Nicola Cornick - The Lady and the Laird

Nicola Cornick's novels have received acclaim the world over

‘Cornick is first-class, queen of her game.’

—Romance Junkies

‘A rising star of the Regency arena’

—Publishers Weekly

Praise for the SCANDALOUS WOMEN OF THE TON series

‘A riveting read’

—NewYork Times bestselling author Mary Jo Putney on Whisper of Scandal

‘One of the finest voices in historical romance’

—SingleTitles.com

‘Ethan Ryder (is) a bad boy to die for! A memorable story of intense emotions, scandals, trust, betrayal and all-encompassing love. A fresh and engrossing tale.’

—Romantic Times on One Wicked Sin

‘Historical romance at its very best is written by Nicola Cornick.’

—Mary Gramlich, The Reading Reviewer

Acclaim for Nicola's previous books

‘Witty banter, lively action and sizzling passion’

—Library Journal on Undoing of a Lady

‘RITA ®Award-nominated Cornick deftly steeps her latest intriguingly complex Regency historical in a beguiling blend of danger and desire.’ —Booklist on Unmasked

www.mirabooks.co.uk

Don't miss the Scandalous Women of the Ton series, available now!

WHISPER OF SCANDAL

ONE WICKED SIN

MISTRESS BY MIDNIGHT

NOTORIOUS

DESIRED

FORBIDDEN

Also available from Nicola Cornick

DECEIVED

LORD OF SCANDAL

UNMASKED

THE CONFESSIONS OF A DUCHESS

THE SCANDALS OF AN INNOCENT

THE UNDOING OF A LADY

DAUNTSEY PARK: THE LAST RAKE IN LONDON

Browse www.mirabooks.co.uk or www.nicolacornick.co.uk for Nicola's full backlist

To Margaret McPhee, who writes delicious

books and shares delicious cakes

Contents

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

EPILOGUE

Endpages

PROLOGUE

Forres Castle, Scotland, June 1803

IT WAS A NIGHT made for magic.

The moon was new that night and the sea was a thread of shining silver. The wind sighed through the pine trees and there was the scent of salt on its edge.

“Lucy! Come and watch!”

Lady Lucy MacMorlan turned over in bed and drew the covers up more closely about her ears. She was warm and cozy and she had no urge to leave the cocoon of the blankets in order to shiver in the draught by the window. Besides, she did not want to join in with her sister Alice in casting a spell. They were foolish and dangerous and would only get the two of them into trouble.

“I’m not getting up,” she said, wriggling her toes in the warmth. “I don’t want a husband.”

“Of course you do.” Alice sounded impatient. At sixteen, Lucy’s twin was fascinated by balls and gowns and men. Earlier that evening, Alice had run three times around the ancient sundial in the castle grounds, reciting the words of the equally ancient love spell that on the new moon would give her a glimpse of the man she would wed. Lucy had stayed in the library, reading a copy of Hume’s Essays Moral and Political. Now, after sunset, Alice was awaiting the outcome of her enchantment.

“Of course you will marry,” Alice said again. “What else would you do?”

Read, Lucy thought. Read and write and study. It was more fun.

“Everyone marries.” Alice sounded grown-up, knowledgeable. “We are to make alliances and have children. It’s what the daughters of a duke do. Everyone says so.”

Marry. Have children.

Lucy thought about it, considering the idea rationally as she did all ideas. It was true that it was expected of them, and no doubt it was what their mother would have wanted. She had died when Lucy and Alice were no more than a few years old, but everyone said she had been the diamond of her generation, the elegant daughter of the Earl of Stratharnon who had made a dazzling match and produced a perfect brood of children. Lucy and Alice’s elder sister Mairi was eighteen and already wed. Lucy was not averse to the idea, but she thought she would have to meet a man who was more interesting than a book, and that was more difficult than it sounded.

“Lucy!” Alice’s voice had turned sharp. “Look! Oh look, some of the gentlemen are coming out onto the terrace with their brandy! Which one will I see first? He will be my true love.”

“You have windmills in your head,” Lucy said, “to believe such nonsense.”

Alice was not crushed. She never listened when she was excited. Their father was hosting a dinner that evening, but both his younger daughters were still in the schoolroom and had not been invited. There was a pause. Through the open window, Lucy could hear the sound of voices from below now, masculine laughter. A trace of cigar smoke tickled her nose. There was the clink of glass on stone.

“Oh!” Alice sounded intrigued. “Who is that? I can’t see his face clearly—”

“That will be because he has his back to you,” Lucy said crossly. She was trying to sleep, but it was impossible while Alice kept talking. “Remember the spell. If he has his back to you, that means he will be a false love, not a true one.”

Alice made a dismissive sound. “It’s one of Lord Purnell’s sons, but which?”

“They are all too old for you,” Lucy said. She hunched a shoulder against her sister’s chatter. “Don’t let anyone see you,” she added. “Papa will be furious to hear of one of his daughters hanging out of the window in her nightgown. You’ll be ruined before you are even out.”

Alice was still not listening. She never listened if she did not want to hear. She was like a butterfly, bright and inconsequential, flitting off, paying no attention. “It is Hamish Purnell,” she said. She sounded disappointed. “He is already wed.”

“I told you it was nonsense,” Lucy said.

“Oh, they are arguing!” Excitement leaped into Alice’s voice again. She was as changeable as a weather vane, all disappointment forgotten in a moment. She threw Lucy a glance and then pushed the window open higher, leaning out of the stone embrasure. “Lucy!” she hissed. “Come and see!”

Lucy had heard the change in the voices from the terrace. One moment everything had been smooth and civilized, and the next there was an edge of anger, violence, even, that rippled across her skin, making the hairs stand on end. She slid from the bed and padded across the floor to where Alice was kneeling on the window seat, her body tense as a strung bow, to witness the scene below.

Two men were confronting each other on the terrace directly beneath them. They stood sideways to Lucy, so she could see neither of their faces. She recognized her cousin Wilfred’s voice though, smooth, patrician, holding the slightest sneer.

“Why are you here tonight, Methven? You’re no one, a younger son. I cannot believe my uncle invited you.”

His tone was full of contempt and deliberate provocation. Someone laughed. The men pressed closer, almost encircling the pair like a pack of dogs closing in, sensing a fight.

“Oh!” Alice said. “How rude and horrible Wilfred is! I hate him!”

Lucy had always hated her cousin Wilfred too. He was eighteen, heir to the earldom of Cardross, and he reveled in his status and his family connection to the Duke of Forres. He had spent the past year in London, where rumor said he had spent all his substance on drink and cards and women. Wilfred was snobbish, conceited and boorish, and here, surrounded by his kinsmen and followers, he thought he was brave.