Page 1 of The Scot is Hers
1
May 1814
Edinburgh
There was nothing worse than attending a ball thrown in one’s own honor when it was against one’s will. This was the situation that Alec Hay, Earl of Errol, General in the Royal Regiment of Scotland, found himself in.
This whole mess was so torturous he would have rather discovered himself back on the battlefield in France, facing off with Napoleon himself. Instead, he was trussed up as some marionette in a jacket that was a little too tight, given the growth of his shoulder muscles while overseas and the lack of warning from his mother, the Countess of Errol, that she was going to be throwing this wretched event.
Alec had literally taken the last bite of his morning eggs when his mother informed him their Edinburgh manse would be packed to the brim with bubbling debutantes tonight. Not enough time to have his evening wear fitted properly or to get out of what promised to be imminent torture.
He tugged on his collar as another mother swept her daughters in front of him. Alec made polite conversation but refrained from writing his name on their dance cards, even though he knew that was their ultimate objective. There was a measure of guilt he felt at ignoring that obligation, but they didn’t know if he was already full for each number, and he decided to pretend he was. Besides, the pained expressions on their faces mirrored his own. They were only going along with their mother’s intentions because they knew he came with a sizable annual income, and they wanted to be a countess. For a price, they were willing to accept him despite his once-good looks having been obliterated in a single moment of treachery on the battlefield.
“If ye’ll excuse me.” He bowed low, winking at their mother for good measure, so his own mother didn’t take him to task later for not at least trying to flirt, and then he disappeared through the crowd. The older women didn’t seem to mind his brutally scarred face. They had that motherly instinct to coddle him. So strange. He wasn’t in the market for a mistress, but if he were, he was certain to find one amongst the meddling mothers.
Alec scanned the crowd of pastel gowns and fitted evening coats, which shimmered in the thousand candles lit up in the ballroom and dripping from the chandeliers.
None of his friends were here. He had a feeling his mother had purposefully left their names off the invitations because she didn’t want Alec to spend all of his time chatting with his comrades instead of finding a wife.
The woman who’d birthed him was mad as a hatter with the idea of his needing to wed. Alec did not want to bind himself to another human, especially one of these silly chits. Any woman he’d be interested in wouldn’t be the same type of female as these flighty bits of lace. If he were ever to marry, it would most assuredlynotbe to a debutante. Of that, he was certain.
Alec was not in love, nor evenin likewith any of the nitwits in attendance at this farce. Did his mother really think she could simply snap her fingers, pass out biscuits and champagne and expect him to get down on one knee? He glanced at his pocket watch, willing the time to be much later than it was.
“My lord, would ye please allow me to introduce ye to my daughter, Lady Mary.”
Alec glanced up from where he’d been glowering at the ground and bowed unseeing over yet another young lassie’s gloved hand, feigning interest when he couldn’t care less. The evidence of her desire to escape was as plain on her face as it had been with every other eligible maiden in attendance. They took one look at the left side of his face and were ready to run for their lives.
He wanted to shout, “I was handsome once!” But knew they’d either not believe him or at best think him as mad as he would sound for doing so. Only their mothers remembered him as he’d been before the war. Those last moments of the battle had been unending. As he’d tried to save his second-in-command, the edge of a bayonet had hacked over his face, leaving him with a scar that would scare the daylights out of any young lass decent enough to garner his interest. Cut down to the bone, it was a wonder he had survived—let alone had a left cheek at all. Nearly half his face was torn away from that slice and had healed into an angry, red, rolling pucker that went from the corner of his eye to his chin.
Nay. He, Alec Hay, Earl of Errol, would forever be the damaged and beastly general.
“If ye’ll excuse me,” he murmured, putting the poor chit out of her misery.
He supposed it didn’t help that he was extremely moody and could not summon a smile if the devil himself demanded it. What he really wanted to do was mount his horse and ride north, all the way to his castle, Slains, on the cliff in Aberdeenshire. To stand on the edge and look out at the waves crashing against the rocky craig, close his eyes, and maybe fall off the edge. Let the cold, salty water of the sea bash his body into a million pieces as he’d imagined doing to himself every night since his return. He’d not been able to save his friend, his subordinate, and didn’t it stand to reason that he too should die.
At the very least, he felt compelled to relive the harrowing moments of war over and over until he was either too drunk to move or too immobilized by guilt. Whichever was the quickest means to the end.
Oh, he’d tried to be happy. Tried to blend in. Had even found some momentary contentment with his friends, who’d also returned to Edinburgh. But at night, when darkness closed in, all he could think about was how Sir Douglas Campbell wasn’t ever going to come home. How his best mate Lorne, the Duke of Sutherland, too, had been lost to them. And how it was all his fault for not fighting harder to save him when the enemy had caged them in. For not having put Sir Joshua Keith in his place for insubordination when the issue first arose.
Alec stormed toward the doors of the ballroom. Enough was enough; he wasn’t going to subject himself to any more of this farce. Even if he knew he was going to hear an earful the following morning from his mother. He’d take that most assured chance rather than be in this ballroom one moment longer. The music played loud and chipper, enticing merriment and dancing, and it went against everything he was currently feeling.
Out of the ballroom and down the hall, he excused himself, nodding with a grimace at anyone who dared try to gain his attention until he was pushing through the rear doors of the house and out into the garden.
Couples hid in quiet, darkened corners, trying not to be seen, not to be heard as they stole a private embrace. His bootheels clicked over the flagstone and then were finally muted by the grass of the garden.
Alec remembered those days before the Peninsular War when he’d hid in the shadows of the trees, trying to entice a young lass into a kiss. Now he’d be lucky if any lass could stand his company for more than thirty-eight seconds.
Alec pushed his way through the night until he reached the rear of the garden, only the wall stopping him from walking onward. He yanked open the gate and glared down at the house below. Edinburgh was built on hills and valleys, not a flat surface in sight. And every inch was covered in a structure. There weren’t miles of land stretching out before him, but instead, another house. Another walled garden.
He slammed the gate closed. Banged his fist against the rock, ignoring the pain from splitting his knuckles. He let out a little growl, hands fisted at his sides, head thrown back. He stared up at the stars in the sky and contemplated howling to the moon as the animal he was starting to feel very much like. What he needed was a good boxing match to work out his frustration.
Why didn’t his mother listen to him? Why did she make him the subject of so much scrutiny? The woman was either blind or a fool to believe that this type of event would sway anyone into being his lifelong companion. Besides, he’d already decided he was never getting married.
Never.
Even if he had to live out the rest of his life in seclusion, showing his face only when it was necessary in the House of Lords—then so be it.
* * *
