her friend gave her a slight push. She nodded as if confirming something in her mind—and then she stumped forward. There was no other word for it. She stumped.

A romantic bride? Not so much.

Though she was...cute, he conceded as he watched her come, and then he saw the flush of colour on her cheeks and he thought suddenly she looked...mortified?

Mortified? As if she’d been pushed into this?

It was his grandmother who’d done the forcing, he told himself. If this woman had been expecting the castle to fall into her lap with no effort, it was Eileen who’d messed with those plans, not him. This forced marriage was merely the solution to the problem.

And mortified or not, Jeanie had got what she wanted. She’d inherit her castle.

He’d had to move mountains to arrange things so he could stay on the island. He’d created a new level of management and arranged audits to ensure he hadn’t missed anything; financial dealings would run smoothly without him. He’d arranged a satellite Internet connection so he could work here. He’d had a helipad built so he could organise the company chopper to get him here fast. So he could leave fast.

Not that he could leave for more than his designated number of nights, he thought grimly. He was stuck. With this woman.

She’d reached his side. She was still staring stolidly at the floor. Could he sense...fear? He must be mistaken.

But he couldn’t help himself reacting. He touched her chin and tilted her face so she had no choice but to meet his gaze.

‘I’m not an ogre.’

‘No, but—’

‘And I’m not Alan. Business only.’

She bit her lip and his suspicion of fear deepened.

Enough. There were few people to see this. Eileen’s lawyer was here to see things were done properly. The minister and the organist were essential. Jeanie’s friend Maggie completed the party. ‘I need Maggie for support,’ Jeanie had told him and it did look as if she needed the support right now. His bride was looking like a deer trapped in headlights.

He took her hands and they were shaking.

‘Jeanie...’

‘Let’s...let’s...’

‘Not if you’re not sure of me,’ he told her, gentling now, knowing this was the truth. ‘No money in the world is worth a forced marriage. If you’re afraid, if you don’t want it, then neither do I. If you don’t trust me, then walk away now.’

What was he saying? He was out of his mind. But he’d had to say it. She was shaking. Acting or not, he had to react to what he saw.

But now her chin was tilting in a gesture he was starting to recognise. She tugged her hands away and she managed a nod of decision.

‘Eileen trusted you,’ she managed. ‘And this is business. For castle, for keeps.’ She took a deep breath and turned to the minister. ‘Let’s get this over with,’ she told him. ‘Let’s get us married.’

* * *

The vows they spoke were the vows that were spoken the world over from time immemorial, between man and woman, between lovers becoming man and wife.