Her Scottish Groom

by Ann Stephens

  “How charming!” Relieved to see him smile again, she focused her attention on the house. “I look forward to meeting your family.”

  “It’s just my mother and Aunt Iona anymore.” She detected a wistful note in his voice, which disappeared with his next words. “And it looks like you won’t have to wait long. I think Iona must have dragged out every last member of the staff to meet us.”

  Diantha gulped. Ahead of what appeared to be at least a regiment, if not a small army of servants, an imposing woman in gray stood waiting on the steps of the courtyard as the coach swept in.

  Their two days of traveling fell onto her shoulders like a heavy weight. Surreptitiously, she straightened her hat and moistened her lips as Kieran stepped down from the carriage and turned to assist her. As she placed her hand in his, he squeezed it gently.

  “You can do this.” His soft murmur barely reached her ears. She straightened her back and stepped out.

  “How lovely!” She forgot her nerves as soon as she looked around her.

  They stood in a courtyard bordered by the house on three sides. The silvery granite rose smoothly from the ground to the roof three stories above, ornamented by pilasters carved of the same stone and pediments above each window. A carved balustrade interspersed with statuary ran along the roofline, giving the house an elegant finish.

  “The other sides of the house have more interesting features.” Despite his deprecation, Kieran looked about with glowing eyes and a tender smile. Giving her his arm, he led her forward.

  “Allow me to present my aunt, Lady William Upton. On the death of her husband, she was good enough to return to her childhood home and look after us.” He bowed over the older woman’s hand. “Aunt Iona, my wife.”

  “Lady Rossburn.” Kieran’s aunt possessed a strong family resemblance in her nearly black hair and wide-set eyes. She did not have her nephew’s easy smile, though, as she sketched a curtsey. “I am pleased to welcome you to Duncarie.”

  Her voice warmed slightly as she turned to him. “I’m sure you’re relieved to be back, Kieran, especially under these circumstances.”

  Diantha’s teeth set. The cool tone suggested that he deserved pity for his marriage, as did the contemptuous glance in her direction. It would serve no purpose to start a quarrel with one of Kieran’s close relatives, however. She acknowledged the curtsey with one of her own.

  “Thank you, Lady William. You are most kind and it is a pleasure to meet you. I look forward to exploring my new home.” She gave a small smile as the dark eyes narrowed slightly. “And please, you must call me Diantha.”

  “You should not curtsey to one of lesser rank. And that gown is far too showy for the country.” Turning to her nephew, she took his arm. “I shall see that she understands proper etiquette before we present her to company.”

  After an apologetic look over his shoulder, Kieran merely asked his aunt how the estate had fared in his absence. Taking a deep breath and resisting the urge to throw her reticule at the back of his head, she trailed along behind them, feeling more out of place than she had since her marriage.

  Chapter 9

  Meeting the servants did not tax her ingenuity, although she chose to ignore Lady William’s gimlet stare as she strolled down the line. The woman’s pursed mouth radiated disapproval as Diantha paused to exchange a few words not just with the butler and housekeeper, but with each member of the staff. She had no doubt whatsoever that the woman longed to give her a set down, except that ahead of her Kieran had a smile or greeting for everyone.

  At last they finished speaking to the last two servant girls, a pair of scullery maids.

  Lady William dismissed everyone, and the line disintegrated into knots of people returning to their duties. “We shall take tea in the drawing room.” Her tone of voice might have offered Diantha a bowl of hemlock.

  Taking her place beside her husband, she followed his aunt through the wide doorway into the entry hall. A fanlight above the door allowed the westering sun to shine on the sky blue-tinted walls and whitewashed paneling. Columns separated the front third of the hall from the rest and alcoves on either side held handsome porcelain urns.

  She wished she could explore the room closely, but they immediately headed toward a stairway on the right, their footsteps echoing on the pale gray flagstone floor. Passing a round table and several upholstered chairs along the wall, she followed the Rossburns up to a long hallway paneled and floored with oak. Although floor to ceiling windows admitted natural light at one end, compared to the airy entry hall, it struck her as closed-in and dark.

  “The gallery. When dining privately, the family gathers here before going down to dinner.” Continuing to the far end of the narrow room, Lady William opened a door. “We serve tea in the drawing room, and naturally when entertaining for dinner, we meet beforehand in here.”

  “Naturally.” Diantha all but rolled her eyes, earning her a stern look from her husband. Entering the drawing room, though, she exclaimed in delight. Situated on a corner of the house, light poured in through windows on two sides to illuminate a large room of graceful proportions. The pale blue of the entry hall repeated itself here in the wall coverings, drapes, and carpet, accented with touches of gilt and cream. Even Kieran’s aunt thawed slightly at her unfeigned admiration.

  Chippendale and Georgian furniture blended harmoniously in several arrangements suitable for intimate conversation. A low table in the center of one such grouping already held tiered plates of delicacies, and a footman brought in the silver tea service before Lady William had time to tug on the tapestry bellpull.

  “Allow me to serve this afternoon, Lady Rossburn.” Seating herself on a sofa, she invited Kieran to sit on a chair at her right hand and Diantha to take one on her left. “I’m sure you will grasp the intricacies of properly serving tea in no time. Do you know how you wish me to prepare it?”

  Familiar with formal teas since childhood, she bit her tongue. Irked nearly beyond measure by the woman’s condescension, she concentrated on removing her gloves until she could speak with a civil tone of voice.

  Kieran spoke up opposite her. “Diantha takes her tea with lemon and sugar.” She supposed she should be thankful to him for stepping into the breach, but his slowness only added to her annoyance.

  “No milk?” Her aunt by marriage conveyed the impression that she had committed some grave solecism.

  “No, thank you.” Forcing a friendly note into her voice, she accepted the cup and saucer the older woman handed her. “It is odd in that I do enjoy cream in my coffee, but I prefer tea without it.”

  As soon as Kieran received his cup, he changed the subject. “I didn’t want to ask in front of the servants, but how is my mother?” His eyes betrayed grave concern.

  “No worse, but no better. Dear Doctor Andrews consults with her weekly, but she continues in great pain.”

  He sighed. “I suppose she is resting? I had hoped to introduce Diantha to her this evening.”

  “My dear boy, your sentiments do you great credit, but she does need to be cushioned against shocks.”

  Diantha nearly choked on a bite of watercress sandwich.

  Kieran chuckled. “My wife may not be conventional, but she is hardly a shock to the system, Aunt.” His eyes twinkled over the top of his cup as he sipped. “At least not a bad one.”

  In no mood for his teasing, she nearly blurted out a few words that would have shocked him as well as his aunt. Only the opening door saved her from such shrewish behavior.

  “Kieran!” In the doorway stood a man nearly as tall as her husband, similar enough in features and coloring that they could have been brothers.

  “Barclay!” Her husband set his cup down and rose to his feet. Striding over, he greeted the man with a backslapping embrace. Diantha watched, amazed. She had never seen men do more than shake hands in greeting. On her right, Iona winced.

  “Nephew, do sit down and allow your cousin to have his tea.” His mother poured milk into a teacup, fol
lowing it with the clear brown liquid.

  “Damme, I swore to Mother that you wouldn’t arrive before six at the earliest.” The newcomer crossed the room with Kieran. “I hope you forgive me for not being here to greet you and your lovely bride.” He sketched a bow in Diantha’s direction. Thankful that someone seemed to notice her, she smiled back.

  “Barclay, your language.” Uttering the remonstration in the fondest of tones, his mother handed him his teacup. He accepted it, but stayed on his feet.

  Kieran laughed. “Since it’s a surprise to me that you’re here, of course I do! It was good of you to stay for us.”

  His cousin opened his eyes wide. Darker than Kieran’s, they sparkled bottle green instead of aqua. “My dear boy, what else is family for? Now, do I actually get to meet my charming new relative or not?”

  “Only if you promise not to steal her away.” Kieran strolled over to her. “Diantha, I’d like to present my cousin, Barclay Upton. Barclay, the new Lady Rossburn.”

  “Delighted to meet you, your ladyship.” Underneath his charming manner, she detected a sharp look of appraisal in his eyes that disquieted her. It disappeared so quickly she wondered if she imagined it. And she must expect some curiosity from her husband’s family.

  “I owe you an apology.” Mr. Upton’s soft-spoken words surprised her as he kissed her hand. “Forgive me, Lady Rossburn, for ever thinking my cousin married you only for your fortune. I’m sure he kept your loveliness a secret out of a wish not to make his male relatives jealous.”

  Kieran had informed them that she was rich and had not even bothered to describe her appearance? That knowledge hurt, though knowing herself to be merely pretty at best, she did not know why it should. “Please, call me Diantha.”

  “And you must call me Cousin Barclay.” With a warm smile, he took a seat opposite his mother. “And my mother shall be your aunt Iona.”

  Following a look of malevolence at her offspring, that lady collected herself and tittered. “My dear, I’m sure my nephew felt no need to send us a description of any detail of Lady Rossburn’s appearance, or her wardrobe. The newspapers did not spare us a single detail!” She left the word “vulgar” unsaid, but they all understood her meaning.

  The newspaper stories her mother had given to the American papers must have been published in Britain as well. A wave of hot shame rolled over her as both men looked at the older woman.

  That combined with Iona’s rudeness, Kieran’s indifference, and two long days of travel to overwhelm her. Close to tears, she set her cup and saucer down with a rattle.

  “Please excuse me. I must dress for dinner.” With that, she stood and nearly bolted out of the room.

  As soon as she shut the door behind her, she realized what a fool she had made of herself. She could not very well go back into the drawing room and she had no idea how to find her bedchamber. Fortunately, a footman arrived to light the chandeliers then. Hearing her request, he bowed and asked her to follow him.

  By the time she reached her chamber, through a confusing maze of hallways and stairs, she learned that Charles had grown up on the estate and his parents lived on the far side of the glen, and that his lordship’s people were chuffed that he brought home a bonny young wife with a fouth of siller. Grasping that he intended the last part as a compliment to her person and fortune, she thanked him and slipped inside.

  Despite her anger at the woman, she had to admit that Kieran’s aunt possessed exquisite taste. A high four-poster bed of carved cherry wood sat against one wall. The embroidered hangings harmonized with the pale dove gray walls in a restful palette and matched the drapes and upholstery. She could see where the sun had faded the fabric in places, and guessed that refurbishing the house had taken second place to helping the estate prosper. An alcove held a carved antique dressing table and mirror, while in a corner bay, a cherry wood writing table with a blue and white porcelain inkstand and quill-holder invited her to sit down and write.

  Her trunks lay open in the middle of the room. Peering into the armoire, she discovered that Florette had already put away several of her gowns. Locating the bellpull, she rang for the maid.

  Then, unable to hold back her tears, she sat down at the vanity and buried her face in her hands.

  When Florette entered, she placed a comforting hand on Diantha’s heaving back and turned to the under housemaid accompanying her. “Milady is homesick. Fetch ice and a cold cloth at once, and send up cans of hot water for the hip bath.”

  As soon as the door closed, she bustled over to close the armoire door. “Now, tell me what has really upset you, ma mie.”

  After a gulp, Diantha blotted her eyes with her handkerchief. “Lady William is ghastly! She has taken an instant dislike to me, and the feeling is entirely mutual.”

  The Frenchwoman made a disparaging noise in the back of her throat. “I have already heard much below the stairs about this aunt. She is the sister of milord’s father, and has ruled here for nearly fifteen years, even before milord’s father died.”

  She winked. “It is only to be expected that she should detest you on sight. You are now the lady of the house, and she must either go back to her dead husband’s family, who do not like her either, or stay on as a poor relation.”

  Moving to the trunk, she lifted out another paperwrapped gown. After placing it on the bed, she gave Diantha a conspiratorial smile. “Do not despair, milady. All the servants are asking Davison what you are like, and he has been most complimentary.”

  “I realize it is a difficult situation for Lady William.” Diantha sighed. “I shall see if conciliation works to sweeten her.”

  The maid’s first words came back to her mind. She straightened and swiveled to face the maid in disbelief. “I have to use a hip bath?”

  Florette coughed. “It seems the house does not have running water.”

  “It will when I’m done with it.” Diantha muttered the words as she stood to allow the maid to help her out of her traveling dress.

  Her mood did not improve when Kieran knocked on her door a few minutes before the dinner hour. After a perfunctory enquiry about the comfort of her room, he gave her a sharp scold about her earlier behavior.

  “What do you mean by haring out of the drawing room like that?” He paced the rug before the fireplace. “She went to a great deal of trouble to prepare a suitable welcome for you.”

  “You mean she made sure to make me feel like a guest in what is supposed to be my home!” Her indignation boiled over as she sat in front of her dressing table. “And you did nothing to prevent it!”

  “Perhaps you would prefer that I order her bags packed and throw her bodily out the door?”

  As her mind had dwelt on an image of him doing exactly that several times while she bathed and dressed, she pressed her lips together for fear of saying something truly intemperate.

  They had not fully resolved their differences by the time he escorted her to join his aunt and cousin, and they entered the drawing room with an air of decided coolness between them. Aunt Iona smirked over her sherry, although Barclay hastened forward with a compliment which soothed Diantha’s ruffled feathers.

  During dinner itself, his aunt rejected all Diantha’s attempts to win her over. Not compliments about the tasteful decoration of Duncarie or an enthusiastic question about the house’s history improved her temper.

  In only one area could Diantha have redeemed herself in the older woman’s eyes. No sooner had the two of them entered the drawing room after dinner, leaving Kieran and Barclay to cigars and brandy in the dining room, than the woman looked pointedly at her abdomen.

  “Are you increasing yet?” Iona seated herself behind the tea table.

  “I beg your pardon?” Diantha sank onto a cushioned bench, unable to believe what she had just heard.

  “You have been married over a month. I would think my nephew is enough of a man to have gotten a child on you by now.” Iona poured tea for both of them and held a cup out.

  Train
ed by years of etiquette lessons, Diantha reached forward to take it. “I hope that I have a chance to get to know Kieran’s family and household first.” Collecting herself, she fidgeted with the cup.

  Iona looked down her aquiline nose. “The family expects an heir. Your first duty is to provide one.”

  Wishing to bring this appalling conversation to a close, Diantha straightened further in her seat. “Possibly my husband might disagree with your assessment. After all, he does have more resources at his command than prior to his marriage.”

  The older woman set her own cup down with a clatter. “Trust a member of the merchant class to bring up money! You should be thankful for the privilege of providing the next link in such a long lineage.”

  Diantha took a deep breath and prayed that Kieran and Barclay joined them before she attempted to strangle Iona with a drapery tie.

  “Should we be blessed with a child, madam, you will doubtless be devastated to learn that he—or she—will be treated as a child and not some inanimate object.”

  Before the other woman could retort, the drawing room door did open to admit the gentlemen. Her narrow face immediately smoothed into a tranquil expression and she blandly asked if either of them cared for tea.

  Needing to distance herself from the wretched woman, Diantha wandered over to the piano in a corner while the other three busied themselves around the tea table. She pretended to leaf through the sheet music on its top while she struggled to quell the rancor raging through her. Only Kieran’s earlier criticism kept her from tearing into his aunt or leaving the room.

  “My mother can be a sore trial at times.”

  She started at the soft comment dropped in her ear. Lifting her gaze from the music, she saw Barclay holding out her refilled cup with an apologetic smile. She really did not wish for any more, but could not refuse the kind gesture.

  Nor could she abuse the woman to her own son. Taking the cup from him, she forced a smile to her lips. “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.”