The Devil Wears Plaid - By Teresa Medeiros Page 0,1
his mouth. His cheeks all but disappeared as he sucked the teeth back in with a pop that seemed to echo through the abbey with the force of a gunshot. Emma swallowed, hoping the cataracts that clouded his rheumy blue eyes would render his vision poor enough to mistake her grimace of distaste for a smile.
His withered form was draped with the full regalia befitting his station as laird of the Hepburn lands and chieftain of Clan Hepburn. A billowing red and black plaid nearly swallowed his hunched shoulders. The matching tailored kilt exposed knees as bony as a pair of ivory doorknobs. A mangy sporran hung between his legs, the ceremonial purse balding in uneven patches just like his skull.
The two gossiping old biddies were right, Emma reminded herself sternly. The man was an earl—an extremely powerful nobleman rumored to have both the respect of his peers and the ear of the king.
It was her duty to her family—and their rapidly dwindling fortunes—to accept the earl’s suit. After all, it wasn’t her papa’s fault he had been cursed with a passel of daughters instead of being blessed with sons who could have gone out and made their own fortunes in the world. Emma’s catching the Earl of Hepburn’s eye just before donning the drab mantle of spinsterhood had been a stroke of extraordinary good luck for them all. Thanks to the generous settlement the earl had already bestowed upon her father, her mother and sisters would never again have to be startled from their sleep by the terrifying racket of creditors banging on the front door of their ramshackle manor house or spend their every waking moment in fear of being carted off to the workhouse.
Emma might be the prettiest Marlowe girl among her sisters, but she was not so attractive that she could afford to turn down such an illustrious suitor. During their grueling journey to this isolated corner of the Highlands, her mother had discussed every detail of her upcoming nuptials with determined good cheer. When they reached the rolling foothills and the earl’s home had finally come into view, her sisters had dutifully gasped with admiration, not realizing their pretended envy was more painful to Emma than overt pity.
No one could deny the splendor of the ancient castle nestled beneath the shadow of the lofty, snow-capped crag of Ben Nevis—a castle that had welcomed the Hepburn lords and their brides for centuries. When this day was done, Emma would be its mistress as well as the earl’s bride.
As she blinked down at her bridegroom, she struggled to transform her grimace into a genuine smile. The old man had been the very soul of kindness to her and her family ever since spotting her across that crowded public assembly room during one of the last balls of the Season. Instead of sending an emissary on his behalf, he had traveled all the way to Lancashire himself to court her and seek her papa’s blessing.
He had conducted himself like a true nobleman during his calls, never once making a disparaging remark about their shabby drawing room with its faded carpet, peeling wallpaper and mismatched furniture or casting a contemptuous eye over her own outmoded and much-darned gowns. Judging by his courtly charm and gracious demeanor, one would have thought he was taking tea at Carlton House with the Prince Regent.
He had treated Emma as if she were already a countess, not the eldest daughter of an impoverished baronet one ill-considered wager away from the poorhouse. And he had never once arrived empty-handed. A stern-faced footman always followed one step behind the earl, his burly arms laden with gifts—hand-painted fans, glass bugle beads and colorful fashion plates for Emma’s sisters; French-milled lavender-scented soap and handsome bolts of muslin and dimity for her mother; bottles of the finest Scotch whisky for her papa; and leather-bound editions of William Blake’s Songs of Innocence or Fanny Burney’s latest novel for Emma herself. They might have been only trinkets to a man of the earl’s means, but such luxuries had been in scarce supply around the manor house for a very long time. His generosity had brought a flush of pleasure to her mother’s wan cheeks and elicited genuine shrieks of delight from Emma’s sisters.
Emma owed the man her gratitude and her loyalty, if not her heart.
Besides, how long could he possibly live? she thought with a desperate twinge of guilt.
Although the earl was rumored to be nearly eighty years of age, he