He had no wish to dine with the courtiers. Their vacuous conversations and inbred jokes held no interest for him, and he waited until eight o’clock, losing himself a little in the corridors of the château as he made his way to the ballroom.
The gilded and mirrored hall into which he eventually came was like nothing he had ever seen before. Its opulence was almost obscene, and he found himself gawping at the extravagance of the scene before him. Ladies in the finest Parisian gowns were gathering with men, equally finely dressed in the latest styles. In the background, the orchestra played gently as drinks were served and conversations were held discreetly behind fans.
There was clearly no winter in the halls which once had belonged to the sun king and Feargan looked around him in amazement as the evening began.
“Ah, lad, ye made it here. It is nice to see some tartan amidst all this silk,” Hamish McBride said, sidling up to Feargan, himself dressed in the trews of his clan.
“I am just admiring the hall. One would never find such grandeur in Scotland, nor in England, for that matter,” Feargan replied, as a footman presented him with a drink.
“Aye, ye wouldnae find French styles amidst such Protestant barbarians,” Hamish replied, shaking his head.
“Ye are nay friend to the House of Hanover then?” Feargan replied, as the music struck up and couples took to the floor.
“I am nay friend to them. Come now, meet some of the folk here, the ones I mentioned to ye yesterday in the inn,” Hamish replied, pointing towards a small gathering of ladies, two of whom Feargan recognized as Hamish’s companions in the garden.
“Oh, Hamish, I was just telling Lady Susan about our talk on Voltaire. Isn’t it splendid to think that you actually heard him speak and conversed with him? I have thought of nothing else since you told me of it this afternoon,” she said, as Hamish and Feargan approached.
“Perhaps next time ye shall come, too, and ye may converse with him,” Hamish replied.
“I am not nearly clever enough to speak with such a man. I would not have any idea what to say to him,” she replied.
At close quarters the young lady was even prettier than Feargan had perceived her to be in the garden, earlier that day. Now, she wore a yellow gown, her long blonde hair reaching to her waist, around which was tied a red sash. But it was her deep blue eyes which so captivated Feargan, and the smile she gave him as she turned to be introduced.
“Lady Amelia Barton, may I introduce the Laird of Loch Beira, Feargan Galbreth,” Hamish said, standing back as Amelia curtsied to the Laird and extended her hand.
“A pleasure to meet ye, Lady Barton, ye look ever so beautiful this evening,” Feargan said, bowing his head as he took her hand and raised it to his lips.
A slight blush passed over Amelia’s face and she smiled at Feargan, their hands lingering together just a little longer than was necessary for a formal introduction.
“Amelia, who is this gentleman? You must introduce me,” a voice from the chattering group to their left said, and the other young lady Feargan had observed that afternoon appeared before them.
“Catherine, this is the Laird of Loch Beira. Galbreth of Beira, this is my sister, Lady Catherine Barton,” Amelia said, stepping to one side as Catherine curtsied and extended her hand for the Laird to make obeisance to.
“A pleasure, Lady Catherine,” Feargan said.
“These two are my most impressive students” Hamish said. “Lady Amelia was reading texts I had not seen until my days at Edinburgh when she was but a child.”
“Only thanks to your guidance,” Amelia replied.
“And Lady Catherine is master of four different languages, not to mention her talents on the pianoforte,” Hamish continued, as Feargan nodded his head in approval.
“Fine credentials, indeed,” Feargan replied.
“Oh, come now, let’s dance,” Catherine said. “Do say you’ll dance, Galbreth of Beira, I’d be ever so disappointed if you didn’t. Come now, the orchestra are playing such wonderful music and I want to twirl in my ball gown like a Parisian lady.”
Amelia laughed at her sister, and she took Catherine’s hand and placed it in Feargan’s, urging the couple to take to the floor.
Feargan had little aptitude for dance, at least of such a formal kind. He preferred the rigorous jigs of home to the formalities which such an occasion required. His were two left feet and Catherine was constantly tripping over them as he attempted to follow the elegant movements of those around him.
“You are no dancer, are you Galbreth of Beira, though you are far the handsomest man on the floor this evening,” Catherine said, as Feargan almost stood upon her foot for the tenth time during the dance.
“Such pursuits daenae come naturally to me, My Lady,” he replied, twirling her awkwardly around and knocking into another couple as he did so.
“Tell me about your estates in Scotland. Are they vast and brooding like the descriptions one reads of? The purple heather and the stags running across the moorland,” Catherine said, attempting to lead him.
Feargan laughed. What a different scene it would be if they were at home in his hall. There would be no gilded mirrors or fleur-de-lis, no elegant ladies in their finery, and gentlemen in powdered wigs. Back home such a party would involve the pipers and the local folk making merry on whisky, sharing tales long into the night as darkness fell.
“Some of what ye have read is accurate, aye, and if ye have never seen Scotland then I pity ye, My Lady,” Feargan replied.
“Our father is the Earl of Workington, and I have never been further north than Cumberland, a place long fought over by both our peoples, and still a battleground to this day,” she replied, as they stepped from the dance floor to draw breath. “Our father is in Paris now. He has business interests with the French, trading rum out of the port of Whitehaven.”
“And what brings ye here to Saint-Germain-en-Laye? Ye are nay rum trader yerself,” Feargan said, laughing as she blushed.
“My sister and I are here to improve ourselves. One cannot possibly be without awe in such a place, far better than a draughty manor in Cumberland. But what brings the Laird of Beira here? Would you not rather remain amongst the bonnie hills of Scotland?” she asked.
Feargan was silent for a moment, his attention distracted by Amelia, who sat to the side of the hall conversing with Hamish. She was truly beautiful. Though Catherine herself was not without her charm, she appeared far too flirtatious, as though any man who should present himself would receive the same attentive treatment.
Amelia, on the other hand, had a quiet and inquisitive demeanor to her, quite the opposite to her bold sister who once again asked the question.
“Galbreth of Beira, what brings you to Saint-Germain-en-Laye? Are you looking for something specific, or for someone, perhaps? They say that the halls of the court in exile are quite the place for both,” she said.
His attention once again turned to her and away from her sister, whose eye Feargan had caught once again, a smile exchanged between them.
“I come on business with the Regent. I wish to speak with him and have no intention of leaving before I do so,” Feargan replied.
“The Regent rarely speaks to visitors. He is not even here this evening yet to dance. So instead you will have to put up with my sister and I, and Philip, of course,” she replied, her expression changing as she uttered the name.
Feargan looked puzzled, though he vaguely remembered Hamish mentioning the man to whom Amelia was betrothed.
“Oh, look, there he is. Come, I shall introduce you. It will be nice to have some lively company—he can be such a dreadful bore,” Catherine said, taking Feargan by the hand and leading him over to Hamish and Amelia.
* * *
Student and tutor had been joined by a tall man, dressed in the Parisian style, though beneath his wig Feargan could see traces of black hair. The man cast a casual glance as Catherine and Feargan approached, though made no move to introduce himself, preferring to t
ake Amelia’s hand as though in a defiant show of ownership.
“Ah, the dancers return. How were yer two left feet, lad?” Hamish said, laughing, “Ye will need to learn the ways of the court if ye are to spend any more time with us.”
“I daenae like dancing, at least not in this style,” Feargan replied, eyeing Philip who still refused to speak.
“Forgive me for nae making the formal introductions. Lord Torbay, may I introduce Feargan Galbreth, Laird of Loch Beira. Feargan, may I introduce Philip Yates, Marquess of Torbay and a close personal friend of the Regent,” Hamish said.
Philip looked disdainfully at Feargan who held out his hand, refused to take it, and instead cast his glance over Feargan’s shoulder.
“The floor is somewhat lacking this evening. I should say two left feet were the least of the problems,” Philip said.
“It is just a bit of fun, Philip,” Amelia said, shooting a glance at Feargan and suppressing a smile.
“Such frivolity. The thrones of England and Scotland will not be won by dancing, but by action. Yet here we sojourn, our lives growing shorter by the day,” Philip said, still not making eye contact with Feargan who considered him just about the rudest and most arrogant man he had ever met.
“You are enjoying yourself, aren’t you Galbreth of Beira?” Catherine said, turning to Feargan who blushed.
“Aye, the evening is jolly enough,” Feargan replied, unsure of what to say as now Philip deigned to meet his eye.
“The Laird of Loch Beira, that is quite a grand title, if one had any idea where it was. Tell me, do you have peasants on your land, or is it simply a wilderness of grazing sheep and peat bogs, like so much of that sorry country?” Philip said.
“It has its charms, and at least in the company of sheep one is not so readily insulted, sir,” Feargan replied, his estimations of Amelia’s choice of husband dwindling by the moment.
“Come now, Scotland is nae so bad, and Edinburgh is a fine city,” Hamish said.
“And for what reason does the Laird of Loch Beira have for coming amongst us here at Saint-Germain-en-Laye?” Philip asked, eyeing Feargan suspiciously, “Are you here to offer your support to the Jacobite cause?”
“I am here to speak with the Regent, it is urgent that I dae so, I must,” Feargan replied.
But his words were cut short by a fanfare of trumpets, signaling the arrival of Charles Edward Stuart himself.
“Now ye shall see the Regent, lad,” Hamish whispered, as the figure of the monarch in exile entered the room.
He was shorter than Feargan had imagined him to be, though Feargan had little idea of what he expected the man born to rule over England and Scotland to look like. The Regent walked with a confident air, feted by those before him, a look of self-assurance and confidence upon his face. He was not lavishly dressed, but his white wig and respectable clothes gave him the mark of authority as one who was destined to lead his people in a glorious rebellion.
It was such romanticism which Feargan had come to dispel and he looked eagerly at Hamish as the elderly tutor chuckled.
“He will not speak with ye this evening, lad, the evenings are for pleasure, nae for business,” he whispered.
The Regent had now taken his place at the front of the hall and signaled for the music to resume. Feargan watched as Philip crossed over towards him, whispering in his ear.
“He always does this,” Catherine said, shaking her head.
“Does what?” Feargan asked, as both Philip and the Regent cast a look in his direction.
“Makes trouble,” Catherine replied.
“Catherine,” Amelia said, remonstrating with her sister.
“It’s true. Come, Galbreth of Beira, you and I shall dance again, and I will show you just where to put your feet.” With that, she led Feargan onto the dance floor, as he cast a final glance towards Philip and the Regent, wondering just what it was they were speaking of.
4
“There now, much better, you didn’t step on my foot once during that dance,” Catherine said, as she and Feargan stepped out from the circle some time later.
“Ye are a good teacher and make nay mistake. Would it be an indiscretion to ask yer sister to dance now?” Feargan said, “Perhaps she can complete my education on the matter.”
“If you agree to dance the final dance with me,” Catherine replied, smiling at him as she loosed her hand from his.
Amelia had not danced that evening and Feargan wondered why Philip, a man with such a beautiful fiancée, should not wish to see her do so. The two of them sat together with Hamish and she smiled as Feargan approached, Catherine already dancing with another man.
“Has my sister quite tired you out now, Galbreth of Beira?” she asked.
“Not quite, nay, I have come to ask ye if ye might agree to share this dance with me? Now that yer sister has sorted out me two left feet,” Feargan said, laughing.
“Amelia will dance with no one this evening,” Philip replied, stepping between Feargan and Amelia with an expression of contempt upon his face. “She has no need for minor nobles of distinction to twirl her lasciviously around the dance floor, tripping over their own feet.”
“Philip, please…” Amelia said, looking embarrassed.
“Is that why ye have nae danced with her this evening, then?” Feargan said, squaring up to Philip whose face turned apoplectic.
“I should have you thrown out of here for such insubordination. A mere Scottish landowner with his airs and graces, coming here to dictate to good people what they should and should not do in the cause of right. Yes, I have heard all about your little plan to speak with the Regent about our noble cause and let me assure you that your pleas for an audience shall fall on deaf ears,” Philip said, and taking hold of Amelia’s arm he pulled her roughly from the room as Feargan looked on in horror.
“Ye told him why I wished to speak with the Regent?” Feargan said, rounding on Hamish.
“He would have found out anyway, besides, the answer would still have been nay, the Regent wouldnae agree to yer request. This rebellion is his life. Ye mark my words, lad, ye shall see the Stuarts landing in Scotland before next year is out,” Hamish said, and rising form his chair he bid Feargan goodnight, ambling through the dancers who were about to make their final dance.
“I shall speak with him myself then,” Feargan said, and summoning all his courage he pushed through the crowds to where the Regent was sitting with his entourage.
But as he approached, Charles Edward Stewart looked up from his dalliances with the ladies, a look of annoyance crossing his face.
“I will not speak with that man,” he said abruptly, and several of the footmen put their hands on Feargan’s shoulder.
“But, Sire, I only want to—” Feargan said, but his words were cut short by the footmen, who removed him forcefully from the hall.
Sighing to himself, he wandered through the hallways of the château and back upstairs to his chambers. The fire had burned low by now and a frost was forming on the windowpanes.
Feargan looked out across the snow-covered, moonlit gardens, telltale footsteps in the snow a sign of secret assignations in the darkness beyond. As he readied himself for bed, Feargan reflected on the evening that had just passed. He was angered by his treatment at the hands of Lord Torbay, a man whom he perceived to be no better than himself, yet who seemed to court the Regent’s favor so readily. How dare he speak so haughtily to him, as if his journey from Scotland meant nothing? If Feargan was not allowed to speak with the Regent, then he would ensure his message was heard one way or another, of that he was certain.
With this resolution in mind, he was just about to snuff out his candle and go to sleep when a gentle tapping came at his door, and a soft voice spoke from the corridor.
“Galbreth of Beira? Are you there? It’s Catherine.”
Feargan took up his candle and opened the door to find the young lady still in her evening finery, holding a candle herself against the darkness of
the château’s corridors.
“I… I just wanted to check you were all right. Philip can be an absolute beast, and he treats my sister with such contempt. I am sorry he was so rude to you and he has probably seen to it that your desired audience with the Regent will not take place. Do not hold it against my sister, though, she has nothing to do with his vile moods and temper,” Catherine said.
“I daenae hold it against yer sister. I can see she is far from happy with his behavior. Though I ask myself why she agreed to marry him in the first place,” Feargan said, the two standing somewhat awkwardly in the doorway to his chambers.
“She had no choice in the matter—he was seen to be a suitable match and that was final—there was no reasoning with our father and Philip enjoys the prize of his beautiful fiancée. That is why he would not let her dance with you, the man is jealous beyond imagining and terrified that someone far better will come along and snatch her away,” Catherine said.
“There isnae danger in that if he keeps her constantly at his side,” Feargan replied.
Catherine shook her head, the candle spluttering as she held it high to illuminate the scene.
“Well, goodnight, and thank you for being so understanding. Will we see you tomorrow? Amelia and I take a walk in the gardens each day, perhaps you would like to join us?” she said, smiling at Feargan through the darkness.
“Aye, that would be very pleasant, thank ye,” he replied, as she turned to leave.
“Three o’clock, in the entrance hall. We will show you the long walk. It is quite charming in the snow. Goodnight,” she said, and like a ghost she disappeared into the darkness, the glimmer of the candle retreating along the corridor as Feargan watched.
Shaking his head, he snuffed out his own candle, setting it to the side of his bed and climbing beneath the covers. It was the first comfortable bed he had slept in since leaving home, for whatever Lord Torbay might think of Highland living, the residence of the Laird of Loch Beira was comfortable. Feargan was soon asleep, thoughts of the two sisters inhabiting his dreams, their faces a pretty tonic to the injustice of the evening.
Highlander's Sinful Desire (Steamy Scottish Historical Romance) Page 29