One Little Sin by Liz Carlyle Page A

everything she said was beginning to come out sounding like a question. She knew how to be a lady, and give polite instructions to the servants. But it was another thing altogether to be one of them, or almost one of them. The truth was, she was neither fish nor fowl in this very English house, she considered, turning back to the window. If there was anything Scottish about Sir Alasdair MacLachlan save his fondness for whisky, it had long ago vanished. A pity, that.
    Just then, there was a sound at the open door. She turned again to see Wellings inspecting the furniture. “Is everything satisfactory, ma’am?” he asked.
    “Aye, thank you.” She motioned toward the nursery door, which was slightly ajar. “Sorcha is already napping in the little bed. But why so many chairs?”
    Wellings lifted his brows. “I’ve no notion, ma’am,” he replied. “Sir Alasdair decided to do the shopping himself yesterday afternoon. I suppose he wished to purchase everything the child might possibly need.”
    “I see.” They did fit the room very nicely, Esmée secretly admitted. But it seemed extravagant, something no good Scot would condone. Perhaps MacLachlan was expecting a crowd. Perhaps he had a whole regiment of illegitimate children dotting London’s landscape.
    Wellings made a little bow. “Sir Alasdair asks that you join him for coffee in his study,” he added. “In half an hour, if that suits?”
    “I fear I cannot,” Esmée answered. “Sorcha might awaken and—”
    “Sir Alasdair says Lydia is to come up,” he interjected.
    Esmée had already met Lydia, the fresh-faced girl who brought up their tea and turned down their beds. Still, Esmée was surprised MacLachlan had troubled himself to anticipate their needs.
    “Lydia is the eldest of eight,” said the butler reassuringly. “She is extremely skilled with children.”
    Something inside her shriveled a little at that. Lydia could scarcely be less qualified than Esmée, could she? Perhaps Wellings already suspected his master had hired a fraud. Perhaps if she had not agreed to stay, Sorcha would have been given into the care of someone who knew what to do. Someone who was actually qualified to raise her. Until rather recently, Esmée had done little more than romp and play with her sister. It seemed such a luxury now. And a lifetime ago.
    “Miss Hamilton?” said the butler. “The coffee?”
    Her head jerked up. “Aye, then,” she said. “In half an hour.”
    Lydia soon appeared with a basket of darning to occupy her time. Esmée went into her room to tidy herself. As she did so, she caught her reflection in the looking glass which hung above the washbasin. Two wide-set green eyes under dark, arching brows looked back. They were, she knew, her mother’s eyes, and her finest feature.
    Esmée had often been told she resembled her mother, but the thought frightened rather than comforted her—especially when she was around men like MacLachlan, and felt her pulse ratcheting wildly up. But her mother’s hair had been a rich chestnut, whilst Esmée’s hair was a nondescript brown, so fine and heavy it was forever slipping from its arrangement. Her nose was…just a nose, her chin just a chin, unlike her mother, whose features had been perfect in very way. Esmée had no charming tip-tilt or dimple or cleft to catch the eye.
    Suddenly, she jerked back from the mirror. Good heavens, what a time to fret over her looks! Despite her slight stature and exasperatingly youthful appearance, she was of an age that put one firmly on the shelf, and that was not apt to change. Perhaps there had been a time when she had longed for a season in London. But her mother’s marriages had taken them from one isolated estate to another, each deeper in the Highlands than the last, it seemed.
    Although Lord Achanalt never invited Esmée to accompany them on their frequent travels, once or twice a year, Esmée’s mother would take her to Inverness or Edinburgh to shop. And of course