Evicted from her stepfather's home, Esmée Hamilton arrives
in London on the doorstep of Sir Alasdair MacLachlan in the
middle of the night with her infant half-sister, Sorcha, in
tow. Before her mother's premature death and in a fit of
rage, her mother told her husband she'd cuckold him and
Sorcha was MacLachlan's daughter. Destitute and
heartbroken, Esmée plans to deposit Sorcha with her natural
father while she ekes out a living as a governess.
Sir Alasdair MacLachlan, a carefree womanizer and gambler,
never felt the need to reform. He thumbs his nose at
society and enjoys beautiful women from all walks of life.
His existence is carefree and if he looks dissipated, it's
to be expected by his carousing. He never believed his past
would catch up with him. At Esmée and Sorcha's arrival, his
entire life turns upside down. Begging Esmée to stay, he
engages her as Sorcha's governess.
Alasdair quickly falls under Sorcha's spell and he feels
drawn to the stubborn and opinionated Esmée. However, he
wants his freedom and his life back, so he rejects Esmée.
Once again left to her own devices, Esmée prepares to
accept a quiet and loveless life, only she can't quite yet
give up on Alasdair.
Liz Carlyle, a formidable talent, starts her Sins,
Lies and Secret trilogy with ONE LITTLE SIN, which shines
with its appealing protagonist, witty dialogue and
emotional scenes guaranteed to bring readers to tears. As
always, Carlyle does not disappoint.
Sir Alasdair MacLachlan is a dashing man-about-town, too
charming for his own good, and a bit of a notorious
bounder. But Sir Alasdair’s cavalier past is about to
catch
up with him when a beautiful stranger arrives on his
doorstep with a basket full of surprises.
Miss Esmée Hamilton is a gentlewoman tossed out of the
home
and life she knew in Scotland by a vindictive stepfather.
With her infant sister Sorcha in tow, Esmée makes her way
to London by her wits and her tenacity, and calls on the
man she holds responsible for their plight. Sir Alasdair
MacLachlan, she is confident, has committed more than a
few
sins. But Esmée vows that Sorcha is one he won’t walk away
from.
Excerpt
She found MacLachlan in his study as expected. He had
changed into a dark green coat over a waistcoat of straw-
colored silk and snug brown trousers. His starched cravat
was elegantly tied beneath his square, freshly shaved
chin. Indeed, he looked breathtakingly handsome, and his
ability to do so after a night of debauchery somehow
annoyed her. He ought, at the very least, to have the
decency to look a little green about the gills.
Surprisingly, MacLachlan sat not by the coffee tray, but
at his desk, his posture no longer loose and languid.
Instead, he sat bolt upright, like a bird dog on point,
fervent and focused. If he were suffering any ill-effects
from his night on the town with Mrs. Crosby, one certainly
could not now discern it.
Upon coming further into the room, she realized he was not
working. Instead, he was intent on some sort of card
game, his heavy gold hair falling forward, obscuring his
eyes. Suddenly, with a muttered curse, he swept up the
cards, then shuffled them deftly through his fingers in
one seamless motion. He shuffled again, his every aspect
focused on the cards, as if they were an extension of
hands, which were long-fingered and elegant. And
surprisingly quick.
She approached the desk, sensing the very moment when he
recognized her presence. At once, he set the pack away
and looked at her, something in his gaze shifting. It was
as if she’d awakened him from a dream. He stood, and in
an instant, the lazy, somnolent look returned to his eyes.
“Good morning, Miss Hamilton,” he said. “Do sit down.”
She moved to the seat he had indicated, a delicately
inlaid Sheraton chair opposite the tea-table. This room
was beautifully decorated in shades of pale blue and
cream. The blue silk wall coverings were accented by
floor-to-ceiling pier glasses between the windows, and the
creamy carpet felt thick beneath her feet. A footman
carried in a small coffee tray and set it on the far end
of the tea table. MacLachlan asked her to pour. The
coffee was very strong, and rich, reminding her,
strangely, of black velvet.
“Wellings tells me you took the child out for a stroll
yesterday,” he said. “I hope you both enjoyed it?”
For some reason, she did not wish to tell him about her
visit to Aunt Rowena’s. Perhaps because it made her look
desperate and a little foolish. “London is a large
place,” she murmured. “But we had a pleasant outing.”
“How far did you go?”
“Why, to Mayfair, I believe.”
“A fine part of town,” he remarked. “But I have always
preferred the tranquility of this little neighborhood.”
“Aye, ’tis much nicer here.” Esmée sipped gingerly from
her hot coffee. “Tell me, do you play at cards regularly,
MacLachlan?”
There was a cynical look about his eyes today, and it made
her a little wary. “I think you know I do, Miss
Hamilton,” he said in his low, husky voice. “How is it,
by the way, that you keep making me feel as if I am still
back in Argyllshire? I wonder you don’t put an
imperious ‘the’ before my name—The MacLachlan—as if I am
the only one.”
“To your clan, perhaps you are,” she answered simply.
His eyes hardened. “I have no clan, Miss Hamilton,” he
said. “I have lands, yes, though nothing one would wish
to boast about. My grandfather fought against the
Jacobites, and for his service, he was tossed a bone, in
the form of a baronetcy, by the King.”
“Of England.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“He was given a baronetcy by the King of England.”
MacLachlan lifted one brow. “A diehard Highlander, are
you?”
“Aye, and I dinna ken there was any other kind,” she said
in a thick burr.
He laughed. “So tell me, Miss Hamilton, are you one of
those treasonous holdouts still toasting ‘the king over
the water?’” he asked. “Am I harboring a secret Jacobite?”
Esmée smiled faintly. “Perhaps you are harboring a
stickler for historical accuracy,” she suggested. “Do you
wish me to call you Sir Alasdair?”
He shrugged, and began to stir his coffee with the same
slow, languorous motions he seemed to use for everything
else in life. Everything save his card playing. “I don’t
think I care,” he finally admitted. “Call me what you
wish. I am not a stickler for any sort of accuracy at
all.”
“I don’t entirely believe that,” she said. “I think you
are a very accurate sort of card player.”
He looked up from his coffee and smiled thinly. “I
collect you think little of my talent,” he murmured. “But
when carefully honed, Miss Hamilton, card-playing is a
skill by which an impecunious young Scot can make his way
in this world.”
“Aye, sair sarkless, were you?” She let her gaze drift to
his elegantly cut coat, which had probably cost more than
half her wardrobe.
“No, never quite that.” His eyes glittered a little
dangerously. “But now I am, as you recently reminded me,
a very rich gentleman. And I can assure you I did not get
that way by living off my tenant farms.”
“Perhaps you got it by means of other people’s
weaknesses,” she suggested. “Games of chance are
inherently unfair.”
“I don’t care a jot about another man’s weakness, Miss
Hamilton, if he is fool enough to sit down at the table
with me,” he replied evenly. “And nothing is left to
chance when I play. It is strictly a matter of
probability and statistics—something so real and so
tangible, it can be calculated on the back of an old
newspaper.”
“How ridiculous that sounds!” she returned. “You are just
trying to paint up a vice as a virtue. Everyone knows
card-playing is a matter of luck.”
“Do they indeed?” He reached behind him for his pack of
cards. With an artful flourish, he fanned it across the
tea-table. “Pick a card, Miss Hamilton. Any card.”
She scowled across the table at him. “This isn’t a
village fair, my lord.”
“Are you afraid, Miss Hamilton, that despite your vast and
worldly experience, you just might, for once, be wrong
about something?”
She snatched a card.
“Excellent,” he said. “Now, Miss Hamilton, you are
holding a card—”
“How astute you are, MacLachlan.”
Tension was suddenly thick in the room. “—A card which is
either black or red,” he went on. “It has a fifty-fifty
chance of being either, does it not?”
“Yes, but that is hardly a matter of science.”
“Actually, it is,” he said. “And there is, of course, yet
another variable.”
“I should have imagined there were fifty-two variables.”
The brow went up again. “Work with me, Miss Hamilton,” he
said. “The card you are holding is either an ace, a face
card or a numbered card. At present, with fifty-one cards
still face-down on the table, the probability of your
holding an ace is four out of fifty-two. Not, admittedly,
the best of odds.”
“As I said, a game of chance.”
He held up one finger. “And the probability that it is a
face card is twelve out of fifty-two, is it not?”
“Well, yes.”
“And the probability that it is a numbered card is thirty-
six out of fifty-two, correct?”
“I daresay.”
“Then I believe, Miss Hamilton, that you are holding a
numbered card. That is a distinct probability, you see.
And I shall venture to say, more specifically, that it is
a red card.”
Esmée looked at her card and blanched.
“May I see it, please?”
Reluctantly, she laid down the eight of diamonds. “Still,
it was just a lucky guess,” she complained.
“The first supposition was not,” he countered. “But the
latter was. And that, Miss Hamilton, is the difference
between probability and luck. Now, place your card face-
down, and take another.”
“This is absurd.” But she did as he asked.
“Now, Miss Hamilton, you have just altered the
probability,” he said, his gaze locked with hers. “We now
have but fifty-one cards, for your red eight is out of
play.”
At his insistence, they repeated the process a dozen
times. On four of them, Sir Alasdair was wrong. Esmée
tried to gloat, but regrettably, his accuracy improved
with play, and after each card was laid aside, he would
recite the new probabilities. Red versus black. Faces
versus numbers. Soon, he was able to guess not just the
color and style, but soon the suit, and eventually the
number.
Esmée’s head was swimming. But what was worse, no matter
what was drawn, Sir Alasdair seemed to recall precisely
what had been played, and knew, therefore, what remained.
She thought of the pile of arcane, unreadable books she’d
found in the smoking parlor. It galled her to admit that
he must have read—and comprehended—every blasted one.
When he had guessed four cards in succession correctly,
Esmée gave up. “This is all perfectly silly,” she said,
tossing aside her last card. “Surely, sir, you did not
call me down here for a card game?”
He lifted one broad shoulder, and swept up the deck with
the opposite hand. “It was you, Miss Hamilton, who
disparaged my means of making a living,” he said
calmly. “I am merely defending my honor against your
cruel and scurrilous accusations.”
Esmée laughed. “Surely you do not live by your wits?”
“You think I have none?” he challenged.
She hesitated. “I did not say that.”
“But you did once suggest that I am little more than a—
now, let me see—yes, a pretty face, was it not?”
“I suggested no such thing,” she said, then realized she’d
just lied. “Nonetheless, card-playing is hardly an
intellectual endeavor.”
“Have you ever played vingt-et-un, Miss Hamilton?” he
asked darkly. “Go back upstairs and get that three
hundred pounds out of your ink-pot or your hat-box or
where ever it is you have secreted it if you are so sure,
and let us put your high-minded assumptions to the test.”
Esmée opened her mouth, then closed it again. With his
golden good looks and raspy bedroom voice, MacLachlan was
the very devil—worse, a devil who looked like an angel—and
she had no doubt he would strip her of every ha’penny just
to make his point. “No, thank you,” she said. “I do not
gamble.”
“You gambled rather boldly, Miss Hamilton, when you came
all the way to London with that child in tow.”
“She is not that child,” said Esmée. “She is—”
“Yes, yes,” he interjected, waving his hand in
obviation. “She is Sorcha. I recall it. Give me time,
Miss Hamilton, to adjust to this vast change in my life.”
They drank their coffee in silence for several moments,
Esmée searching for some neutral topic, and finding
none. “How is she?” he finally asked. “Sorcha. She is
settling in well?”
“Oh, aye,” said Esmée. “She’s a resilient child.”
“What do you mean?”
Esmée opened her hands expressively. “’Tis hard to
explain,” she said. “But Sorcha is strong willed, and she
possesses a—well, a sort of trust in her own ability to
charm everyone around her, and to get what she wants.”
Suddenly, Sir Alasdair smiled, deepening the dimples on
both sides of his too-handsome face. “Hmm,” he said. “I
wonder where she got that?”
Esmée looked at him over her coffee cup. “Now that I
think on it, sir, I’m afraid the poor child may have
gotten a double dose.”
“Ah.” Languidly, he finished his coffee and pushed the
empty cup away. “No doubt you are right.”
Esmée felt suddenly churlish and unsporting. It wasn’t
his fault he’d been born handsome and charming, and knew
how to put both to good use.
Absently, he drew a card from the spread, and began to
flick it adroitly back and forth between the fingers of
one hand, but his eyes never left hers. Esmée searched for
something constructive to say. “Thank you for the
furnishings,” she blurted. “There seem to be a great many
chairs. But it was terribly kind of you.”
“Kind?” he echoed, still lazily turning his card. “I
rarely do anything kind for anyone, Miss Hamilton. If I
do, it is either out of self-preservation, or simply to
please myself.”
“I see.” His disarming honestly perplexed her. “Which
was it, then?”
“To please myself,” he answered. “I wished to see the
warmth kindle in your eyes again when you thanked me—as
you did just now. You have fallen, Miss Hamilton, into my
trap.”
“Kill them with kindness?” she murmured. “Well, ’twill
take more than that, MacLachlan, to do me in. You ought
to know Scots are made of sterner stuff.”
“It is more my fear, Miss Hamilton, that hard work might
do you in first,” he said quietly. “I have it on the best
authority that children should have both a governess and a
nurse. Do you agree?”
Esmée was taken aback. “In a perfect world, aye.”
Sir Alasdair twirled the card from between his fingers,
and flipped it face-up in front of her. The ace of
hearts. “Then may your world, Miss Hamilton, ever be
perfect.”
For a moment, she could only stare at his elegant, long-
fingered hand, which was warm against the white starkness
of the card. She was beginning to feel a bit unsteady.
She did not like being alone with this man, his perfect
hands, and his low, dark voice.
“What do you mean?” she finally managed.
“I mean to hire a nurse,” he said. “Wellings will have
candidates in a day or two. Pick whomever you think best.”
Esmée didn’t know what to say. “That is generous, sir,”
she answered. “I hardly know what to say.”
“How about I shall be forever in your gratitude?” he
suggested. “Or I am your deeply devoted slave?”
Esmée did not like the way his words washed over her, warm
and suggestive. “I think not.”
MacLachlan gave his slow, lazy shrug. “Then perhaps you
could simply pour me another cup of coffee,” he
proposed. “I emptied my mine nearly ten minutes past.”
Esmée looked down, mildly embarrassed at her oversight.
His cup sat empty on the edge of the table. He lifted it,
and thrust it in her direction. Instinctively, Esmée
seized the pot. But somehow, the twain did not meet, and
next she knew, MacLachlan had jerked back his hand,
splashing coffee down his fine clothes.
“Christ Jesus!” he shouted.
After that, she was not perfectly sure what happened. She
must have leapt from her chair. Somehow, she had her
handkerchief, and was on her knees by his chair, dabbing
impotently at his straw-colored waistcoat, never thinking
what a fool she must look.
“Oh, I am so sorry!” Esmée scrubbed furiously at the
silk.
MacLachlan had drawn back in his chair to survey the
damage. “Bloody hell, that was hot!”
“Oh, have I scalded you?” she asked. “Are you hurt?”
Inexplicably, Esmée wanted to cry. This felt like the
last straw.
“I shan’t be scarred for life.” MacLachlan settled a
warm, strong hand on her shoulder. “Really, Miss
Hamilton, it is quite alright. Stop scrubbing, please,
and look at me.”
Esmée’s gaze trailed upward. “Oh, no!” His cravat, too,
was splattered. “Oh, this is ruined!” She plucked
desperately at the folds as if drying it would help.
MacLachlan lifted away her hand, and grasped it securely
in his. “I’ve suffered worse,” he said, leaning over her,
so close his breath stirred her hair. “Now do get off
your knees, Miss Hamilton, before someone barges in and
draws a bad conclusion—which, given my reputation, might
too easily happen.”
She did not quite absorb his words. “I beg your pardon?”
MacLachlan sighed, then somehow pushed back his chair, and
drew her up with him. They were standing mere inches
apart now, her head barely reaching his chest, and her
hand still caught in his. For a long moment, he was
perfectly still, his gaze intent on their entwined
fingers. “My dear Miss Hamilton,” he finally said.
“Y-Yes?”
His mouth curled into a smile. “I think it safe to say
you are the most relentless nail-biter I have ever known.”
Her face already aflame, she jerked the hand from his, and
thrust it behind her back.
He seized hold of the other one, and held it
resolutely. “Indeed,” he said, peering at it, “I am not
at all sure these are fingernails.”
She tried to extract her hand, but the scoundrel just
grinned. “You have quite vanquished them, Miss Hamilton,”
he said, still looking at her fingers. “They are actually
receding, like the French retreating from Moscow.”
Esmée was still distraught over having doused him with hot
coffee. “’Tis a vile habit,” she admitted, tugging at her
hand. “I would I knew how to stop.”
He lifted his gaze to hers, and held it for a long
moment. “What I would know,” he said quietly, “is what it
is that troubles you so much that you feel compelled to
chew them to the quick.”
He would not release her hand, though he held it quite
gently. “I just do sometimes,” she said softly. “It
means nothing.”
“Esmée.” The chiding affection in his tone unsettled
her. “My dear, you really are troubled. Why? How can I
help?”
Suddenly, she felt her chin quivering. “Do not you dare,”
she whispered, tearing her gaze away. “Do not you dare
feel sorry for me.”
His eyes heated. “I just want you to tell me what is
wrong,” he insisted. Suddenly, his tone shifted. “Is it
me, Esmée? Do I . . . distress you?” At that, he dropped
her hand and stepped back.
Oh, God. It wasn’t that. Why did he even have to care?
Why couldn’t he be the insensitive lout she expected? How
could he be so blithe one moment, and so compassionate the
next? Suddenly, Esmée couldn’t get her breath.
“It isn’t you,” she managed, her hand nervously toying
with the strand of pearls at her neck. “It isn’t you, and
it isn’t anything to do with you. Please, MacLachlan,
just leave me be.”
“I’m not sure I should.” His voice was gentle but
resolute. “You put on a brave face, my dear, but I begin
to suspect a crack in that brittle veneer of yours. Are
you in over your head?”
“I can manage!” she cried, dropping her hand. “I can, I
swear it! Is that why you’re hiring a nurse? You think I
know nothing of childrearing? And the coffee—I’m sorry—I
was careless.” Her voice was taking on a frantic edge now,
but she couldn’t seem to stop. “It shan’t happen again.
And I can take care of Sorcha, too. I can!”
“Miss Hamilton, this is all so unnecessary,” he
said. “You are tired, homesick, and still grieving. Your
mother is dead, and your responsibilities are grave. I am
sure you must sometimes feel quite alone in the world.
May I not show at least a little concern?”
She made a noise—a gasp? A sob?—she hardly knew which.
And suddenly, she felt his arms coming around her, strong
and sure. In that moment, it felt like the most
comforting, most protective gesture anyone had ever made
toward her.
Esmée shouldn’t have done it, of course, but she let
herself sag against the solid wall of his chest, which
felt like the Rock of Gibraltar. He smelled of laundry
starch and warm, musky male, and suddenly it was all she
could do not to bury her nose in his sodden cravat and
weep. She was homesick. She did miss her mother. And
she was frightened. Frightened, perhaps, of herself as
much as anyone.
“Esmée, look at me,” he whispered. “Please.”
She lifted her gaze to his, wordlessly pleading for
something; she knew not what. His embrace tightened. His
sinfully long lashes lowered just a fraction, his mouth
hovering over hers. Esmée felt her blood quicken. She
wanted to melt against him, to hide inside him. Instead,
she closed her eyes, and parted her lips. As she’d
somehow known it would, MacLachlan’s mouth settled over
hers, and a sense of inevitability settled over Esmée.
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