To Tempt A Gentleman

by Kate Huntington

Genres: Regency Romance

Synopsis

Simply Irresistible When an elderly relative passes away, the last thing Sir Michael Stewart expects is a bequest--especially a lushly attractive young woman determined to move into his home! The old lady's former companion and housekeeper, Catriona Grant has promised to take care of him now, but Michael doesn't need her help: The stubborn lass has far too many ideas about letting the sunshine in and chasing the doldrums out. Widowed and content at his remote and admittedly rather bleak estate on Scotland's coast, Michael has only one solution--finding Miss Grant a husband of her own. But letting her go isn't as easy as he imagined--especially when he discovers that what passed for contentment before has been shattered by fantasies of the sweet tilt of Catriona's lips, and the soft curves of her body. . . Praise for the Novels of Kate Huntington "Kate Huntington's reputation for frothy, fun-filled frolics is well earned with this charming tale of an amazingly stubborn family that doesn't realize just how much they care for each other. Fast-paced and fun."-- Romantic Times on Town Bronze "Ms. Huntington has a flare for character and dialogue that puts her in the upper echelon of regency writers."-- Rendezvous on Lady Diana's Darlings

Release date: November 20, 2014

Publisher: Regency

Print pages: 253

Sample

Dumfries, Scotland, 1817

“Catriona, I am going to die today.”

Catriona Grant bit her lip and forced a cheerful tone to her voice as she patted her elderly cousin Sophie’s forehead with a cloth dampened in rosewater.

“Nonsense,” Catriona said. “You say that all the time. I think you just enjoy the attention. You are not going to die.”

“Well, dear. We are all going to die,” Cousin Sophie said with the touch of astringency that marked her speech, even on bad days when her voice was a weak, wispy little thread of sound. “I mean it this time.”

No, Catriona thought grimly. I will not let you go.

Her cousin was ninety years old, and her continued existence was a testament to Catriona’s careful nursing. She had been at death’s door when Catriona came to live with her two years ago.

“Will you have some chicken broth? You must keep up your strength.”

Sophie Tilden’s gnarled, old hand clasped Catriona’s smooth, young one.

“Chicken broth,” the old lady said in distaste. “The problem with officious young people is they have no respect for the dying. Do you think I want to pass from this world with the taste of chicken broth on my lips? Fetch me a glass of port, girl. The good stuff that Sir Michael brought us for Christmas last year.”

“Spirits are not good for you in your condition.”

“Catriona, my dearest. You cannot keep me alive forever.”

“I can try.” She would not cry in front of her kind benefactress. She would not. There would be time enough to cry for her when she was gone.

“I am tired. Everyone I love except you and Michael has preceded me in death.”

“But what would I do without you?”

“What would you do if you were not burdened with an old lady like me? You would get married to a good man and have children. And Sir Michael would do well to have you.”

“No more of that talk, madam,” Catriona said. “The last thing Sir Michael wants is a wife of questionable reputation whose own family has disowned her.”

“What fustian rubbish you talk. That was years ago. Everyone will have forgotten it by now.”

“I have not forgotten. I do not want to talk about it.”

Cousin Sophie gave her a coy look. It quite transformed her thin, pale, wrinkled face.

“What will you give me if I stop?”

Catriona had to smile.

“That glass of port?”

“Excellent. And not your usual pathetic thimbleful, if you please.”

“Very well. If you will excuse me . . .”

“I will. And hurry. I have not much time.” But she was smiling. When Catriona returned, Cousin Sophie accepted the glass with both shaking hands, and Catriona still had to support it as she took a sip.

“Just a little,” Catriona cautioned her as the old lady took a large gulp.

“Do not be so stingy, girl,” the old lady said with a sigh of pleasure. She closed her eyes. “More.” Catriona tilted the glass carefully to her lips again. Even so, a bit dripped from her lips and Cousin Sophie’s tongue snaked out and savored it. “I feel better already. You sent word to Sir Michael?”

“I did,” Catriona said as the smile faded from her face. At least once a month at her benefactress’s request she sent word to Sir Michael Stewart that he was wanted at Cousin Sophie’s deathbed, and, miraculously, the old lady rallied as soon as she had them both dancing attendance on her.

This will be no different, Catriona said firmly to herself. A bit of attention from Sir Michael, and Cousin Sophie would be her old outrageous self.

Sir Michael Stewart was a worthy gentleman who owned the house Cousin Sophie occupied as well as a large estate crowning a hill outside Dumfries and several farms surrounding it. He bred horses and grew oats. He had been widowed tragically young when his beautiful wife, Cousin Sophie’s London-bred niece, died in childbirth. His daughters had been married off in ceremonies worthy of princesses, not that Catriona would have been invited to attend them, and lived in London.

Neither of Sir Michael’s daughters had been to Scotland to visit their father or Cousin Sophie, who had quite doted on them when they were children, for at least a year. Cousin Sophie wrote dutifully to both of them each week when she was able and had Catriona write to them under her direction when she was too frail to hold pen to paper. They rarely wrote back.

“Why does he not come?” Cousin Sophie said. “You have the letter, do you not, Catriona? Just in case he does not come in time?”

“It will not be needed,” Catriona said firmly.

“But you have it?” her cousin asked anxiously.

“Of course. It is right there, on top of the desk, where it always is.”

“Good. You will not forget to give it to him when I am dead?”

“No. Although that will not be for many years yet.”

Sophie signaled Catriona for another sip of wine. Catriona pursed her disapproving lips at her and then relented. She held the glass as Sophie took a delicate sip.

“Now, that is the flavor I want to have in my mouth when I enter eternity,” she said.

“I think that is enough,” Catriona said.

Cousin Sophie made a face at her.

“Do you know that Pastor Wilkins says in heaven time goes so fast that centuries can pass in the blink of an eye?” she asked. “When you die, it seems the people you left behind join you almost instantly.”

“Cousin Sophie,” Catriona said with a long sigh.

“Pastor Wilkins is a silly, sentimental young fool, but I hope he is right,” Cousin Sophie said. “I would like to believe that a moment after I close my eyes in death, I will open them in heaven to find you and Sir Michael right beside me.”

“No more wine for you,” Catriona said dryly as she held Cousin Sophie’s hand. “It is making you maudlin.”

Cousin Sophie chuckled as Catriona kissed her on the forehead as if she were a beloved child.

Then she closed her eyes and died.

Catriona could hear the maid weeping. She had not stopped for the past quarter hour. In that time, Catriona had closed Cousin Sophie’s eyes and tied her slackened jaw to make sure it would not harden in an undignified position. Then she sat quietly next to the corpse and felt strangely comforted.

The world, except for the maid, did not know yet that Cousin Sophie was dead. For the moment, she could almost pretend her cousin was merely sleeping as she did every afternoon at this time, and she would wake a bit confused and querulous, wanting her dinner.

She looked up when Sir Michael Stewart rushed into the small bedchamber with his coattails flying and an expression of concern on his austere, yet handsome, face. His brown eyes were sad, and his ascetic cheekbones were reddened from the wind.

“Is she gone, then?” he asked in a hushed voice. “You are certain?”

“I am certain,” Miss Grant said softly. “Her last words were of you and me in heaven. I wrote them down.”

He took the paper from her hand, read it, and closed his eyes.

“I should have come sooner. I was out in one of the oat fields when the message came, and it took my farmer some time to find me.” He walked to the bed and touched the dead lady’s gray curls with an affectionate hand. “The world has lost one of its purest souls, although she would have scoffed to hear me say so.”

He glanced at Catriona’s face.

“I am sorry for your loss,” he said.

Catriona had no words for the moment, so she merely nodded.

The young maid came into the room with her coat in her hands. She was weeping still.

“I am going to my mother’s,” the girl said. “I won’t stay the night with a corpse in the house.”

“Very well, Maisie. I shall manage without you,” Catriona said calmly as the girl whirled and practically ran from the room. Catriona took the letter from the table and handed it to the gentleman. “Here is a letter from Cousin Sophie, Sir Michael. I promised her I would give it to you.”

He glanced at the letter and the wax seal.

“I shall open it later in private,” he said.

“As you wish,” Catriona said. “I must prepare . . . her.”

He hesitated.

“Shall I call on Mrs. Wilkins and ask her to come help you?”

“I can manage, I thank you,” she said. “I have bathed and tended poor Cousin Sophie many times. I would not relinquish this office to another now.”

“Nevertheless, I do not like to leave you alone at a time like this. I shall go fetch Mrs. Wilkins and bid her take you home with her tonight.”

“And leave poor Cousin Sophie alone in the house as if she were unloved and unmourned? How could I do such a thing after her very great kindness to me?” Catriona said. “I will keep watch over her tonight.”

“You are not afraid to be alone with the . . . deceased?”

“I could never be afraid of Cousin Sophie.”

“Very well, then. I shall arrange for a coffin to be brought here.”

“One with a sky blue lining,” Catriona said, smiling sadly. “It was her wish. She always thought the color became her like no other.”

“It shall be done,” said Sir Michael. He went to stand by the bed and look upon Cousin Sophie’s poor dead face for a long moment. Then he pressed Catriona’s hand and left.

As the solicitor’s voice droned on with the usual pompous statements that, as a rule, preceded a deceased citizen’s last wishes, Sir Michael took a sip of wine, which was unfortunate because he choked and nearly spewed it across the room when the solicitor got to the point.

“She left me what?” Sir Michael sputtered.

“Miss Catriona Grant. Her distant cousin who acted as her companion and housekeeper. Mrs. Tilden would insist upon phrasing the, er, bequest in this manner, Sir Michael, despite my strong advice to the contrary. The deceased, if you will permit me to say so, was possessed of a highly unusual sense of humor.” He cleared his throat. “Mrs. Tilden said you would need a good woman to take charge of you before your house tumbled down around your ears. What she wished, I venture to say, was for you to accept Miss Grant into your household as housekeeper.”

Housekeeper, indeed. Sir Michael knew very well the precious old meddler wanted him to accept Miss Grant into his household as his second wife despite the number of times he had told her that he had no intention of marrying again, especially to a woman so much younger than himself. The private letter Mrs. Tilden had caused Miss Grant to give to him on the day of her death made her wishes in the matter of Miss Grant’s future abundantly clear.

Sir Michael agreed with Mrs. Tilden completely on the point that Miss Grant should be married. But surely she should be married to a man of an age more suitable to her own. Until she found this paragon, she must have friends or relatives somewhere who would take charge of her.

Fortunately, as custom dictated, Miss Grant had not been present at the reading of the will to hear how her cousin had intended to dispose of her future, and thus she was spared this awkwardness. He could only assume that she would be as embarrassed by it as he was himself. Sir Michael showed the solicitor from the house and returned to the parlor, where Miss Grant was sitting alone near the large table upon which the coffin had been placed for the funeral. Now her cousin was buried in the churchyard, and Miss Grant was all alone.

She stood when he entered the room.

“It is done, then,” she said. Much to his relief, her face was composed, although its lines were solemn.

“Yes. Mrs. Wilkins bade me bring you to her house tonight, Miss Grant.”

“Please thank Mrs. Wilkins for me, but there is much work to be done. There is the house to be set in order, for I understand you mean to sell it. And I must sort through Cousin Sophie’s belongings. There are some things she wishes me to give to others.” She picked up a small box from the table. “Here are some objects she wished to give to your daughters.”

She opened the box to show him the small, heart-shaped pendant with the small pearl at its center and the seed-pearl ring, which would be suitable for a girl not quite out of the schoolroom. Possibly Mrs. Tilden still thought of Sir Michael’s grown daughters as children, for she certainly had not seen them once they made their debuts and embraced town life. Or perhaps she merely intended for them to give them to the girl children they would have in the future.

“Mrs. Tilden hoped they would pay a visit to her so she could give these things to them in person. She mentioned it several times,” he said, feeling ashamed of his daughters, whom he had reared to show respect for their elders. Mrs. Tilden had been an affectionate surrogate grandmother to the motherless little girls. But Dorothea and Marguerite were all grown up now and puffed up in their own esteem as wives of important men. Both hated being quite out of the world in the wilds of Scotland at their father’s dull estate and made excuse after excuse to stay in London.

“I will see they get them,” he said as he accepted the box. “I do not expect you to prepare the house for sale. You have exceeded your obligation to me and mine by taking such good care of Mrs. Tilden these two years. I will hire some of the village girls for the purpose when you have taken your departure.”

“You wish me to leave immediately, then.”

“Absolutely not,” he said. “I would not turn you out of your home so abruptly, poor girl. You must stay as long as you wish. If I may be of service in contacting any of your relations with whom you would wish to live, I would be happy to do so.”

“I have no relatives who will own me, Sir Michael,” she said, chin lifted in defiance. “I have no intention of contacting any of them.”

“Then where will you go?”

“My future has been taken care of.”

He gave a sigh of relief.

“I am heartily glad to hear it. As I said, Mrs. Wilkins would be pleased to have you stay with her tonight. I understand that your cousin’s silly maid refuses to return to the house.”

“Maisie? Believe me, Sir Michael, I am better off without her. She’s a good girl, is Maisie, but she would keep me up half the night babbling of ghosts. Do not worry about me.”

“Very well, then,” he said. He started to ask again where she would go, but he realized that although he had seen her often in the two years she had lived with her cousin, she was a virtual stranger to him. She might interpret further interest in her destination as being overly familiar. Perhaps she was going to some man. She was certainly pretty enough to attract the interest of one. If so, it was certainly none of his business. “Do not hesitate to send me word if I may be of service to you.”

“I will not,” she said. She extended her hand, and he took it. “I thank you for your kindness, Sir Michael.”

Her hand was cold in his, but her grip was steady enough. She would do, he told himself. And he could leave her to her own devices with a clear conscience.

Catriona looked about her at the house that had been her home for the past two years. The mellow wood of Mrs. Tilden’s outmoded furniture had been polished to a high gloss. The floors were gleaming with paste wax. Mrs. Tilden’s prized Turkey carpet had been beaten, swept clean, and rolled up for transport. Her back was aching from all her hard work over the past several days. Sir Michael had sent several girls to assist her, but Catriona had dismissed them. She wanted to be alone with her cousin’s memory, for she could feel her benevolent soul all about her in this house and draw comfort from it. She would miss Cousin Sophie so much, and the company of outsiders would only make her feel more bereft.

That afternoon, Catriona had folded all the old lady’s clothes and placed them in two portmanteaux to be removed by the pastor’s sturdy sons. Mr. and Mrs. Wilkins had promised to distribute them to their parishioners who had the most need of them. It had been hard to part with these clothes, for they still smelled of Cousin Sophie’s favorite violet scent and the faint, not unpleasant musky odor of aging flesh.

Her favorite hat. Her almost-new gloves. The comfortable shoes that were worn a bit on one side of the heel. Catriona gave them all away.

Catriona kept only the jewelry that Cousin Sophie insisted she must have: the ruby brooch, the amethyst earrings, the cameo pendant, and the stunning emerald ring she had been given by her long-dead bridegroom on her wedding day. Cousin Sophie’s Turkey carpet would go to Sir Michael.

Darling Cousin Sophie. How kind she had been to Catriona when she most needed kindness.

None of that, my girl, Catriona told herself. She had cried and cried for Cousin Sophie, but now she was done.

She set her jaw, put on her coat, and went out to the street, where the hired carriage was waiting. She watched solemnly as the driver heaved the rolled-up carpet into the coach.

Her fortnight of self-indulgence was over. It was time to fulfill her last promise to Cousin Sophie.

“A lady? In this weather? And at this time of night?” Sir Michael said in astonishment when his elderly butler came to inform him that he had a visitor.

“A female, Sir Michael,” that disapproving man said, looking down his nose at the vicarious affront. “Mrs. Tilden’s cousin.”

“Miss Grant? It must be a serious matter if it brings her out on a night like this. Where have you put her?”

“In the hall, sir.”

“In the hall? You should have brought her in immediately.”

“She was dripping, sir. Quite a lot, if you will permit me to say so.”

Michael rose at once and went out into the hall.

“My dear young woman, are you all right?” he asked when he saw his visitor. Her fair hair was wet and curling in the damp. Her cheeks were pale. “What has happened?”

She started to answer, but he stopped her.

“Never mind. We will make you comfortable first, and then you may tell me.”

He could hear the poor girl’s teeth chattering. It was a bitter night for early autumn. Michael helped her remove her wet coat and handed it to the butler, who looked as if he would like to curl his lip in disapproval but did not quite dare. Instead he walked away with it, holding it far from his body as if it might be infested with fleas. In general, Timms, the butler, did not approve of females, but Michael knew he could trust the man to dry the coat by the fire.

Michael put his hand at the small of Miss Grant’s back to guide her out of the hall and into his parlor. He seated her in a chair by the fire and poured a glass of brandy for her.

“Better now?” he asked after she had taken a sip.

“Much. I thank you,” she said with a faint smile.

“Good. Now tell me how I may be of assistance to you.”

“Actually, Sir Michael, I have come to be of assistance to you.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“It was my Cousin Sophie’s wish that I come to you after her death and take charge of this place. Surely you knew that she intended this. It was in the letter she left for you.”

“Well, yes,” he said, deeply shocked. “But I assumed she would not tell you—”

“She had to. I wrote the letter for her.”

“But surely you did not take it seriously.”

“Of course I did. She was devoted to you, Sir Michael. It grieved her that since your wife’s death you have lived all alone here except for a few servants. She made me promise I would take care of you, and I shall.”

“She made me promise I would take care of you as well. To that end, I have arranged with my banker to give you a sum of money. Did he not inform you?”

Incredibly, she looked annoyed.

“I did not ask for your charity. I have come here to work. Surely your banker informed you that I refused your gift.”

“I assumed you refused the money in the freshness of your grief, for it would have been natural for you to be confused, at first, by this abrupt change in your circumstances. This sum will enable you to make a new life for yourself.”

“. . .