Disguised in Tartan (Colors of Scandal, #14), page 1
Disguised in Tartan
Colors of Scandal
Book Fourteen
Sandra Sookoo
All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including photocopying, recording or by any information retrieval and storage system without permission of the author. Likenesses of characters to anyone living or dead is strictly a coincidence.
DISGUISED IN TARTAN © 2022 by Sandra Sookoo
Published by New Independence Books
ISBN- 9798201370954
Contact Information:
sandrasookoo@yahoo.com
newindependencebooks@gmail.com
Visit me at www.sandrasookoo.com
Book Cover Design by The Midnight Muse
https://midnightmusedesigns.com/site2/
Font placement and back cover by: David Sookoo
Publishing History:
First Digital Edition, 2022
Dear Readers,
I hope you enjoy this book. Ever since I wrote Embellished in Mauve in this series, I’ve been wanting to set another romance in the Scottish Highlands.
This time around, I went with a runaway bride type of scenario. I based the hero’s family loosely around the legend of the Campbells, with a twist. At some point, he tells of the Battle of Glencoe, and he’s truly sorry for what happened, has vowed to never forget and to lead his branch of the family down a different path.
I based Lyon Castle on Taymouth Castle because I loved the descriptions and the pictures of the ancient ruins. Can you imagine living in a castle? The hero’s family tartan was based on the Breadalbane branch of the Campbell line.
The rest came from pure imagination. I had such a great time in the Highlands again. I hope one day I can travel there and see the sights I write about.
Sandra
Dedication
To Kat Tolle. Thank you for being such a wonderful supporter of my books over the years and a champion to me when things aren’t bright. I appreciate your friendship and your dedication to great books. Never change.
Contents
Dear Readers,
Dedication
Blurb
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
Regency-era romances by Sandra Sookoo
Author Bio
Stay in Touch
Blurb
Running into the arms of a handsome, powerful laird will either be her greatest folly or a profitable gamble.
Donovan Ewan Campbell-Ainsley, Earl of Hollandbane, and the current sitting Laird of Lyon Castle is not best pleased when scandal lands on his doorstep in the form of a pretty but long-in-the tooth woman trailing nothing but tittle-tattle. Though he’s half-Scottish and lives in London, he spends the summers and autumns at his castle in the Highlands for reasons he wishes to keep to himself. Yet she’s in immediate danger, and he’s nothing if not a gentleman.
The Honorable Emma Radcliffe is no stranger to scandal, but when she can’t go through with her nuptial ceremony, she flees the church. Who cares if it’s her third broken engagement? When a friend encourages her to hide in Scotland, that’s when the trouble really begins. The moment she lays eyes on the laird, she knows he’ll be the perfect man with whom to keep her father, family, and her angry fiancé at bay.
It takes next to no time to hatch a haphazard plan: they’ll pretend an engagement. It will silence his family’s blather for him to find a bride as well as remove her from immediate responsibility. There’s one problem: neither of them expected to actually like the other. As the days go on, the fiction grows larger until desire can no longer be denied, but unless they both come to terms with why they’re hiding from the truth, a happily ever after between them will be forever out of reach.
Chapter One
September 20, 1818
Surrey, England
Oh, tea and crumpets, I simply cannot go through with this!
The Honorable Emma Susan Radcliffe sent what felt like a panicked glance to her groom-to-be, who stood next to her at the front of the little village church. Mr. Jonathan Roberts was a decent fellow who was neither short nor tall. Not handsome or ugly, he could easily be overlooked on the street and just as easily forgotten once someone had passed him. And his yearly income would ensure they wouldn’t be paupers. There was nothing wrong with that, of course, yet he had nothing else to recommend him. No sense of humor, no talent or leaning toward painting, singing, or writing. The sad fact of the matter was that he was all too... dull.
Can I spend a lifetime with such a man?
As her nose tingled, Emma put a finger beneath it to stave off the urge to sneeze. She’d been in the Surrey countryside for the better part of a year, for the pollution and the grime of London set off a host of respiratory problems and made it difficult to breathe, yet even here, something in the air bothered her, and that led to sneezing and wheezing. Neither of which were attractive qualities, yet who was she to complain, for at just turned thirty, she had been rather firmly on the shelf for more years than she cared to count.
Not by choice, of course, but that didn’t matter when the subject of making a good match had been drilled into her practically since birth. Such was the lot of women in this world. There was no point to them if they weren’t marrying, reproducing, or bolstering the lives of the men they were attached to, and she had only known of this man for three months. He and her father had struck the deal six weeks before. She had been alone with Mr. Roberts all of one time, and even then, he hadn’t tried to kiss her. Neither had he given her a token of his affection or his intent. No, there was nothing remarkable about him or his courtship if one could call it that.
Dear God.
Another wave of panic welled up in her chest. If she didn’t do something soon, she would suffer another bout of hyperventilation, which would lead to an episode of fainting. Already, she was the subject for the gossipmongers. Best not to give them additional fuel to add to the fire.
“Good morning, everyone.” The vicar had entered the church.
A murmur of greeting swept through the congregation of witnesses that perhaps amounted to nearly five and twenty people.
So many people I’ll disappoint.
As Vicar Abrams came to stand in front of them, her pulse leapt; her palms began to sweat inside her ivory kid gloves. Again, she cast a glance at the man beside her, and though he turned his head to look at her, he raised a blond eyebrow in question. Mild inquiry shadowed his eyes, and if she pretended hard enough, there might be a smidgeon of affection. Mr. Roberts had been married once before and was nearing forty. He had one child by his previous wife... a child who would join them after their short wedding trip... a child she had yet to meet due to the aforementioned subject of rumor.
In short, she was a risk in more ways than one. That was fair. No sense in introducing her to all and sundry when there was a high chance she wouldn’t stick around. The panic in her chest grew until it threatened to strangle her.
This is my wedding day, and I cannot do this.
The trouble with that was the fact that history repeated itself. Not once. Not even twice. Oh, no. This was the third time in the last five years that she would leave a man at the nuptial altar without explanation or even regret. The third time she would run and leave scandal trailing in her wake. The third time her father would take her to task. Except, he would wash his hands of her now.
What the deuce is wrong with me?
She didn’t know, but she suspected that if she ever took the time to analyze why, it wouldn’t reflect well on her. Already, she was the talk of the village. Truth be told, that gossip had no doubt reached London and points beyond, but what could she do? Marrying a man she didn’t love or know—let alone like—was simply untenable.
And why shouldn’t I have at least that in my life?
“Shall we begin?” The words from the vicar brought her reeling precariously closer to the tipping point.
Mr. Roberts chuckled. The sound brought her no comfort. “I don’t see why not.”
Emma’s mouth went dry from fright. If she didn’t do something, in mere minutes she would find herself the wife of this man! Yet what was there to say? Knowing her father—the Viscount Brightwell—and with her history of running in mind, he’d probably set a footman at the church door to prevent her from leaving. To give him credit, he was running out of patience.
Well, so am I, Papa. I’m tired of being presented eligible candidates who aren’t remotely interesting once you look away from their lives on paper.
And she’d spent too much of her life trapped in boring and dull things. Marriage shouldn’t be added to the pile.
As prickling heat raced over her skin in tiny red dots, Vicar Abrams opened his well-worn copy of the Book of Common Prayer. Emma’s breath came in shallow pants. Merciful heavens, the ceremony was about to begin, so if she wanted out, she must speak.
“Dearly beloved, we are gathered together here in the sight of God, and in the face of this congregation, to join together this Man and this Woman in holy Matrimony; which is an honorable estate, instituted of God in the time of man’s innocency, signifying unto us the mystical union that is betwixt Christ and his Church...”
Tea and crumpets! This is truly happening, and my fate will not change unless I do!
“I must say something,” she whispered, but the words were a choked sort of sound.
Mr. Roberts took her hand and laid it upon his crooked arm. He patted her hand. “Settle, Miss Radcliffe. It will soon be over. No need for nerves.”
There was every need! The urge to retch climbed her throat. Hot saliva filled her mouth. Emma swallowed a few times in succession to keep it at bay. In mere moments, she would be this man’s wife, and that would make her equally forgotten. She didn’t survive years of childhood illness, years of being bedridden, to attain invisibility by wedding a mediocre man who would frown at the idea of her exploring the world and discovering what she wanted from her life, for she hadn’t had that opportunity.
Instead of speaking, when a whiff of Mr. Roberts shaving soap—something citrus with sandalwood—hit her nose, she sneezed once.
Twice.
Her eyes watered. Sandalwood was one of those things that set her senses out of whack and made the act of breathing difficult. Because she hadn’t spent much time with him, she had no idea that was his preferred scent. A lifetime ahead of more wheezing and blocked air passageways?
No thank you.
And still the ceremony droned on as the vicar spoke directly to Mr. Roberts.
“Wilt thou have this Woman to thy wedded Wife, to live together after God’s ordinance in the holy estate of Matrimony? Wilt thou love her, comfort her, honor, and keep her in sickness and in health; and, forsaking all others, keep thee only unto her, so long as ye both shall live?”
Oh, dear Lord.
In a clear voice, he answered, “I will.”
No. No, no, no! Emma’s jitters increased and panic built as the minister addressed her. She sneezed again and dropped her hand from Mr. Roberts’ arm.
“Wilt thou have this Man to thy wedded Husband, to live together after God’s ordinance in the holy estate of Matrimony? Wilt thou obey him, and serve him, love, honor, and keep him in sickness and in health; and, forsaking all others, keep thee only unto him, so long as ye both shall live?”
Not if I can conceivably help it.
Her chest tightened while her body tensed for flight. Where was the harm in running? It wasn’t as if this was the first desertion she’d initiated.
Now or never, Emma-bug. That was the endearment her mother used to call her, and it always served to bring her comfort.
“No,” she whispered in a barely audible voice meant for the vicar and Mr. Roberts alone. She laid a hand on her groom-to-be’s sleeve as he turned his head to regard her with confusion in his expression. “I heartily apologize, but we must call a halt to this ceremony.”
“We are underway, Miss Radcliffe.” Again, he patted her hand as if that would solve everything. “It will be over soon, and the nerves will fade.” He exchanged an indulgent glance with the vicar, as well as a chuckle. No doubt they thought she was a frightened innocent afraid of the marriage bed.
The panic had reached a breaking point, and she snapped. “No! You don’t understand.” When Vicar Abrams cleared his throat and glanced pointedly at his open book, Emma moved to stand between him and Mr. Roberts. She raised her gaze to his. “You and I cannot wed today.”
He frowned. A tinge of red shadowed his cheekbones. “That is inconvenient, of course, but we can postpone if you’re not ready.”
“You are not listening, Mr. Roberts!” It was a known problem among men. In her vexation, Emma stomped a slipper-covered foot. “I won’t be marrying you today or ever.”
Gasps and exclamations from the assembled guests went up throughout the church.
Well, at least she was familiar with the embarrassment. Heat swept through Emma’s cheeks. “I’m certain you are a wonderful man—” one would assume, “—but just not a wonderful man for me.”
Mr. Roberts widened his eyes. “But we suit—”
“We don’t, and how would know besides? We’ve not spent time with each other. You merely made a bargain with my father to have me off his hands.” It was unfortunate those words slipped out. Past her groom-to-be’s right shoulder, her father’s face was purpling, in embarrassment or anger, she couldn’t say. She snapped her regard back to Mr. Roberts. “And you are simply not inspiring.”
He reached for her hand, which she snatched behind her back. “I can change.”
“Perhaps. All men are capable of it, but you will remain the same. We both know it. The bald truth is, you simply don’t inspire me.”
And that was part of the problem. It always had been each time she arrived at the wedding altar. After spending years in the sick bed, Emma refused to spend years in the marriage bed with a man who didn’t at least give her tingles and gooseflesh.
“I don’t understand what that means.”
Exactly.
“Which is why a marriage between us simply won’t work.” Why would a woman want a man who had no imagination? Conversation, as well as carnal relations, would suffer the same boring inattention.
“This is preposterous!” The bellow came from her father as he scrambled to his feet. “The contract has already been signed and the dowry accepted.” His silver pocket watch chain strained and stretched to its limit across the bulk of his belly hidden by a jaunty tweed waistcoat of rust and yellow.
“Oh, Papa.” Emma flicked a glance at him. “Be that as it may, I’m old enough to know my own mind—well past that age if you want the truth of it.” Yet here she was, standing at the marriage altar with yet another ill-suited groom. She looked past him, and her gaze alighted on her best friend—Oliva Elsbeth Campbell-Ainsley. The only person who’d stood steadfastly by her side through every illness, every setback, every removal from London to various places around England for her health. With a pounding heart, Emma gestured to the front door of the church with her chin.
By this point, the escape plan was like a well-oiled machine.
The dark-haired, petite woman nodded. Quietly, she slipped out, and her yellow taffeta skirts slapped about her ankles.
A movement from her would-be groom recalled her attention to him. “What is the meaning of your silence? Your father and I have indeed come to an understanding. The bank transfer has already gone through.”
She frowned. Had he been talking while she’d been woolgathering? It mattered not. Suddenly, it was all too much. Her chest hurt, and the muscles in her body were overly tight. The staring, the whispers, the gossip that was already out the door, her father’s anger. Emma huffed. Was it too much to expect that the people around her would give her the benefit of the doubt, or ask her why she left men at the altar?
“It means there is nothing remotely compelling about you, Mr. Roberts. I cannot summon even false enthusiasm to be your wife.” More gasps followed the scandalous statement. Blustering from her father echoed off the walls. She ignored it all. “Furthermore, I’ve spent half my life alone. I don’t want to spend my marriage that way too.”
“What?” He stared with eyes that were beginning to bug out. A fact she hadn’t noticed before.
“I’ve heard the rumors you’re so anxious to cover. You possess a roaming eye, Mr. Roberts.” Emma glared at her father. “Shame on you for thinking I’d take him or even overlook that habit. I may be on the shelf, but I am still worth a man’s fidelity.”
Mottled red color filled Mr. Roberts’ face. “That’s not strictly true, Miss Radcliffe. I used to be that man but am that no longer. I’m reformed and—”
“And you need a mother for your child. Nothing more.” Emma refused to give quarter. Once the words had started to pour forth, she couldn’t quell them. “I want more from a man than that.” She snapped her fingers. “And if you think I’m so desperate for children, there are plenty in workhouses and orphanages that I could have my pick if I so choose.”
Another round of gasps circulated through the guests. Even Vicar Abrams gawked.
