Destiny Of A Highlander: Blood of Duncliffe Series (A Medieval Scottish Romance Story)

by Ferguson, Emilia

“Oh?” Henry felt his brow lift at the same time as his stomach sank. A grand event? It made him feel a bit like he was being put on display. Their father had made it very clear he intended them to find partners at this ball. At least to make a concerted effort to do that, he knew. The only bright spot was the thought of Francine.

  How was he going to find a “proper” partner, one that would please his father? It was clear to him that his heart was already interested in someone else.

  In someone I can never hope to have.

  “Well, yes,” Marguerite added, breaking in on his thoughts. “Mrs. Prestwich. There you are!” she greeted a tall, dark-haired woman in the doorway of the drawing-room. “I need your eye, brother.”

  “Oh?”

  Henry looked into the drawing-room over her shoulder, feeling his heart sink again. Arrayed on the wooden, padded settee was a riot of colored brocades and silks, shining in the rich firelight. Mrs. Prestwich, the seamstress, was over near the window, squinting as she threaded cotton into the eye of a needle.

  “The dress is almost done,” Marguerite explained, leading him to the fireplace, where a dress in rich ocher yellow stood supported on a framework of poles. “I just want to decide about the under-skirt. It's just got canvas tacked in now. I think mayhap the white figured silk, but there is also the yellow...”

  As Marguerite showed him all the myriad options, Henry found himself wondering if Francine was somewhere, doing something similar, right at this moment.

  He couldn't help smiling as an image of her came to his mind, maybe in a drawing-room like this one, bending over a bolt of fabric to feel the weave as Marguerite was doing now. Maybe she was standing before a mirror, or in front of a sibling herself, holding the fabric under her chin, modeling it for whoever she was consulting for her choice. He couldn't help smiling as he imagined that.

  I don't even know yet if she has brothers or sisters. The thought struck him with surprise. In some ways, it seemed as if he knew Francine so well, yet in truth he knew so precious little of her.

  “So, you think the yellow?” Marguerite asked.

  Henry blinked. “Sorry, sister?”

  Marguerite smiled wryly. “I was wondering if you thought the yellow figured silk is best? It seemed to me you were slightly less oblivious of it than the rest.”

  Henry sighed. “Sorry, sister. I was distracted. I think the yellow is beautiful. Did you try with the cream?” he asked, pointing to a bolt of fine cream satin with a high-glossed sheen.

  Marguerite laughed. “I hadn't, no. It's fiendishly expensive, but it is my favorite too. If you can persuade Father for me, mayhap I can have it after all..?”

  Her expression was so sweet that Henry nodded. “Of course! I'll do my best to persuade him.”

  “Thank you, brother!” Marguerite threw her arms around him in a crushing embrace. Henry laughed, feeling happier than he had for a long time.

  “I hope I can persuade him, sister,” Henry demurred, as Marguerite went over to the silk, running a gentle palm down a length of it, enraptured.

  “I trust you will be able to, Henry,” Marguerite said, smiling up at him. “Myself, I've barely seen him these last three days. But he seemed keen to talk to you, so...” she trailed off as she turned to the seamstress. She looked a little hurt.

  “I'll talk to Father,” Henry promised. “I'm sure he wants to see you, sister. I believe he is just preoccupied with business in London.”

  It pained him to see how Marguerite's face lit up. “Well, that's good. I was starting to think he was vexed,” she said, looking up with big dark eyes.

  “I'm certain he isn't,” Henry assured her, cursing his father for being so aloof with them both, Marguerite in particular, just lately. “I'll go and see him as soon as I can.”

  With Marguerite and the seamstress already discussing how to use the cream satin to its best advantage, Henry headed upstairs toward his father's office.

  “I trust we will see you soon, Geoffrey,” his father was saying. “At the ball tomorrow evening, I think?”

  “Of course, Alfred. Of course.”

  Henry tensed, hearing Gregory, earl of Whitsford. He was the father of Verity, his prospective bride.

  “If it will be hard to get back from Camberwell, please, do stay the night with us.”

  “Thank you, Alfred. I, um...hello!”

  Henry stiffened as his lordship almost walked into him. “Good afternoon, sir,” Henry said, bowing low.

  “Henry! A pleasant surprise! Look! Here's Verity. Verity, sweetest?” the earl, a stocky and well-dressed man called up the stairs.

  “Father?” a grave voice replied further up the stairs, just out of Henry's vision.

  “Look at who's here! Henry! Say hello?”

  Henry winced for poor Verity, who descended to join them, looking at the floor and then up at him, hazel eyes the picture of discomforted embarrassment.

  “Henry, milord,” she said, licking those perfect red lips. “Good afternoon.”

  “Good afternoon, Lady Verity.”

  Henry bowed low, taking her pale hand briefly in his. He looked up at her shyly. With her white skin and dark hair, Verity was a beauty, undoubtedly so. He was honored her father considered him a worthy contender for her hand, but there was simply no attraction between them. He admired Verity, but he simply couldn't warm to her, or she to him, it seemed.

  She looked into his eyes, her own showing the first signs of nerves. Henry sympathized. All he wanted was to get away from here and find his father, to ask him if Marguerite could have the satin after all.

  “You're ready for the ball, eh, Henry?” the earl asked conversationally. He grinned at Henry, disconcertingly.

  Henry swallowed and tried to relax. “I am, sir,” he said. “I am pleased you and your daughter will honor us with your attendance.”

  The earl laughed, sounding genuinely amused. “Oh, fie, Henry. We're all old acquaintances here. No need to stand on ceremony with us, eh, Verity?”

  “No, Father.” The reply was the merest whisper. Verity was looking at her hands as if she wished very deeply that she would turn invisible.

  “Is my father upstairs?” Henry asked, his eyes meeting Verity's and trying to give her a reassuring look.

  “Yes, he is. Well, he was last time I looked, which wasn't so long ago,” the earl began genially. “So, either the fellow can diffuse about the place like, what's that thing...caloric?” he frowned. “Something like that. Well, he should be up there still.”

  “Thank you,” Henry nodded. “Excuse me, but I must speak with him fairly urgently.”

  “Oh?” the earl's brow went up. “Urgent, eh? Well, I'll leave you to it. Let you talk to him. We were on our way out, in any case, weren't we, sweetest?”

  “Yes, Father.”

  Henry smiled reassuringly at Verity, bowing again to her. “Have a pleasant ride home.”

  “Thank you, Lord Henry.”

  With that, Henry quickly headed up the stairs and into his father's office. “Father?”

  “You might have talked more with the earl and his daughter,” his father said without looking up from his papers. “It was quite remiss of you to rush past like that. I will not have you sowing discomfort among our friends here.”

  “Father,” Henry protested. “I was caught unaware on my way to see you. I have to ask...”

  “It can't be that urgent,” his father said, looking up with a raised brow. “If the manor were on fire, I would have smelled the smoke myself.”

  Henry licked his lips, feeling rebellious. His father's mild indifference could be frustrating at best, wounding at worst. In addition, did he have to use his tongue so mercilessly against his own children?

  “It isn't urgent...not really. I simply have to ask you a favor from Marguerite. She is organizing the ball, which is a little unfair, since it's her debut, and...” he trailed off as his father frowned.

  “Hardly her debut, Henry. She had that five years ago, when she was fifte
en.”

  “I know, Father,” Henry said, feeling stupid. “But, well, it's her debut here, and it's only fair if she has something nice, and...”

  “What do you want to ask me?” his father said levelly.

  “She wants cream silk for the underskirt and bodice. She says it's expensive, but I'm sure that you could...”

  “She can have it.”

  Henry stared. His father was a good man, it was true, but it was usually easier to get flowering peonies out of a cannon than it was getting money out of him.

  “She can?” he asked, amazed.

  “Of course,” his father replied flatly. “As you say, it is her debut, more or less, and I am in earnest. I want my children making good connections. If she wishes to have cream silk for her ball-dress, why would I refuse it?”

  “No idea, Father,” Henry agreed.

  “Quite.” His father smiled.

  “Well, then,” Henry nodded. “I'll go and tell her, then.”

  “You do that,” his father replied.

  They looked at each other for a few moments, and then Henry, blinking, left the office feeling utterly confused. He headed quickly upstairs to the drawing-room. “Sister?”

  Marguerite was leaning on the pianoforte, watching as the seamstress, sitting on the chaise-lounge, started to unpick something on the dress. Henry cleared his throat and tried again.

  “Sister? Marguerite?”

  “Oh!” Marguerite and the seamstress both jumped. “Brother! What is it? Did you...”

  “I asked him,” Henry said. “And he said yes.”

  “He did? Oh! Brother!” Her face lit up with amazement. “Whatever did you do with him to make him agree to that?”

  Henry frowned. “I don't know. He just did. He thinks it's important we make a good impression, I think.”

  “Yes, I suppose he does,” Marguerite said, grinning sardonically. “Which is why he had that awful Samuel Stratton here. He thinks he's a good match.” She shivered.

  Henry frowned. “He does? Sister, the fellow might be a viscount, but he's got the manners of a potted leek! How could Father even think that?”

  Marguerite laughed gaily. “A leek! Henry! But yes, I think so too. I will just have to think of some cunning way to avoid the fellow during the evening.”

  “Yes,” Henry nodded. “If I can help, I will.”

  “Thank you, Henry!” Marguerite beamed. Impetuously, she kissed his cheek. Henry felt his heart glow with warmth – he loved his sister dearly.

  “Of course,” Henry grinned.”It's the least I could do.”

  “And thank you for speaking to him about the silk,” she added, looking at the tall cream-colored bale in the corner. “Which reminds me, Mrs. Prestwick, do you think we can start tacking in the new under-skirt?”

  “Yes, my lady.”

  Henry left them to it.

  Upstairs in his bedchamber, he found himself wondering how extensive the guest-list was and whether his father had thought to invite the local gentry. Maybe Francine would be there after all.

  He smiled to himself, recalling her face the previous day when they had met in the forest. The small frown on her brow, the way she had looked at him. He remembered the sweet way she blushed and the softness of her fingers, even through the mittens.

  His body tensed; each piece of him taut with longing. He laughed. Henry Gracewell! Stop it. He was wrong to think of Francine the way he did. He barely knew her – didn't even know how many siblings she had, or where her family estate was! If she was at the ball, he decided, it was time to find out. That thought, more than any other, made him look forward to it.

  A BALL AND A SURPRISE

  “Douglas, you are sure about this, aren't you?” Francine asked her brother. She was standing in the doorway of her bedroom, a long evening cloak of pale blue velvet draped around her shoulders. Dusk light fell through the windows, fast darkening to night out there.

  “Well, that's what the invitation said,” Douglas said with a shrug. “It said, as I recall: ‘For the earl of Duncliffe and his issue, greetings and an invitation to our ball,’ or something like that,” he quoted, frowning. “If it wasn't meant for us, someone has a lot of explaining to do.”

  Francine laughed. “Oh, Douglas. I suppose you're right. Well, then. We are certainly invited. You look nice,” she added, casting a glance at Douglas.

  He smiled. He did look nice, more than nice. In wool knee-breeches of a deep blue, stocking-ed underneath in black, with a matching jacket of deep blue wool, decorated with blue brocade and gold trimmings, he was quite handsome. His black hair shone and his dark eyes seemed even bigger in contrast with the color he wore.

  “Thank you, sister,” he said, his well-molded mouth moving to a smile. “I am honored to hear you say it. But all things considered, I don't think I'm the member of the family who will draw stares.”

  “Oh, Douglas,” Francine chuckled fondly. “You're just biased.”

  “No,” Douglas said lightly. “I am completely objective. You look lovely, sister. Truly.”

  “Thanks,” Francine said, her throat closing up with shyness. She glanced at herself in the mirror on the way past. Her dress was white, which suited her, with a pale blue underskirt. The colors and fabric were plain but of good quality, trimmed with fine lace. Around the back of the neckline was a tiny ruff of the fine lace, making twin peaks behind her head. Her blond hair had been styled in a plait, the ends loose against her neck, the piled curls at the top glossed and un-powdered.

  I suppose I don't look too awful, she allowed modestly. In fact, she thought, heart thumping, I look rather nice as well.

  “Let's go,” Douglas said, and stood back to let her pass on the way down the stairs. Francine's heart sank as their retainer, Maxwell, appeared with a frown.

  “Milord, I sent for the smaller coach. Milord McGuinness departed earlier, by horse.”

  “Fraser is going?” she asked softly when the retainer had left. “I thought the invitation was for us alone?” If he was there, her chances of seeing Henry were suddenly dashed.

  “He is going too,” Douglas replied. “Father said it was only proper for him to go. Father isn't attending – he said his leg still pains him after the hunting last week. So Fraser is taking his place.”

  “Oh.”

  Francine bit her lip, feeling wretched. Of all the things, she had not expected that Fraser would be there. Which was silly of her, she supposed gloomily. Father was pressing the matter. He would have this alliance, and he would do it if he had to force Francine into Fraser's company at every opportunity.

  “Well,” Douglas said with a flashing grin. “Father won't be there, so no one says you even need talk to the fellow, if you choose not to. I'm your chaperone and that means you can talk to whomever you like.”

  “Oh, Douglas,” Francine sighed. Impulsively, she kissed his cheek. “I don't know what I'd do without you.”

  “Probably be a lot more peaceful,” Douglas grinned. “Shall we get in?”

  “Yes. Let's do.”

  They climbed into the carriage and sped off.

  As they rolled along, the carriage swaying, the light from the lanterns shining through the window, Francine couldn't help the tight knot of nerves that tingled inside her.

  A ball at Estmoor House. That was where Henry's family resided. Henry was there, as one of the hosts. She felt her heart thump steadily with excitement. The thought of being there, with him, being able to see him in his own home, was strangely enticing.

  Francine Ambeal Duncliffe, she scolded herself harshly. You are not supposed to flirt with Henry Gracewell. You know that.

  Her cheeks lifted in a naughty smile. Somehow, she knew her heart was not going to listen to that. All the same, Fraser would be there too. That meant she would have to be careful--and not be seen alone with him too much.

  “It's dark already, is it not?” Douglas murmured, drawing back the curtains on his side of the coach. The light from the coachman's lantern
painted his face lurid orange on one side.

  “Mm. Very dark,” Francine agreed. “It's truly autumn now.”

  “Indeed.”

  The carriage rocked over the bumps in the road, and they headed off.

  At Estmoor House, Francine accepted a hand from Douglas as she alighted from the coach, her thin dancing shoes making every bump in the path quite obvious. She swallowed hard, looking at the bright gold of the entranceway, and her heart almost stopped with excitement.

  Here we are.

  She held onto Douglas' arm as they ascended the stone steps to the front door, staring into the well-lit doorway. She could just make out the outline of a woman's shape, and a taller man behind.

  “Lord Douglas, and his sister, Lady Francine, issue of the earl of Duncliffe,” the footman announced grandly. Francine swallowed hard, looking up at Douglas. His long oval face was calm.

  “Lord Douglas,” a voice of sweet velvet said at her ear, making Francine's head whip round. “An honor to meet you.”

  “As it is mine, to meet you,” Douglas said evenly to Henry, who bowed.

  Francine couldn't help staring at him. His pale hair had been brushed until it shone in the rich gold of the candles. His blue eyes were complimented perfectly by a powder-blue velvet coat, the under-shirt rich with ruffles. He wore velvet knee-breeches and white stockings, tight on shapely calves. She swallowed hard, pulse thumping at her ears.

  “Lord Henry.” She felt her knees bend in a deep curtsey and then looked up into his eyes. They were shining and she swallowed again, feeling a flush fill her cheeks as she read admiration there.

  “You look...beautiful,” he said, throat tight.

  “Thank you. You look well too.”

  He smiled. To her astonishment, he blushed. “Thank you, milady.”

  She felt her cheeks lift in a smile. She hadn't thought him a modest man. However, clearly, from how red he had just gone, her compliments affected him as much as his affected her. She wanted to laugh. She had never expected such a reaction.

  “Milady Francine? May I introduce my sister, Lady Marguerite.”

  “Oh!” Francine smiled at the young woman with the startling red hair, who grinned at her. “Lady Marguerite. Delighted to meet you.”