“You’ll get fat,” Penelope said.
“Who is she betrothed to? Who is this Earl of Glenlorne? Is he anyone important?” Marjorie demanded.
“I don’t know,” Elizabeth said to both questions, shrugging. Marjorie didn’t bother to scold her for the gesture.
“Well, at least she’s betrothed,” Marjorie said, looking at Penelope, who slumped in a chair by the fire, pouting. “There’s no need to worry then, is there?”
Elizabeth smirked. “Maybe there is—Fiona says she’s never seen Iain look at any woman the way he looks at her.”
“And how exactly does he look at her?” Penelope asked.
“Like there’s no one else in the room, or even in the whole world, but her.”
Penelope gave a moan of dismay, but Marjorie held up her hand. “He’s simply concerned about her health, perhaps. You said she was injured. Iain is a—” She swallowed bile. “A kind man, a good laird, and that is all. We must do our part as well, and see that she is comfortable while she’s here. Penelope, you will befriend her, and find out about her betrothed. If he has not been sent for, that should be done at once. Play the hostess, act the part of the chatelaine of Craigleith. Make your position entirely clear.”
“What good will that do?’ Penelope asked.
“You will convince her that Iain is spoken for, that he belongs to you, is head over heels in love with you.”
“As far as I know she isn’t blind,” Elizabeth said.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Penelope demanded, her blue eyes narrowing on her sister.
“It means she’ll see that Iain is not head over anything with you.” Elizabeth defiantly snatched the toast and crammed it into her mouth even as she dodged Penelope’s swat.
Marjorie got out of bed and headed for the dressing room, ringing for her maid. “Go and change your dress, Penelope. Put on something fetching.”
“What’s wrong with the one she has on?” Elizabeth asked.
“It needs to be grander, more stylish,” Penelope said.
Marjorie smiled. “Precisely. We must leave our visitor—and Iain—in no doubt as to who is lovelier, better dressed, more suitable as a wife and countess, just in case,” Marjorie said.
“Do you believe she’s here by magic, Mama?” Elizabeth asked.
Marjorie glowered at her younger daughter. “Of course not—don’t be ridiculous, Elizabeth. Go back to your room and comb your hair, and you can put on a better gown as well. We must all present an image of English pride and superiority. An English title always takes precedence over a Scottish one. We must make that clear to everyone.”
Elizabeth’s cheeky smile faded at the prospect of changing her clothes.
Marjorie considered what to do next. “I will go and speak to Iain, see if there’s anything we need to worry about. We will bring him to the point before Christmastide, and most certainly before we return to England. You will be charming, flirtatious, and you will do whatever it takes to win Iain, do you understand, Penelope?”
“Yes, Mama,” Penelope said.
“Anything?” Elizabeth asked, her eyes widening.
“Anything,” her mother and her sister insisted in unison.
Chapter Thirteen
“OH, MY DEAR nephew, I just heard the dreadful news. Are you quite well?”
Iain looked up from the accounts as his aunt entered the library. Her dress was more appropriate for a stroll in a London park, or tea with royalty perhaps, than for a cold, snowy day in Scotland. The heavy scent of her French perfume instantly filled the room.
“Good morning, Aunt,” he said, and crossed to add more peat to the fire, knowing his English kin found the weather cold here—both inside and outside the castle. When that was done, he turned to face her. “What news would that be?” he asked. Had Penelope decided she did not wish to marry him after all? That wouldn’t be dreadful to him.
“I was informed that you were out all night in that terrible storm, rescuing some silly local girl who managed to get herself stuck in the snow. I hope you didn’t catch a chill.”
Ah, so that was it. If he were to die, who would inherit Purbrick then? He leaned on the mantel. “She’s not a local girl at all. She came quite a way, was lost.”
“How thoughtless of her,” Marjorie said, leveling her lady-of-the-manor stare at him. He knew that look. It meant there was another lecture coming. “Penelope would never be so unthinking. Well-bred English ladies do not do such foolish things.”
“Then English ladies must check the weather a dozen times a day before setting out anywhere,” Iain said, keeping his expression flat, unreadable, and coolly polite, reminding himself that she was a guest in his home, and unfamiliar with Scottish customs. “Winter storms can come over the hills very suddenly, catch even seasoned travellers unawares.”
“There was some mention she had to be carried,” Marjorie said, as she opened a basket of embroidery and took up her needle. She was always working on something, yet it was not at all clear what use the finished piece would serve. Worse, she had insisted that Fiona must learn such needlework as well, since she could not be expected to learn to dance, or walk like a lady with her limp.
“Lady Alanna fell. Her knee is sprained, but there’s no lasting harm, fortunately.”
His aunt pursed her lips. “Is that her name? Alanna? There was no need to explain in such detail how she was injured. Ladies in England do not speak of—such things—in company.” Iain wondered how they discussed anything at all, with rules against so many perfectly ordinary topics. “And in England, no true lady would have inconvenienced you so. It won’t happen again. You will have servants to see to such inconsequential matters.”
Servants again. Did everyone expect he would be content to live in luxury and never lift a finger again once he arrived at Woodford Park? It was not his way. Iain clasped his hands tightly behind his back and gave her a bland smile. “Whether Lady Alanna was found by a servant or myself, her care and welcome at Craigleith would be the same.”
“I understand she is to be married very soon,” his aunt said, changing the subject slightly. She was very well informed, as usual.
“Aye,” he said, and felt his shoulders tense. He clasped his hands tighter still. This was it, the reason she’d sought him out, had worked the topic round to betrothals and marriage.
“I daresay her family, not to mention her betrothed, must be stricken with sorrow at her disappearance. She must be allowed to go home at once.”
Iain recalled the conversation he’d had with Annie and Sandy about keeping Alanna. He frowned. “It’s not a matter of allowing her to go, Aunt. She isn’t a prisoner. She is unable to travel. She needs rest, and a few days for her leg to mend.”
Marjorie looked horrified. “But she arrived without even a chaperone. Surely you can understand that if she’s truly a lady, and she stays here much longer, her reputation will be irreparably tarnished. Or some might suspect she fled from her own wedding, and she’ll get a reputation as a jilt. Or it might be supposed she eloped with someone other than her betrothed. The potential for scandal and gossip of the most damaging kind is looming with every hour she’s here. And not just for her, Iain—for you, as well.”
There might be scandal indeed if it became known that Alanna spent the night naked in his arms, as innocent and necessary as that had been. He kept that piece of information to himself and smiled at his aunt. “You need have no fear. Those are English rules. No one here will see anything but a young woman’s misfortune, and they will understand that the situation was tempered with kindness.” Iain nodded toward the window, where snow still fell thickly against the panes. “Lady Alanna will be here with us at Craigleith for a wee while longer. Her family will certainly understand, and there is no one to spread gossip, of course.”
Marjorie’s cheeks grew red, and s
he drew her lips tight as she pulled the thread through the fabric. He’d won that round, or so he thought when she changed the subject yet again. “This room is so chilly, Iain, elegant though it is. Penelope had some ideas just this morning on how it could be improved, made warmer and brighter, more fashionable. I mean, the draperies alone . . . well. Of course, when you marry Penelope, she will help you improve this place—if you want to fix it, of course. Purbrick includes four manors, and Woodford is considered to be one of the most beautiful homes in England. Once you see it, you may never wish to come back here at all. Or you could convert it to a hunting lodge, spend a week or two here each year.”
Iain looked around his library. His father had hired one of England’s premier architects to help design the new wing of Craigleith. True, the furnishings and window coverings had not been changed since, but a home was more than bricks and mortar and fashionable damask draperies, more than grand paintings and wide lawns—it was the people, and the land that had been theirs for five hundred years. There was no improving on the view across the hills, or the sight of the sky reflected in the black surface of the loch, or the heather in bloom. Isn’t that what windows were truly for?
He reminded himself that he wasn’t just responsible for the MacGillivrays of Craigleith now. The people and lands of Purbrick—all four estates—were also his to care for. He took that responsibility every bit as seriously as he did his duties at Craigleith. It felt like a weight between his shoulders, and he saw the doubt in the eyes of Marjorie and Penelope when they spoke of his role as earl. Would it be so different? He knew how to manage Craigleith, but he hadn’t been raised to be an English earl, or the owner of great estates, as Marjorie had pointed out to him more than once since she’d arrived here.
As if she could read his thoughts, Marjorie sighed and shook her head, regarding him with a frown, as if she doubted he would be capable of handling such a lofty responsibility.
“It’s not just the refurbishment of Craigleith you’ll need to consider, but this place, even this room, simply shows how much you’ll need a wife who can help you with English customs and manners, who can make introductions to the right people for you. You are an English earl now, and you must learn to act the part,” she admonished him yet again.
“When the time comes,” he said. He turned to face the fire, watching the flames. He saw Alanna’s face there, not Penelope’s.
“Really, Iain—that time is coming faster than you think,” Marjorie warned. “We’ll leave Scotland after Christmas, as soon as the weather breaks. You’ll hardly have time for a stop at Woodford itself—a few days at most—before you must go to London and find a tailor, a bootmaker and . . . well, you’ll need absolutely everything. It will be good to have someone by your side to advise you, don’t you think?”
“I trust I’ll have servants for that,” he said sarcastically, aware that in her eyes, his scuffed boots and homespun shirt were as shabby as the curtains. His aunt and cousins had done nothing but wistfully long for the small army of servants they were used to. He wondered if they’d ever had to do anything at all for themselves. He hadn’t considered he’d have to go directly to London, spend long weeks there. He’d thought to stop in Edinburgh with Fiona, show her the sights of the Scottish capital before going south to the English one.
“A wife will be of far more help than a valet or even the best man of affairs, Iain. And you’ll need an heir as soon as possible—and you’ll definitely need a wife for that, a lady of impeccable pedigree. You can’t afford to delay.” She looked at him expectantly, as if she expected him to fall to his knee at this very moment and propose to Penelope through her.
But Iain had a stubborn streak—one his mother always swore he’d inherited from the English side of the family. He was used to being the one in charge, and he meant to keep it that way. He didn’t doubt he’d need help once he crossed the border, but for now he would keep his own counsel.
“I appreciate your advice, Aunt, but I’m used to making my own decisions,” he told her yet again.
“Of course you are,” she said in a singsong tone, as if she were placating a truculent child. “It’s just that—well, the English will see you as a foreigner, and an outsider, especially if you haven’t got the right clothes or the right manners. We’re your family. Who better to guide you through these difficult days? And you’ll want Fiona to benefit from her connection to the English aristocracy, won’t you? With guidance, a proper education, and a little polish, she might make a sound marriage despite her infirmity—far better than she could hope for if she remained here.”
Her infirmity. Would the English be so cruel as to dismiss his sister as dull or stupid because she limped? Iain thought of what he could give his sister in England—pretty clothes, books, an education—and felt a twinge of guilt at his reluctance to follow Marjorie’s directives. Fiona deserved all that and more.
Marjorie prattled on, her eyes on her needlework. “You’ll enjoy the London Season—there’s so much gaiety and fun, so many parties and balls. Of course, Penelope is certain to be beset by suitors and admirers once the Season starts. It would be a shame if she had to refuse dances and the usual pleasures a young lady looks forward to because she’s waiting—hoping— for a particular proposal. You know you simply need to ask, and we can make the arrangements at once. Penelope is most amenable to being the next Countess of Purbrick.”
He noticed she didn’t say a word about whether Penelope wanted to be his wife as much as she wished to be his countess. Did she love him? He did not love her, and he needed time to know if he could eventually come to feel that emotion for her. His parents had loved each other passionately. Scots tended to marry for love, and he had hoped to do so himself, once the right woman appeared. For a fleeting instant, he thought of the woman upstairs—Alanna, not Penelope—and pushed the thought away. She was spoken for. He felt a knot of regret in his chest and willed it away.
Marjorie had continued on with the conversation without him. “We could announce your betrothal here at Christmas, plan a spring wedding in London, and have a grand summer party at Woodford Park to celebrate your nuptials. Just think, a new earl, a grand wedding, it would be the perfect way to start your new life, to show you are willing to fit in.”
What about a wedding here, at Craigleith? He knew better than to suggest it. “I will consider it,” he said instead, politely, patiently, as he had a dozen times over the past weeks.
“Good,” his aunt said, tucking her needlework back into her workbox. “If you’ll excuse me, I must go and see the housekeeper and instruct her about the plans for Christmas. It will be an English Christmas of course, but I think you will find our—your—celebrations quite delightful, and your people will soon grow accustomed to the English way of doing things.”
Iain opened his mouth, then shut it again. Marjorie was going to instruct the housekeeper? He supposed she meant Annie, or perhaps Seonag. He hoped she meant Seonag, because instructing Annie on how to do anything in the English fashion was sure to result in disaster. And as for Christmas, there were traditions, celebrations that went back through generations of MacGillivrays. No one was going to give those up, when they looked forward to them all year. Not for all the estates in England.
He considered stopping Marjorie, warning her of the dangers of Annie’s temper, of her devotion to the old ways. But which side would he take? What could he say, now half English and half Scot? No one would be happy. He stayed where he was as his aunt swept out of the room, a sense of purpose in her blue English eyes, eyes that were so like her daughter’s.
Iain stared out at the snow and wished he’d never inherited the damned English title.
Chapter Fourteen
Dundrummie Castle, seventeen days before Christmas
“I ASSURE YOU, my lord, Alanna is most willing—eager, in fact—to marry you.”
Lord Wilfred Esmond, Marquess of Merridew, sat in the salon of Dundrummie Castle and frowned at Lady Devorguilla McNabb, his future mother-in-law, across the tea table. He scanned her lovely face and looked for some evidence that she was lying to him.
It had happened before. Lady Devorguilla had informed him that her older daughter, Megan, was willing to marry him as well, until the young lady proved her mother’s confidence misplaced by eloping with the Earl of Rossington instead.
“My lady, if Lady Alanna has not followed her sister’s lead and eloped with someone else, then where precisely is she? I expected my bride to be here to greet me when I arrived—especially if she is as eager as you say. Yet now you tell me she is ‘delayed.’ What precisely does that mean?” The snow had delayed his arrival by two days. He had expected to find his bride dressed and ready for the wedding, even if he was a day late for the ceremony, but she was not even here. It didn’t suggest eagerness to him.
Devorguilla smiled at him, and Wilfred tightened his grip on the tumbler of whisky in his hand. The dowager countess of Glenlorne was a lovely woman, and looked far too young to be the mother of three grown daughters, including his fiancée. Devorguilla McNabb had a remarkably good figure, flashing green eyes, and a knowing look that stirred a man’s imagination—even an imagination as limited as his own. Wilfred shifted and hoped that the daughter proved as interesting as the mother.
He could only hope, because he had almost no recollection of Lady Alanna. He’d barely glanced at her, hadn’t spoken more than a half dozen words to the chit in the few times he’d been in her company, since he’d expected to wed her older sister. Lady Megan had been a beauty indeed.
It had been Devorguilla who had suggested he marry Alanna when Megan ran away to avoid his suit. He assumed she was pretty, though what she looked like paled in consideration of the generous dowry she’d bring him, and that was what mattered most. He watched his lovely hostess as she babbled an explanation, her cheeks flushed becomingly.
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