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How to Pursue a Princess
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How to Capture a Countess
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PRAISE FOR THE HURST AMULET SERIES
The Taming of a Scottish Princess
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“Fast-paced adventure, genuine emotion, a satisfying conclusion to the mystery that’s been at the center of the series, plenty of humor, and some of the best banter between a hero and heroine that I’ve read in a while.”
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“An entertaining, romantic jewel of a book!”
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A Most Dangerous Profession
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Scandal in Scotland
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“Rollicking good fun from beginning to end! Pure, vintage Hawkins!”
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One Night in Scotland
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“Filled with intrigue, humor, and plenty of passion.”
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To my husband, Hot Cop, who spent an entire weekend looking up the rules and history of battledore in exchange for an icy six-pack of Newcastle.
You’re not only the perfect Writer’s Husband, but you’re cheap office help, too.
Acknowledgments
Thank you to my fabulous web team for Hawkins Manor at www.karenhawkins.com, where readers can explore Scottish and English recipes, ooh and aah over Princess Charlotte’s silver wedding gown, learn about famous women of the Regency, view the castles associated with each book, and more!
One
From the Diary of the Duchess of Roxburghe
Ah, the burdens of fame! I am now known throughout the breadth of Scotland (and indeed, most reaches of the kingdom) as the most talented of matchmakers, a veritable Queen of Hearts. It is a burden that goes against every principle of my character, for intruding upon the private lives of others is anathema to me. Yet because of my vastly successful entertainments and my uncanny ability to spot potential matches between the most unlikely people, I’m credited with assisting a number of unmarried men and women to make brilliant matches.
And so now, whenever I so much as mention having a house party or a dance, I am positively inundated with hints, suggestions, and—yes, pleas for invitations.
Those who know me realize the truth, of course, which is that I never get involved in the affairs of others. Still, once in a great, great while, I am moved to reach past my natural reserve and, with the most delicate of touches, assist nature. But only with very, very few, and very, very special cases. In fact, one such case—the most challenging I’ve ever faced—is even now awaiting me in the Blue Salon . . .
* * *
The Duchess of Roxburghe sailed down the stairs, her red wig firmly pinned upon her head. Her morning gown of pale blue silk swished as her pugs bounded after her, two of them trying to catch the fluttering ribbons of the tie at her waist.
There were six pugs in all—Feenie, Meenie, Teenie, Weenie, Beenie, and Randolph. Randolph was the oldest by several years. Graying and usually dignified, of late he’d refused to scramble down the steps after the younger dogs, but stood at the top step, looking so forlorn that her grace had assigned a footman to carry the pudgy pug.
Her butler, MacDougal, thought the measure extreme. Seeing the relative ease with which Randolph could bound up and down stairs when tempted with a tidbit, MacDougal thought her grace was being played a fool. Not that he dared suggest such a thing aloud. He’d been with the duchess far too long not to know that, while it was perfectly fine to allude to her grace’s pugs as stubborn, unmannerly, and unruly, they were never to be accused of trickery or sloth.
Her grace reached the bottom step and the footman, Angus, stooped to place Randolph with the other pugs panting at her feet. “That’s a good boy,” cooed her grace.
A proud expression bloome
d on Angus’s freckled face. “Thank ye.”
MacDougal locked a stern gaze on the young footman. “Her grace was talkin’ to the dog, ye blatherin’ fool.”
Angus flushed. “Och, I’m sorry, yer grace.”
“I was getting to you next,” she said graciously. “You did a fine job carrying Randolph.”
Angus couldn’t have looked more pleased. “Thank ye, yer grace!” He hazarded a superior look at the butler.
MacDougal scowled back so fiercely that the footman’s smug expression instantly disappeared. Satisfied he had quelled the upstart, MacDougal turned to the duchess and offered a pleasant smile. “Yer grace, yer guest is in the Blue Salon, as ye requested, but we dinna ken where Lady Charlotte might be.”
“Perhaps she fell asleep in a corner somewhere. She’s gotten very bad about that since she’s taken to reading novels at all hours of the night.”
MacDougal nodded thoughtfully. “Verrah good, yer grace. I’ll send someone to look upon every settee in the castle.” He cast his eye toward the hapless Angus. “Off wit’ ye, and dinna miss a single settee until ye find Lady Charlotte.”
“Aye, sir!” Angus hurried off.
Her grace glanced at the doors leading to the Blue Salon. “I hope you made our guest comfortable.”
“Aye, yer grace, we did wha’ we could, but—” The butler sighed. “ ’Tis no’ me place to say aught aboot yer visitors, but this one is a bit—” He scrunched his nose, obviously searching for a word. Finally, his brow cleared. “—abrupt.”
“You mean rude,” she said in a dry tone.
“I would ne’er say such a thing aboot one o’ yer guests, yer grace.”
“I would. ’Tis well known that Lord Alasdair Kirk growls at everyone in sight. The man has beastly manners.”
“Tha’ might be understandable, considerin’—” The butler glanced about the empty hallway before he tapped his cheek.
“Because of his scar.”
“Jus’ so, yer grace. ’Tis a horrid sight. He’s a handsome man except fer tha’, which makes it all the worse. He limps, too, and seems to be in a bit o’ pain when he walks. ’Tis only fair to say tha’ if I had a horrid scar upon me face and a mighty limp, I might be rude meself.”
“Pah!” the duchess said impatiently. “There’s no excuse for bad manners.”
MacDougal wasn’t so certain of that, but he nodded sagely. “Verrah true, yer grace. I dinna suppose he’s here fer yer help in findin’ a match? Tha’ might be a tall order.”
“Of course that’s why he’s here. Lord Kirk is my godson. But never fear, for Lady Charlotte and I are quite aware of the challenge he presents.” The duchess looked at the closed door and added in a wistful tone, “His mother, God rest her soul, died when he was quite young, a year after his father.”
“Tha’ is verrah sad, yer grace.”
“That’s not all of it. He was then placed in the care of an uncle who, busy with his own family, left Lord Kirk to be raised by the servants. Overcome with sympathy, they spoiled their charge atrociously. Kirk then compounded his misfortune by marrying a lady who, though lovely, was sadly lacking in backbone.”
“There’s a Lady Kirk?”
“No. She died in the same accident that injured Lord Kirk. After her death, he locked himself away and has rarely graced society with his presence since.”
“Och, the puir mon. He’ll be a difficult case, yer grace.”
“More than you know. But his mother was a dear, dear friend, so I can’t turn away from his request for assistance, no matter how trying he may be.” The duchess looked at the doors, visibly straightening her shoulders. “I suppose it won’t help to put this off any longer. Please send Charlotte as soon as you find her.” Much like a general marching into battle, the duchess crossed to the Blue Salon, the pugs waddling after her.
Once inside, Margaret closed the door behind her and looked across the room at her guest. Tall and broad shouldered, Alasdair Dunbar, Viscount Kirk, stood by the wide windows that overlooked the front lawn. The bright morning sunlight bathed his skin with gold. His dark brown hair was longer than fashion dictated, curling over his collar, a streak of gray at his temple. In profile he was starkly beautiful but bold, a statue of a Greek god.
She took a deep breath and crossed the room. At the rustle of her skirts, Lord Kirk’s expression tightened and he turned.
Though she knew what to expect, she had to fight the urge to exclaim in dismay. One side of his face was scarred, a thick, horrid slash that bisected his eyebrow, skipped over one eye, and then slashed down his cheek, touching the corner of his mouth and ending on his chin. It had been a clean cut, but whoever had stitched it together had done so with such crudeness that it made her heart ache.
Had he been in the hands of an accomplished surgeon, Margaret had little doubt that his scar, though still long, would not be so puckered or drawn. But Lord Kirk had been at sea when he’d obtained his injury and thus had been left to whatever “doctor” was available aboard ship.
His lordship inclined his head, barely bowing, the stiffness of his gesture emphasized by the thick, gold-handled cane he held in one hand.
Margaret realized with an inward grimace that she’d been staring far longer than was polite and she silently castigated herself even as she swept forward, her hand outstretched, the pugs dancing about her skirts. “Lord Kirk, how do you do?”
He took her hand and bowed over it, sending her a sardonic look through his lashes as he straightened. “I’m as well as one can be while bearing a scar that causes even society’s most stalwart hostess to gasp in horror.”
“Pray don’t exaggerate. I might have stared, but I didn’t gasp. To be honest, I cannot see your scar without wishing I could have put my own physician on to it. His stitching is superb.”
Kirk’s smile was more of a sneer. “I assure you I am quite used to being stared at.”
“Nonsense. It was rude of me and few people have cause to call me such, so please accept my apologies.” She gestured to the chairs before the fireplace. “Shall we?”
He shrugged and turned toward the seating, leaving her to follow or not, as she deemed best.
Margaret bit back a sigh. A gentleman would have offered his arm or bowed and allowed her to lead. Kirk, however, continued, completely unaware of his gaffe.
The pugs, who’d been following her, scampered along. Elderly Randolph hurried to Lord Kirk and gave the man’s shoes a friendly sniff. Kirk threw the dog a frosty glance, brushing by with a hint of impatience.
Margaret discovered that her hands had curled into fists. Poor Randolph had done nothing to deserve such a sneer. The man was beyond rude. What have I gotten myself into?
Kirk limped to the chair closest to the fire, leaning heavily upon his cane, as if one leg would not bend properly. She watched as he dropped into the seat, not waiting for her to sit first.
She sighed in exasperation as she took the chair across from his. “I see you are in something of a mood. Your leg must pain you in this cold weather.”
He threw her a sour look, the lines upon his face even more pronounced. “A brilliant assumption. Will you next note that my eyes are brown, and that I favor my left hand?”
That did it. She fixed her iciest gaze upon him. “Alasdair, stop being such a beetle-headed boor!”
His eyes widened. After a short silence, he burst into a deep laugh that surprised her. “I haven’t heard that name or tone since my mother died.”
When he laughed, he looked so much like the young, handsome boy of her memory that Margaret’s heart softened. “Which name? Alasdair or beetle-headed boor?”
“Both.”
She had to smile. “Your mother would never have stood for you behaving in such a manner.”
“No, she wouldn’t have.” He eyed Margaret with something akin to respect. “I’m sorry I brought my poor temper with me.”
“And I’m sorry our meeting began in such a poor fashion.” She leaned back in he
r chair. “Now, come. What brings you?”
“You know exactly why I’m here; I’ve come because I am now ready to marry. Or remarry, I should say.”
He said it so matter-of-factly that she couldn’t help feeling a small flair of hope. “Then you have secured the affections of a certain young lady? One you’ve mentioned before?”
His brows snapped down. “I thought that was your strength, to make a match between unlikely candidates.”
“Ah. So the match is now unlikely.”
“It’s never been anything but, which is why I’ve come.” Kirk leaned his cane to one side. “As you’ve noticed, I’m not very good at the niceties. Since my wife died—”
“Six years ago, I believe?”
“Seven. I married Elspeth when I was barely eighteen, and our union, though only three years in duration, was happy.”
That was promising, and it made her wonder what he’d been like in those days. He couldn’t have been the surly, ill-comported man he was today.
Kirk shifted in his seat and then winced and gripped his knee, his mouth white.
Margaret wisely didn’t say a word and after a moment, he relaxed back in his seat. “I’m sorry. My knee sometimes—” He grimaced and waved his hand impatiently. “As I was saying, since Elspeth’s death, I’ve lived alone and I rarely mingle with society.”
“Why is that, pray tell?”
His expression grew bleak. “I tired of the way people recoiled when I walked into a room.”
“Ah,” she said. “So you hid from those reactions.”
“Hid? Nay. I just refused to care. I was happy enough among my books and music. Or I was until—” Something flashed in his brown eyes, but he looked down at his hand where it gripped his knee, his thick lashes shadowing his thoughts. “As much as I dislike it, it has become obvious that my isolation has ruined what few graces I once possessed.”
“So I’ve noticed. I can only be glad that your mother is not alive to witness your fall. She would have had you by the ear for letting all of her hard work disappear.”
His eyes gleamed with humor. “So she would have.” His voice, a deep rich baritone, warmed. “She wasn’t afraid to let her opinion be known.”