Instead, he’d carefully avoided any hint that his family was among the most elite in England.
The Earl of Berne. She’d heard the title before but knew little about the family. Now, she knew John was a viscount who would one day be an earl.
Even the man she’d briefly considered for marriage, Lord Lockhart, was of a lower rank. Laird Glenscannadoo was lower still.
She sniffed and sat up to pour herself another dram. The whisky burned pleasantly, warming her belly.
He’d lied to her. Seduced her with burning glances. Lain with her in this very bed. Kissed her and made love to her and insisted she become his wife. And, all the while, he’d lied and lied and lied. She hadn’t asked why, but she could guess.
A woman. Perhaps the modest modiste from Paris. Perhaps someone else. Regardless, John Huxley was bitterly cynical about women. He’d misjudged her motives from the start, accusing her of all manner of seduction when she’d done naught but compliment the man’s eyes once or twice. Pure nonsense. He was bonnie as the sunrise, for God’s sake. Was she meant to ignore it? And his laugh sent waves of pleasure down her spine. And his love for his family fair melted her heart. And … well, John Huxley was a braw slice of heaven when he wasn’t accusing her of being a greedy conniver.
Sipping her dram, she stared across the room at the lilac silk gown he’d purchased for her, draped across the back of a chair. Lovely silk from an enchanting man.
No, he’d obviously been targeted before. And he wanted a wife who wanted him without the title attached. Which was why he’d been so wounded by her indecision when he’d proposed.
She wished that made everything better. She wished understanding his reasons meant she could trust him again. But she had wounds of her own, and not being believed was the biggest one of all.
A knock sounded at the door. “I’m comin’ in, lass,” Angus announced in his deep rumble. “Are ye decent?”
She took another drink, leaning back against her pillows and enjoying the deep fire of MacPherson whisky.
Her door inched open. Angus’s iron-gray head poked inside. “Annie?”
“This is fine stuff.” She held up the glass, admiring the golden color. “Better than last year’s lot.”
He entered and closed the door before sitting gingerly on the foot of her bed. “Aye. Take care ye dinnae drown yerself in it.”
Her head was swimming, but she thought Angus sounded quieter than usual. Hesitant. Angus was never hesitant.
“What am I to do, Da?” she whispered.
He held out his hand. She slid hers inside. That big, strong paw closed around her fingers as he looked her in the eye. “Marry the lad.”
With the glass in her hand, she rubbed at the ache beneath her breastbone. It slid against her plaid, but the pain did not ease. “I cannae trust him.”
“Ye think ye cannae. But he loves ye.” Angus paused. “I love ye, too.”
His face blurred. She dropped her gaze to their hands. “Then, why did ye keep the truth from me?”
A deep sigh. “’Twas part of the agreement. He came to see me at the distillery.” In low, deep tones, Angus described how John Huxley had gone from being the curse upon her father’s lips to a friend and ally worthy of Annie’s hand.
Months earlier, John had approached Angus and Campbell with Robert Conrad by his side. He’d immediately assured Angus of his intentions to marry Annie, presenting Robert, his brother-in-law, as a witness to his promise. That had calmed Angus’s concerns long enough for them to sit down and talk over a dram.
Huxley’s offer, it seemed, had been to court Annie as befitted his future countess, to woo her gently in hopes of gaining her admiration and her agreement to become his wife. Angus had wanted assurances that Huxley would neither use coercive measures nor abandon his suit should improprieties occur. Huxley had agreed. Angus had demanded that Huxley keep possession of his Scottish lands and make his home with Annie permanently in the glen. Huxley had agreed. His only request had been that Angus avoid revealing John’s title, saying he preferred to win Annie’s heart without the lure of being a lord.
Then, Huxley had offered his help. He’d explained that he and his family were connected to some very powerful men.
“Which powerful men?” Annie asked.
“I’m comin’ to that.”
“Well, get on with it.”
A tiny smile tugged at her father’s mouth. “Impatient. Ye always were. Aye, then. Ye’ll recall Broderick was still imprisoned at the time.” He shook his head. “We were out of options, lass. We needed a bluidy miracle. Huxley offered one on a golden plate.”
Her mind was a wee bit sluggish thanks to the whisky, but even half-sotted, she realized what the offer had been. Huxley had gone to Edinburgh because he’d been helping to free Broderick. He’d been speaking with judges when she’d spotted him. Then, he’d kissed her and stolen her soul there in the dark, narrow close—because he hadn’t wanted her to discover what he was doing. Because then, she might ask how a simple, bonnie Englishman had managed such a thing.
“Before he approached me about ye,” Angus continued, “he wrote his kin askin’ for their help. By the time he came to the distillery, he’d already put his plans in motion.” Angus’s finger touched her chin, drawing her gaze up to his. “Huxley said whatever my decision, he planned to help yer brother. He wanted to help us, Annie. Because he loves ye.”
She gripped his hand tighter. “And you believed him?”
“A man doesnae bring a witness to a marriage proposal unless he’s in earnest, lass.” Angus sighed. “Huxley brought a future marquis.”
Blinking, she glowered. “Are ye speakin’ of … Robert?”
“Aye. Happens his father is the Marquis of—”
“Mortlock,” she said faintly, recalling the strange conversation between Robert and Mrs. Baird, who must have recognized him.
“Conrad claims his father’s at death’s door, and his older brother is both sterile and sickly. Shouldnae be long before the title devolves to him.”
“A marquis. Good God.”
Angus grunted. “That’s not the half of it.”
Annie blinked again, feeling like she was being pummeled. “What’s the other half?”
“Remember how Huxley said his sisters made good marriages?”
“Aye.”
Angus looked a wee bit uncomfortable.
“Da?”
“Ye did say ye wanted to marry a lord.”
“Da!”
“One of his sisters is wife to the Duke of Blackmore.”
Air left her in a whoosh. Blackmore was an enormously powerful figure within England. He also had familial ties to influential figures in Edinburgh—including two men on the High Court of Justiciary. “H-Huxley’s sister is a duchess?”
“Aye. The eldest sister will be a marchioness soon, as I said. Two more are countesses.” Angus sighed. “And that’s just his kin. I havenae even mentioned his friends.”