The older laird grinned when Nial twirled back, retrieved the crumpled letter and stood at his desk trying, with little success, to straighten it out again. He worked at it for a couple of minutes, before his eyes fell to the text and he thrust it at Carrick. He ran at full speed out of the house muttering, “I’ve got to get to London. Got to get to London.”
Carrick was still laughing when two of the men still waiting outside yelled in, “Laird, what should we do with him?”
He yelled back, “Let him go but remind him that he needs to pack before he takes off for London.”
He laughed harder when he heard the young man reply, “To hell with packing. I can get more clothes.”
He walked to the door where Nial had just mounted his horse at a run, prepared to gallop away to England with nothing more than himself, his horse and the clothes on his back.
Carrick called out again. “Son, you might need money too.”
Nial looked up, muttered an expletive, and headed towards Kilcuillin.
Watching the horse gallop away at top speed, Carrick smiled and speculated to his warriors. "I bet that lad will be on the road to London within the next four hours."
Carrick lost his wager. Nial started his journey in half that time.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Heather lay in her bed thinking about how drastically her life had changed since her arrival in London. Her English relatives were so lively that it kept her from concentrating full time on her depression and the loss that she tried to pretend she wasn’t suffering. It mostly worked until she fell asleep. Then Nial and the black-haired bitch pranced and pawed each other the whole night through.
Aunt Violet ran her house with flourishes of drama and emotion and yet somehow managed everything with the precision of a general. Uncle John was more reserved, but showed flashes of humor that let Heather know he felt the peace he got from allowing his wife to have her way was well worthwhile. Peter was four years older and a blend of both of his parents. He was a handsome scamp who reminded her far too much of the one at Skye that she was trying to forget. Vivian was only a year older and she had become Heather’s confidante and indispensable tour guide through the maze of social intrigue that constituted London’s ton.
Aunt V had a modiste awaiting the arrival of their carriage, and refused to even take her shopping for a new wardrobe until she looked fit to leave the house. Less than a day after her arrival, Heather succumbed to tears at the sight of herself wearing the first of the new dresses. A classic yellow chemise dress, the garment had a rather low neckline that she modestly stuffed with a fichu. So simple an outfit, yet what a difference it made.
She was not allowed to look at her reflection in the mirror until the maid finished her hair, which was gathered in a loose French knot, with several strands dangling around her face and neck. Heather held herself tensely, refusing to believe the murmurs of approval. When she was dressed, tears streaked her mother’s face as she turned her to face the mirror.
“My darling butterfly. I told you, exotic beauty. Just look.”
Heather did look. “Is that really me?” She asked, not believing that she actually looked like the woman in the reflection. The gown showed off a trim figure and flattered her overly abundant udders. The color made her skin look golden rather than olive. Her hair was still odd, and her eyes were still cursed, she privately thought.
Aunt V insisted they all drink and her eyes were moist as she kept insisting, “Heather will knock ‘em dead”.
“My lass shall have her choice of grooms now, and will end up with a much better match than the unfaithful bastard in Skye,” Bonnie grumbled.
The mention of Nial sobered her, and she asked for a few minutes alone, and shamed herself by spending them wishing that she had looked so for him. Then, as she always did, she made herself bring back the picture of him buried inside the witch. She lectured herself sternly that she’d had a lucky escape in having his true character revealed before any vows bound them.
Despite the horrific picture and stern lecture, her traitorous heart persisted in remembering their walks, their conversations and how solicitous he had been of her. But never once had he looked at her with fire blazing from his eyes as he had the other woman. Had Nial married the evil witch yet?
She stared at her reflection in the mirror, and twirled, “How would he see me now? Would he look at me in passion, at last?” Her whispered words went unanswered, and she put on a smile as she left the room sternly insisting that whatever he was doing didn’t matter. She never wanted to see him again. She could never trust him with her heart and her future so she’d best move on to find another and get to know him well before she made any promises.
To that end, Heather faced the ton at the Badgerton ball. Despite all of Aunt V’s tutoring, and Viv’s promise to be there for her, she was all but shaking with nerves as they stood on the steps waiting to be announced.
She turned to Viv, “The room is just lovely. All the carnations and ferns put me in mind of either a Scottish garden or a jungle, although one is much the same as the other, I’ve no doubt. Well, they’re much the same except that in one the sly rascals walk on two feet rather than four.”
“They spent a pretty penny on all the candles too, but Lady Badgerton will spare no expense in her quest to get her son married off.”
“My, it’s crowded, isn’t it. How is there room to dance?” Heather asked, laughingly.
“A ball is not a success, cousin, unless it is a mad crush,” Viv said, smiling at her cousin’s excited anxiety.
“Well, this one is doing very well then,” Heather said.
They entered to greet their hosts, the dowager Viscountess, her daughter, and Viscount Badgerton. The latter was very handsome in a blonde, green-eyed English sort of way. After the introductions, he took her hand and daringly kissed it without it being offered and responded to her, “Good evening Viscount Badgerton” by insisting that she “call him Geoff” and murmuring that he would certainly hope for a dance later. He eyed her Uncle John as he made the latter statement, but her Uncle was noncommittal.
As they walked away Uncle John muttered, “Cheeky little bugger.”
Apparently, she was correct in assuming the man had been too forward. However, Viv gaily twirled her away from her parents at the first opportunity and whispered, “You have made your first conquest and such a mighty fine beginning too.”
It turned out that the Viscount was much sought after by the young ladies who found him handsome and believed his reputation as a “rake” made him a challenge. She and Viv made their way over to a group of young ladies that Viv knew. One of them, Lady Jane Seaton, reminded Heather too much of the catty girls at home who always laughed at her and didn’t even bother to do it behind her back.
Jane raised a brow at Heather, saying, “I am considering Geoff, you know. It’s just hard to choose a husband from among so many anxious to be chosen.”
Heather gathered that she had just been warned away from Geoff Ramsgate. In her opinion, if he was dangling after the catty little blonde, then he deserved what he got.
A few minutes later, Jane turned to her again, "It appears that man admiring glances are being cast your way. Of course, the men know so little of quality. Tell me, Heather, is your dress a copy of a Parisian Original?”
In defiance of the pale hues normally worn by debutantes, Heather's gown was of rich gold. She wore a silk sheath underneath, covered by an overdress of rich lace. Her elbow length sleeves were gold, as were her gloves. Her hair was piled atop her head, and she wore pearl earrings that belonged to her Mother. The lines were simple, but she thought the dress far more elegant than the layers of flounces and bows worn by the other girl.
“Why no, Lady Jane, it is a Virginia Vane original. Don’t tell me you prefer French designers instead of the fine London artisans?”
That left Jane sputtering, as the political climate with the French was currently very unstable and the inquiry questioned her patriotism.
Across the room, two men watched the ladies converse. Mark Braden, Lord Ricefield, a long time running mate in environs more and less civilized than this one, addressed his host. "You've shown no interest in a proper female since your father kicked it and you found yourself stuck with the title and the job of acquiring a respectable wife and heir. What female has changed your attitude so suddenly?"
Geoff gestured with his head. "She's there, with Jane. The lovely, luscious minx clad in gold. Gad, Mark, every ton female I've met so far has been vapid, self-centered, and cut from the same mold. If I must, mind you, must look at the same female over breakfast for forty or fifty years, then it will have to be one who is something more, something different that those I've had met thus far."
Ricefield smiled cynically. "They're all from the same mold. What makes you think this one is different?"
Badgerton shrugged and looked a little abashed. "Nothing, you'll accept, cynic that you are. 'Twas a feeling when walked through the greeting line and I kissed her hand. Something inside just paused. Oh, I'll grant you that she's not a typical beauty, but something about her rainbow locks makes me want to spend time sorting through every shade – with my teeth. Eventually, I'd even get to the hair on her head."
Now Braden snorted. "Improper interest in a proper female. That, I understand. That, I believe. I hate to burst the sudden bubble of sentiment encasing you, but I'd guess that when you speak to her, you'll discover that only her appearance is different. Just pick one of them, wed her, and find a mistress whose hair you want to sort."
About that time Heather decided that she had already spent more time than she wished with the little cat. She turned and left before she broke one of the multitudinous rules that Aunt V had spent days drilling into her, reviewing with her, repeating and reviewing some more. She drifted away from the group, and walked to the back of the room to admire a view of the river through the large window, and to enjoy the cool breeze. England was warmer than home, but she did feel better just looking at the river, since she had been surrounded by water for her entire life.
Geoff winked at his friend and excused himself. "I believe I shall have the chance to begin my study of her right now."
He strolled across the ballroom with unusual impatience. “We meet again Lady Heather. Tell me, is the view out the window that engrossing or do you find our ball that boring?”
She raised a brow and said, “Both, I’m afraid, my Lord.”
He moved a step closer. “Both? So you find this glittering gathering of the most elite of London’s ton that my mother has worked so hard to arrange boring? Say it isn’t so, Lady Heather.”
“With apologies to your Mother, sir, thus far I find this gathering to be a group of people who dress up to get together so that they can see what everyone else is wearing, and to scrutinize everyone’s dance partners. Then they point out that their attire is much prettier and their dance partners much more handsome or high-ranking or preferably both. So far ton parties seem to be an excuse to gather, gossip and denigrate others.”
He threw back his head and laughed. “Bravo, Lady Heather. Such honesty is as rare in these quarters as the insight behind that comment. But alas, as a dutiful son, I must do what I can to better entertain you at Mum’s little gathering. Will you do me the honor of dancing?”
They took the dance floor. Looking at the other dancers, Heather became conscious that Geoff held her much too close. She tried to assert distance between them discreetly, but that didn’t work.
“Back,” she growled and he did step back at least slightly.
"Have none of the others held you close, Heather?" He asked tightly, casting assessing eyes at the overly attentive male eyes following her trim figure.
"I've not danced yet, sir," she replied.
"Well, when you dance again, be sure you allow none of them to do so."
She cast a wary eye at him, more than a little pleased that he seemed to care about her dancing with other men. She generally found herself foisted off like a maiden aunt. Considering his jealous comment, she smiled and asked him about his family. They conversed of his new responsibilities and of her love for her native country. As she mentioned her Isle of Skye the passion of her love for her home’s mountains and rocky coastline lit her gaze.
He pursued the subject until she spoke at length of it, calling it “The magnificent, mystic, magical Isle of Skye”.
“That is quite a lot for one Island to live up to. Why magical?”
“Because of the faeries of course. Good sir, ‘tis well known that the Shining Folk inhabit the Isle of Skye. We even have a faerie glen where they hold gatherings,” she said. Intent on the conversation, she unintentionally blundered into the one area she never intended to speak of to anyone, saying, “And there is actually a clan with faerie in its blood lines. They possess a faerie flag that will protect the clan in the event such is needed.”
“Tell me, dearest Heather, what clan is it that has such a close association with the faeries?” He asked, suspecting that could be the source of her unease.
Her response was brief and to the point, “The Maclees”.
"One of them hurt you," he murmured but she pretended not to hear. He didn't pursue the subject.
At the end of the dance, they stood alone for no more than a moment before Bozworth Harrison, the Duke of Sedgewick approached. He was known generally as Sedgewick, but his friends called him Boz. The debutantes and their mothers considered the duke the top prize in the marriage sweepstakes and did so each season. He showed no inclination to the altar and that only made his allure stronger.
******
Boz watched Geoff glare at every man casting admiring gazes at the beautiful brunette. With a broad grin, he tilted his head and surrendered to the multiple layers of impulse prodding him to hurry to the couple's side. Part of it arose from his sense that Geoff, who virtually blackmailed him into attending this party, suddenly wished him to Hades – or at least to the other side of the room. That being the case, naturally Boz made haste to interrupt his friend’s conversation with the glorious newcomer to their tight little set.
“Geoff, please introduce me to your lovely companion,” Boz requested, conscious that his friend had to comply or be considered an ass of the first order by the lady. He never missed an opportunity to bedevil a buddy.
“Certainly,” Badgerton said with an expression that screamed “back off” belied by his polite words. “Boz, this is Lady Heather MacIver of the Isle of Skye, Scotland. Heather, this is His Grace, Bozworth Harrison, the Duke of Sedgewick.”
“An honor to meet you, Your Grace,” Heather said with a little curtsey. She rose and proffered her hand, and Boz bent to kiss it just a bit too quickly.
“Heather,” Geoff chastised, “it is completely improper for you to offer your hand to be kissed in such a manner.”
The spectacle of his longtime companion in debauch lecturing the lady upon propriety caused a violent twinkle that he knew Geoff didn’t appreciate. Boz literally bit his tongue against the hearty chuckle that threatened to emerge and only made the effort because he knew Geoff would appreciate that even less.
“Viscount Badgerton, if I recall correctly you grabbed my hand and kissed it when we were introduced. Why is it proper for you to kiss my hand and improper for His Grace to do it?” She challenged openly, her ire making her eyes spark with passion. Oh yes, Boz thought suddenly, Nial knew this one. At the thought, that inner something shifted again. Ah yes, this must be the other part of his impulse to hurry to the couple
“Because,” gritted Badgerton from between clenched teeth, “Sedgewick is a rake and a rogue. You should avoid him at all costs.”
Her eyes glittering, she said, “A rake and a rogue like you, my lord? Then perhaps I should avoid you as well.”
Geoff turned to her in a fury of passionate rage and began his words by advancing as he said, “Bloody hell, Heather…”
The duke decided to play white knight and protect
his friend from himself at that point, conscious that Badgerton hovered at the verge of forgetting their august company and kissing the lady soundly, publicly and within an inch of her life. Entertaining though that might be, the instinct of a gentleman bred in him for generations compelled him to protect the lady from being so publicly compromised.
There was something else too, something Boz acknowledged to himself only with great reluctance. It was the ability that family lore said had been bred in the lines from the long ago marriage of a cousin to a faerie that allowed Sedgewicks to sense what they couldn’t know. Long and hard knock lessons from life taught him that whenever that sixth sense emerged, it was to be considered and obeyed.
The lady accepted and took his arm. Geoff leaned close as he walked by, saying, “Tread carefully here lest I forget our years of friendship”
“I think we should all tread carefully here, my friend,” the Duke replied in a low tone, before taking to the dance floor with the lady. As he did, he realized that he felt a connection to her, but oddly, it wasn't attraction. That was strange, for he was above all else a ladies’ man, and Heather was a unique female, beautiful in some outrageous and nearly over-the-top fashion. He remembered the comment he intended to make earlier, the sudden ping from his pesky sense and decided to probe.
Badgerton hadn’t mentioned the connection to Skye that Sedgewick had because while it was hardly hidden, it was hardly well known either. Come to think of it, he had not had occasion to discuss it with the other man.
“I have been to your Isle of Skye. I've reveled in the beauty and magic of your famed faerie glen.” She looked up, startled at this unexpected piece of information. He held her eyes as he made his next comment. “I have even beheld the faerie flag possessed by my kinsmen, the Maclees. Do you know my friend and cousin, Laird Nial Maclee?”
At the question she stumbled in the steps of the dance but he covered for her easily, prodded by that inner sight to expect the lapse. Her golden eyes filled with liquid pain, longing and loss underscored by love, nearly hidden, but still pulsing, still present. Boz saw it all in the tiny fraction of time before she shuttered her gaze but with his extra sense, he'd have known it even if her eyes stayed closed.
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