"I assume he's nursing his wounds from that viper's tongue somewhere in private. The girl did shred him to the core, or so I've been told. But please, do relieve me of your presence and go find him. You probably are just the thing to cheer him up just now, though personally, I can't imagine a more distressing thought."
Archibald chuckled on his way out the door. "Ye'll get used tae me, Englishmon . . . but then, ye've nae other choice, have ye?"
Chapter Fifteen
When Ophelia arrived, Sabrina was out enjoying her daily walk, so the London girl was already unpacking to settle in when Sabrina returned to learn of their unexpected guest and joined her upstairs. And she really was unexpected, and alone, without her parents.
A week had gone by since the Reids had returned to London. Hilary had not heard from Lady Mary
yet, so they still didn't know what exactly had happened at Summers Glade that day when they had all been ousted.
They did know, however, couldn't help but know since it was all the entire neighborhood was talking about currently, that the Marquis of Birmingdale had decided to do some entertaining on a grand scale, after all. And it had gotten out, through the servants' grapevine, which was usually much more accurate than the ton’s gossip mill, that the reason for the extended house party was that the marquis was shopping for a new fiancée for his grandson.
That had been a shock, to Sabrina at least. She still couldn't quite credit it, that for whatever reason, the young Highlander had rejected Ophelia after meeting her, which was the tale making the rounds. It was, of course, what Ophelia had hoped for, but still, Sabrina had been sure that once the two young people met, they would both be quite pleased to be engaged to each other. Instead, Duncan MacTavish was apparently looking for a new bride now, and with the wide selection of eligible young misses invited to Summers Glade, was sure to find one in short order.
Sabrina and her aunts, of course, had not been invited to the grand party, no doubt because the old family scandal had resurfaced again and had reached even the marquis's ears, if he didn't remember it from years past. One avoided scandal at all costs when looking into matrimony; one did not marry into a scandal.
Summers Glade had begun filling with the elite of English aristocracy since yesterday. More than a hundred guests had already arrived, including some of those who had been ousted just last week. But then it was being touted as the party of the year, so not to be missed.
That was partly because so many of the ton were as curious as Lord Neville's own neighbors were, to finally meet the reclusive lord. Others were of a mind that you simply didn't tell a marquis no, for whatever reason. But one countess had even canceled her midseason ball so that she could come to Yorkshire instead. That alone would make the invitations highly coveted, once word of it spread.
Hilary and Alice were disappointed that Sabrina hadn't been invited, and even had a row about it. Not that they thought she might catch the eye of the future marquis, but because all the other eligible young men would be at a party that size. Sabrina was disheartened herself, but not for the same reason. She simply regretted the lost opportunity to see Duncan MacTavish again, after enjoying so much her first encounter with him.
But now here was Ophelia, back in Yorkshire, and most likely she didn't have an invitation to Summers Glade either. Once Sabrina's initial surprise subsided, she could only wonder why, and that was the first thing she inquired about, in her less-than-direct fashion, as she joined Ophelia in the room she had been given and got the greetings out of the way.
"I would have thought you would be glad to be back in London where all the excitement is," Sabrina said.
Ophelia all but snapped, "When just about all of London happens to be here just now?"
Sabrina raised a brow at the tone. Ophelia might be here, but apparently she didn't really want to be here, so what the devil was she doing here? Unless ...
"You've been invited back to Summers Glade then? Have they just run out of room—?"
"Don't be obtuse," Ophelia retorted. "Of course I wouldn't be invited back there. I've come here to hide, if you really must know, and to see what can be done to rectify this appalling situation."
Sabrina was having trouble keeping up with Ophelia's thought processes. "Hide from whom? Your parents? Don't they know you've come here?"
"I swear, Sabrina, you can be annoyingly dense," Ophelia said unkindly. "My parents don't care where I go. They are most displeased with me just now. My father even slapped me. Can you believe that? He slapped me! For which I will never, ever forgive him."
"Then you are hiding from them?"
Ophelia threw herself down on the bed with a very loud sigh, indicating that she was done explaining things to people who didn't have sense enough to understand her. Sabrina didn't take offense. She'd witnessed this type of theatrics from the London girl enough to not be impressed by them, though she would allow, Ophelia didn't seem to be pretending this time. She really did seem upset.
Sabrina chose not to comment further. Silence did have a surprising effect on Ophelia. More often than not, it tended to get her to come right to the point of a discussion without any further prompting, where otherwise, she would go round and round a subject until her listeners were ready to expire from curiosity—or exasperation.
This time was no different. After a few moments, she mumbled to herself and sat up, glaring at Sabrina as if it were all her fault, whatever it was that had upset her, though she cleared up immediately just what it was.
"I'm in disgrace," she said, then on a rising note that turned into a wail, "I'm being pitied! Pitied! Can you believe that? No, of course you can't, because it's simply far too unbelievable."
Sabrina, wisely, said exactly what was expected. "I don't believe it."
Ophelia nodded. "It's true, though. Even my closest friends were 'poor dearing' me, before they set off for Summers Glade, official invitations in hand."
"Poor dearing" did indeed sound like pity. Carefully Sabrina asked, "But—why?"
The anger returned, shooting Ophelia off the bed for several paces around the room before she said, "That barbarian Highlander, that's why! The stupid man was supposed to agree that we wouldn't suit for matrimony. It was supposed to be a mutual decision where neither of us would have suffered any consequences for it. Instead, he got all huffy over a little minor criticism and let it be known that he didn't find me acceptable. Now everyone and their mother knows that he all but jilted me at the altar."
"But you didn't reach the altar," Sabrina calmly pointed out.
That got her another glare that said clearly, Idiot, what difference does that make? but aloud Ophelia said, "You still don't understand yet? I was to be congratulated for escaping a match made in hell. Instead I am the latest gossip making the rounds. Because he broke the engagement, everyone now thinks there must be something wrong with me. Why else wouldn't he want me, after all?"
Sabrina sighed at that point. "I guess I don't understand then. I could have sworn you had hoped he would break the engagement." "Not him! My parents were supposed to end it, since they were the ones who got me into it. He was supposed to remain besotted until the end, no matter what I said to him. But he is too barbaric to realize the gentlemanly part he should have played. And now I don't dare show myself until this dies down—or he rectifies it."
Well, that finally explained the "hiding" part of Ophelia's visit. Sabrina couldn't imagine, though, how Duncan was supposed to rectify this situation for Ophelia, unless it was to offer some reason for breaking the engagement that would show her in a better light.
"What did you say to him that did cause him to reject you?"
"I told you, it was just a minor remark that he took undue offense over. I will admit it was rather thoughtless of me, but then I wasn't thinking clearly when he showed up in that barbaric costume of his, which served to confirm in my mind that he was everything I'd feared he would be. If he had been dressed normally, I wouldn't have been so shocked, and that firs
t meeting would certainly have gone much differently"
Sabrina had to agree with that possible outcome. Hadn't she herself thought that surely the engaged couple would be very pleased to be engaged, once they met and got a good look at each other? But she also knew Ophelia well enough by now to realize she was stressing her own innocence a bit too much, and wondered why.
"So you're going to stay with us until the gossip settles down?"
"Goodness, no, that might take forever. I do make a wonderful target for gossip, after all. No, we're going to rectify this ourselves."
Sabrina blinked. "We?"
"Yes." Ophelia nodded. "It's the least you can do, after I befriended you in London and helped with your launch there. You simply must help me with this now."
"Well, certainly—if I can."
"You can," Ophelia assured her. "And you needn't even do much. Just arrange a meeting is all." "A meeting with whom?"
"My ex-fiancé, of course. We're going to get him to ask me to marry him again. Then it will all seem like a silly lovers' tiff that caused the breakup, which will be quite acceptable and put an end to the gossip."
Chapter Sixteen
"You just show up at the door."
Truthfully, Sabrina was so appalled by Ophelia's newest scheme, and in particular that the girl wanted to
involve her in it, that she could barely put two thoughts together. And even Ophelia's suggestions for how to go about it, she found highly distasteful.
"I didn't receive an invitation, Ophelia, any more than you did," Sabrina reminded the girl. "But you're a neighbor. Neighbors don't need invitations to visit." "During a party they do."
Ophelia waved a dismissive hand. "A minor point. And besides, you don't really want to enter the house, where you might be overheard by one of the guests. No, no, you want to draw him outside where you can be assured of privacy when you speak to him."
On the one hand, that sounded like something Sabrina would very much like to do, speak to Duncan MacTavish in private, that is. But on the other hand, she knew it was bad form, really bad form, to come visiting your neighbor when you knew he was having a party—that you hadn't been invited to. Beyond rude. Simply not done.
And the subject matter that she was to broach, well, that would be utterly embarrassing as well. She didn't know the first thing about matchmaking, after all, which was pretty much what Ophelia was asking of her.
Besides, all things said and done, she liked Duncan. So did she really want to see him married to a woman like Ophelia who schemed and started rumors about people whether they were true or not? Liking him, and quite aware that she had no chance whatsoever to have him herself, then yes, she would like to see him marry someone as beautiful as Ophelia was, but hopefully someone with a bit more moral fortitude and honor than the London girl had.
So she didn't really want to help Ophelia. However, she couldn't refuse outright either, when Ophelia had befriended her in London. She owed her some help in kind for that. But she did want one thing clarified first before she agreed to this latest scheme.
"Do you want to marry him now, or is this only a means to end the gossip about you?"
Ophelia seemed surprised by the question. That she had to give it some thought before answering didn't greatly reassure Sabrina, either.
But she did finally say, "Of course, I do. I told you, if I had actually noticed him when I met him, rather than just that silly kilt he was wearing, none of this would be necessary now. He is quite handsome, after all, which I realized after it was too late."
"There was always a possibility that he might be handsome," Sabrina pointed out.
"Not really," Ophelia disagreed, and shook her head just to stress it. "My mother knew Lord Neville from years ago, when she used to live here, and she confessed he was quite plain looking himself, which didn't offer much hope that there would be any improvement in a grandson of his. Quite ironic that the Scottish side of Duncan, which was the side I objected to, or at least I objected that he was from the far northern regions that are known to still be quite barbaric, would be the side to give him his good looks."
Sabrina was forced to accept that reasoning, not that the northern Highlands were barbaric, because who knew, after all, what they were like, when Englishmen so rarely visited there to tell about it? No, she
accepted that reasoning only because she knew that people did fall in love based on mutual attraction, and if Ophelia was now attracted to Duncan, that might be all that was necessary to turn her into a good wife for him. The London girl had schemed and lied because she had felt desperate and trapped, but now she found it had all been wasted effort on her part, that she was pleased with her fiancé, or ex-fiancé at the moment, after all.
So Sabrina found herself walking to Summers Glade that afternoon, even though she'd rather be walking in any other direction. She really, really didn't want to be doing this, not just because she liked Duncan, and didn't really like Ophelia all that much, after getting to know her, but because this matchmaking thing just wasn't something she would ordinarily do. Ordinarily? Never was more like it. It was tampering with people's lives, trying to match make them, when they might end up with a disastrous marriage that she would then see as all her fault.
But a favor—no, a discharge of an owed debt was how she tried to see it. And the sooner she got her part out of the way, the sooner the bile in her stomach would go away.
Frazzled, that was how Duncan started feeling, once Neville's guests began arriving at Summers Glade. It was bad enough before the party began, when he had to sit through the arguing over the agenda for it. He'd swear, if his grandfathers were any younger at all, they'd be taking their fists to each other, so much did they hotly disagree on things.
But once the guests showed up, he had Archie taking him from room to room to point out the physical attributes of each lass they came across. Then he had Neville dragging him aside to point out the family histories of each girl, and which ones were more desirable socially. He'd had to put his foot down finally. There were just too many women there for him to keep track of all the information being given to him about each. So now the two old men were sending him notes, and the butler, delivering them, was becoming as frazzled as he was.
He had to wonder, what ever happened to the old tried-and-true fall-in-love-and-then-get-married philosophy that served so many people well? This getting married because this lass was the prettiest, or this one had the most titles in her ancestry, just didn't sit well with him.
He'd already seen the most beautiful, and so knew firsthand that prettiest did not make for best choice. Of course, Archie insisted they couldn't all be senseless twits like Ophelia Reid, and so he was still pushing for beauty rather than credentials. Neville agreed that beauty often came paired with too much vanity and overweening pride, so was still insisting on the better social status. Duncan was inclined to think they'd disagree just to disagree.
He had to admit, though, that he was being offered an abundance in the way of choices. Since he had agreed to get married—a moment of insanity, surely—if he couldn't find at least one lass to his liking out of the fifty or so who had been invited, then he'd be deliberately not trying. During that first day of the arrivals, and on into the next morning, he did find himself continually looking for a pair of lilac eyes, but none were to be found.
Not that he was thinking of that particular girl as a possible candidate for matrimony. He'd simply enjoyed her company, and was looking forward to a bit of her humor, which had managed to lighten his mood that day he met her, and he was definitely in need of mood lightening again.
When he began to wonder why she hadn't made an appearance, since she had seemed to be a neighbor
of Neville's, having been out for a walk in the area—and who better to invite to a party than your own neighbors?—he decided to take his question to his grandfather.
It was the first time that he had actually sought out the old man since the day of his own arrival. They had spo
ken, of course, at meals and in passing, the stilted speech of strangers, which they really still were. But Duncan still wasn't comfortable in Neville's presence, his bitterness rising each time he saw him, and so he avoided him when he could.
He found Neville after lunch, back in his private sitting room. The old man did seem to hide out upstairs for most of each day. He'd been making an appearance at meals, and for a few hours each evening, but other than that, he left his guests to their own devices.
Too many years of solitary company, Duncan supposed, would make a large house party of the scope this one had become very intimidating, or rather, unappealing. Neville wasn't the sort to be intimidated, after all, though at his age, he didn't inspire that emotion either, at least not with his grandson. But he was the sort who wanted to just be left alone, thus the "recluse" description that Duncan had heard more than once paired with Neville's name.
He had no intention of disturbing the old man for long, in fact, got right to the point in asking about his violet-eyed neighbor.
After blinking a few times, indicating that Duncan's knock might have caught Neville nodding .off for an afternoon nap, the marquis said with assurance, "There are no young women of gentry in the neighborhood, not suitable for marriage to you, that is, or I would have invited them, since they, at least, wouldn't have to abide here for the duration, but could commute back and forth. Bloody well running out of room here as it is."
Duncan dismissed the notion that the lass could have been common stock—her speech had been cultured, and she'd displayed no nervousness in dealing with a lord, as the working class tended to do, so he insisted, "She's gentry."
"Then she might have been a visitor, might even have been one of those fools who came here at the Reid girl's request and were sent packing with her. Lilac eyes, you say?" Neville shook his head. "I don't know a single person with unusual eyes like that. But if you were taken with the girl, I'll investigate and find out who she was."
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