Page 1 of Ghost of the Ton

Prologue

Glenblath Chapel, Scotland

“The state of holy matrimony is not to be taken lightly, wantonly, nor for the pursuit of carnal pleasure.”

Hamish glanced at the woman standing beside him at the altar.

Nae worries about the pursuit of carnal pleasure, vicar: There’s more chance of a flock of grouse flying out of my arse.

Almost as if she’d heard, the bride turned toward him. The veil concealed her face, but Hamish could picture her expression, the haughty disdain that had soured her features the moment they met. Pretty enough—many would say beautiful, with her chestnut tresses and aquamarine eyes. But the contempt gleaming from those orbs, the pointed nose wrinkled in disgust, not to mention the permanent sneer on those fair lips…the sight of them was imprinted into his mind, like an indelible shit stain on a man’s britches.

That’s unfair, son.

Hamish winced as his ma’s voice whispered in his mind, repeating the admonishment she’d doled out many times since the Honorable Aurora Young had been presented to him.

He glanced at his mother in the front pew. Once hailed as the Beauty of the Highlands, her eyes now carried the burden of years gone by—an unhappy marriage, innumerable harsh winters, influenza…

…and the reduction of the Glenblath estate to near penury that necessitated Hamish’s marriage today.

But, as Ma endured a loveless marriage, so must I.

“Ahem.”

Hamish resumed his attention on the minister—the man who’d be responsible for securing the marriage manacles around Hamish’s ankles.

Reverend Sutherland arched an eyebrow and Hamish could almost hear the man’s voice in his mind, sharp and stern.

Pray tell me when yer mind has returned from its feverish wanderings so that I might continue with this sacred ceremony for which ye seem to harbor little reverence.

A small huff of impatience came from behind the bride’s veil.

Perhaps the minister should have included a prayer to protect the groom from a henpecking harpy. For it was universally known that a woman’s gentleness of character was in exact inverse proportion to her beauty. And the Honorable Aurora Young was the epitome of that rule, in that she was a very beautiful woman indeed.

Unlike…

No.

There was little merit in dwelling on she who had been merely a means to an end—the woman who no longer lived. The Honorable Aurora was his bride. She would, in time, adapt to her role as Lady of Glenblath.

Perhaps a kind soul lay beneath Aurora’s cold exterior.

Very far beneath.

Hamish’s late father had said that if a man were to understand what the wife he chose would be like, he only need look at her mother. The Honorable Aurora had no mother, but her father stood across the aisle like a spider waiting to suck the life out of his prey.

Might the Honorable Aurora suck the life out of me?

But perhaps, once she were free from her father’s menacing influence, Aurora might blossom into a flower rather than sharpen into a thorn. It hadn’t escaped Hamish’s notice that Lord Young had looked upon his daughter with disgust as he propelled her along the aisle, his skeletal fingers gripping her upper arm and leaving an indent in the fabric of her bridal gown. Doubtless, Hamish would reveal a bruise when he succumbed to duty tonight and disrobed her.

Perhaps, when she realized that Hamish was not an advocate of punishing a woman into filial or marital obedience, she might nurture a spark of gratitude, which, though unlikely to blossom into love, might, with a little luck and a following wind, grow into some kind of regard for him.

If all else failed her dowry would, at least, ensure the survival of Glenblath.

That was how Hamish viewed his bride. She was merely a means to ensure that the long-overdue repairs to the estate buildings could begin, that finer fare could grace the tables at Glenblath, and, more importantly, that his ma could, once again, seek the services of a reputable doctor. Any physician would be better than the charlatan from the next village who seemed to think that leeches were the answer to every ailment—a leech on the chest for a chill, leeches along the arms to soothe aching bones after a day’s work in the fields, and, no doubt, a leech on Hamish’s cock if his seed failed to strike root in the Honorable Aurora’s belly.

“Laird MacLennan?”

Shit. He’d done it again—let his mind drift from the vicar’s monotones and the unsavory prospect of lifting the Honorable Aurora’s skirts.