by Royal, Emily
“I purchased his sherry casks,” he said. “But don’t worry, I gave him a good price.”
He approached a barrel and traced the line of the letters with his finger. “I hope it’s worth it,” he said. “The waiting will be the worst part.”
“When will you distribute them?” she asked. “Your foreman said you’d already received an order.”
“Not for three years, at least,” he said. “The whisky needs to mature properly. Ideally, I’d lay them down for at least five years, but I’ve sunk more than I can afford into the business and must generate a return as soon as possible. Not every buyer is willing to pay three years in advance.”
“Three years! Won’t it go bad?”
His laugh echoed around the cellar.
“No, lass,” he said. “It could go untouched for twenty years and taste all the better for it. We only need to worry about the angels.”
“The angels?”
“For each year of maturation, some of the spirit is lost, and legend says it’s the angels taking their due. But we can forgive them, for over the years, the taste deepens and mellows. The longer the maturation, the better the taste. And, of course, the higher the price we can command.”
“And how would you know,” she said, “if the production of whisky has been illegal until now?”
“Whisky has been produced hereabouts under the light of the moon for centuries,” he replied.
“Then, the Excise Act must be an unnecessary burden for you.”
“On the contrary,” he said, “I’ve always been an advocate for the Act, for it has legitimized production, which will ensure that whisky can, at last, enter the drawing rooms of London.”
“And you believe society’s taste will run to whisky?” she asked.
“I’ve staked everything I have on it.”
“Then I applaud your bravery,” she said.
He pulled out a pocket watch and opened it. “We must be leaving,” he said. “Ma will wonder whether I’ve abducted you.”
Lilah smiled. “Does your mother take her duties as chaperone seriously?”
“She’s taken a liking to you, lass. She sees the same qualities in you that I do.”
“You’re too generous.”
“I think not,” he replied. “You’re the most honest person I know.”
His eyes shone with faith in her, and his smile warmed her bones.
What would it be like to be loved by him?
Chapter Fifteen
By the time they returned, night had fallen, and Lilah was unable to see the mountain. After Sarah finished pinning her hair, she made her way to the drawing room.
Fraser stood by the fireplace, a glass in his hand. Sitting by the window was his mother, and beside her, a young woman.
Mrs. MacGregor rose to her feet. “Miss Hart, I trust you enjoyed your excursion?”
“Very much,” Lilah replied.
“May I introduce you to Miss MacKenzie, a close family friend?”
The young woman stood and dipped into a curtsey. She was exquisite. Flame-red hair had been arranged in a cascade of curls to frame a heart-shaped face. She had perfectly-proportioned features—a small nose, high cheekbones, and a rosebud mouth. Her eyes, a clear green, narrowed as she looked at Lilah, as if sizing her up to determine whether she posed a threat.
“Charmed, I’m sure, Miss Hart,” she said.
Lilah mirrored the curtsey. “A pleasure to meet you, Miss MacKenzie.”
Despite the fire, a frost had descended in the room.
Mrs. MacGregor gestured toward the dining room. “Shall we go in?”
“Of course,” Miss MacKenzie said. “We’ve been kept waiting, and dinner will be getting cold.”
“It’s just an informal family supper,” Fraser said.
“Nevertheless, traditions should be respected,” she replied. “Come, Fraser, take my arm. You’ve been away from home too long. London has claimed far too much of you already.”
She glided across the room to Fraser, who held his arm out, and she curled her hand around it and leaned close. “We’ve missed you,” she said in a loud whisper. “I trust we’ll see plenty of you now you’re back, where you belong.”
He displayed no emotion, but Miss MacKenzie’s face glowed with satisfaction.
“Miss Delilah,” Mrs. MacGregor said. “Would you accompany me?”
Lilah took the proffered arm and walked with her hostess into the dining room. She had never seen a room so Scottish. Dark oak panels lined the walls, decorated with candle sconces. On one wall hung a woolen plaid with a red background, decorated with blue and green stripes, the contrasting colors shimmering in the candlelight. Beside it, hung a tapestry depicting a hunting scene—a stag in the forefront being speared by a band of men who looked like savages with shaggy red hair, heavy swords, wearing plaids in a pattern to match the wall hanging. A huge mountain dominated the background, above which a pair of eagles circled.
In the forefront, where the deer had been speared, blood ran from the wound, staining the rocks red.
Unlike the delicately embroidered screens of the parlors in Mayfair, the tapestry depicted life without embellishments. Nature in its raw fashion, together with the brutality and savagery of Highland life.
“Do you like what you see, Miss Hart?” her host asked.
“It’s like nothing I’ve seen in my life.”
“Look behind you,” he said.
She turned toward the opposite wall. A stag’s head mounted on a large, polished block of wood greeted her.
“Perhaps our guest finds our country a little too much for her,” a female voice said. Miss MacKenzie watched Lilah with a slight smile on her lips, though her gaze was hard and cold.
“Not at all,” Lilah said, “but I’ll admit you wouldn’t find quite such an honest depiction of a hunt in London’s drawing rooms.”
“Is that because the English are unwilling to face the truth?” Miss MacKenzie asked.
Lilah gestured toward the tapestry. “Were you to display such a raw picture of brutality in a Mayfair dining room, I doubt the diners would enjoy their venison as much.”
Miss MacKenzie gave a snort and reached for her wine.
“Do you find our honesty unsettling, Miss Hart?” Mrs. Macgregor asked.
“On the contrary, I admire it,” Lilah said. “I take it your ancestors are in the picture?”
“Aye,” Fraser said, pride in his voice. “That’s my great-grandfather leading the hunt. Auld Willie led him a fine chase.”
“Auld Willie?”
“The stag.”
“And your great-grandfather had him stuffed and mounted?”
“He ate him. But to honor their battle of wits, he had him mounted, so we would remember him. I think you would have liked him.”
“Your grandfather or the stag?”
He let out a laugh. “My grandfather, Miss Hart. He was a fellow countryman of yours.”
“He was an Englishman?”
“Aye. It’s due to him that I suffer the misfortune of being a duke. His older brother was the ninth duke. But my ancestor was, if I understand, something of a rebel. He left to marry the daughter of a Highlander who fought against the English in several battles, and his father disowned him.”
“Then you could argue that justice has finally been served, now that the title has fallen to you,” Lilah said.
He shook his head. “It comes with responsibilities and expectations I neither need nor want.”
“Ah, but your particular title comes with the least expectation,” Lilah said. “Your predecessor was hardly a paragon of honor.”
“You sound just like Mr. Smith,” he said. “Do you sympathize with his attempts to discredit me in print?”
“Of course not.” She resumed her attention on the dish in front of her, a creamy broth of smoked fish. “The soup is delicious, Mrs. MacGregor.”
“Thank you, Miss Hart. It’s a variant of a traditional Scottish recipe, which ha
s been in our family for generations. Most families will have their own particular version.”
The conversation turned toward food for the rest of the meal. When supper was concluded, Fraser escorted them into the drawing room where he poured them each a glass of whisky.
“I thought you said Miss Hart loathed the stuff,” Miss MacKenzie said.
Lilah’s cheeks warmed at the notion that he’d been discussing her with his…
His what?
Family friend? Lover?
Or betrothed?
“I’m willing to try it again,” Lilah said.
Miss MacKenzie sipped her whisky and smiled. “I find first impressions tend to be the most accurate.”
Fraser handed Lilah a glass. “I’ve mixed it with a little water. It improves the flavor.”
She took it, ignoring the warmth of his hand as her fingers brushed against his, and sipped it. The flavor burst on her tongue, a smoky, earthy richness, which warmed her throat as she swallowed.
“That’s delicious,” she said. “Somehow not as harsh as the liquor I tasted in London. Are you sure it’s the same?”
“Perhaps your taste is improving,” he said.
Miss MacKenzie let out a snort. “It’s rather fickle to change one’s mind at the persuasion of others.”
“But necessary, if one is to grow,” Lilah said. “I admire a steady character, but an unwillingness to change one’s opinion can be a sign of weakness. I have the utmost respect for a man or woman who admits when they’ve been at fault.”
“What would become of the world where opinions continually changed?” Miss MacKenzie asked.
“It would be a better world, Jen,” Fraser said.
Lilah flinched at his familiar address. Miss MacKenzie smiled and placed a possessive hand on his arm.
“Of course, dear Fraser, you’re always so understanding. But I would counsel you against the folly of inconstancy.”
“Jennifer, my dear, I trust you’ll never find me inconstant.”
“I do hope not,” she said, caressing his arm. Then she released him, took a seat on the couch beside the fireplace, and patted the space beside her.
“Do join me, Miss Hart,” she said. “I’m anxious to know you better.”
“Are you?”
The smile slipped. “Of course,” she said. “My Fraser mentioned you so often when he wrote, I almost believe we’re friends already.”
“Friends, Miss MacKenzie?”
“Oh, yes!” she said. “Please, if it’s not too forward, you must call me Jennifer, if I might be permitted to call you… What would I call you?”
Forward, indeed, but with three pairs of eyes on her, Lilah could hardly object. Dexter would have had a fit at such familiarity. But Dexter was not here. And something told Lilah it was better not to make an enemy of Miss MacKenzie.
“Of course,” she said. “You must call me Delilah.”
Miss MacKenzie linked her arm through Lilah’s. “How wonderful!” she said. “Fraser, my love, did you not hear that? Delilah and I are friends. Perhaps you might tell me about London, for I hear society is somewhat fierce there.”
“No fiercer than in Scotland,” Lilah said.
The smile slipped again, and Miss MacKenzie took another sip of whisky. “Ah, but at least the infamous Mr. Smith doesn’t reside here,” she said. “Now there’s a scoundrel if ever one existed.”
“Mr. Smith?” Lilah asked.
“Jeremiah Smith,” Mrs. MacGregor said. “Have you read any of his articles in the City Chronicle?”
“I-I may have read some,” Lilah replied, tightening her grip on her glass.
“Are you an admirer?”
“Certainly not.”
“I am glad of it,” Mrs. MacGregor said. “He must be a detestable man to write what he does, to say such horrible things about us.”
“Aren’t his remarks directed at the aristocracy in general?” Lilah asked.
“Then why does he always refer to the Molineuxs? Fraser has sent me every one of that man’s articles. I find them most distressing.”
“Then, perhaps he shouldn’t send them,” Lilah said.
“Would you have me conceal the truth from my mother?”
“No,” Lilah replied, “but those articles will make no difference to the world. They’ll soon be forgotten, and the paper on which they’re printed will line London’s fireplaces.”
“It’s always best to know what your enemy is thinking about you,” Mrs. MacGregor said. She smiled and raised her glass. “Perhaps we should talk about the writing of a pleasanter nature. Fraser tells me you’re something of a poet.”
Lilah shook her head. “I enjoy writing verse, that is all.”
“I hear you’re quite the proficient. My son praises your work highly and says you’re in the process of having a volume published.”
“That is my dream,” Lilah said, “but I fear your son has grossly exaggerated my talents.”
“I doubt that, my dear.” Mrs. MacGregor said. “My son is the most honest, truthful person I know. Of course, a mother’s love will render me biased.”
Mother and son exchanged glances, and Lilah’s heart tightened at the expression of love in his eyes.
“Your opinion is justified,” Lilah said. “From what I’ve seen today, he’s a man of integrity and is destined for success.”
“Quite so,” Miss MacKenzie interjected, her voice carrying an undertone of desperation as if she were unwilling to let the conversation flow without her input. “I’ve always said so, have I not, Fraser? I like to think that my unwavering support, together with your mother’s, of course, has encouraged you to pursue your venture outside of our homeland.”
Fraser nodded. Miss MacKenzie shot a glance toward Lilah and continued. “Of course, every successful man needs continued support. Where better to find it than in his homeland?”
Could the woman be any more obvious? If she ventured to London, she’d find a twin soul in the Honorable Sarah Francis. She possessed all the animosity that Sarah felt toward any woman she saw as a rival, together with the desperation which exuded from her every time an unmarried, titled man ventured within ten feet of her.
“To achieve success,” Miss MacKenzie continued, “a man must focus on his business interests whole-heartedly. He can only do that in confidence if he is assured that his home, family, are looked after by another.”
“Such as a wife?” Lilah asked.
“A wife lives for her husband,” Miss MacKenzie said. “My life will be complete when I can support someone I’ve pledged to honor and obey.”
“You believe a woman should be defined by her husband?” Lilah asked. “Can’t she have interests or pursuits of her own?”
“Only insofar as they do not hinder the husband’s ambitions.”
“She may wish to earn a living of her own,” Lilah said.
Miss Mackenzie curled her lip. “Only if she wishes to emasculate her husband.”
“Miss MacKenzie!” Mrs. MacGregor exclaimed. “I hardly think…”
“No, no,” Lilah said, laughing. “It’s a reasonable question which any woman in pursuit of equality must be prepared to answer. There are many women in the city of London, earning respectable incomes to support themselves.”
“Are they married?” Miss MacKenzie asked.
“Married women often help their husbands in running a business.”
“Perhaps you wish to earn a living from your writing,” Miss MacKenzie said. “An impossible task, given that you must first convince a man to publish your work.”
Lilah opened her mouth to respond but thought better of it. Though she wished to set this spiteful young woman straight by relating the success of her Essays on Patriarchy, she had no wish to reveal her identity as the author.
Fraser came to her rescue. “Commercial success does not always go hand in hand with the quality of the product, Jennifer. I’ve had the privilege of reading a number of Miss Hart’s poems and have found th
em to be excellent.”
Lilah looked up, and their eyes met. His glittered with warmth, reflecting the orange glow of the fire, and his lips curled into a smile.
“How wonderful!” Mrs. MacGregor said. “Would it be too forward of me to ask you to read one aloud for us? I am very fond of poetry, am I not, Fraser?”
He gave his mother an indulgent smile. “Ma was once privileged enough to meet the Bard,” he said.
“Perhaps our guest is unaware of the Bard,” Miss MacKenzie said, her tone sullen.
“I’m well acquainted with the work of Robert Burns,” Lilah said. “His Grace was kind enough to introduce me to the pleasures of Burns’s poetry the first day we met.” She gave him a saucy smile. “I’m sure you remember that day well.”
“How could I forget?”
Was it her imagination or had his voice taken on a gravelly tone?
“Are you working on a poem now, Miss Hart?” Mrs. MacGregor asked.
“I am.”
“I’d love to read some of your work if it’s not an imposition.”
“Miss Hart is never without her writing materials,” Fraser said. “She spent every evening writing during the journey here.”
Guilt stabbed at Lilah at the pride in his voice. For the past few days, she’d abandoned her poetry in favor of completing her final essay as Jeremiah Smith.
“I’m not sure…” she hesitated. Her hostess interrupted her.
“I promise not to compare you too unfavorably with Burns, my dear. I would encourage every woman, married or not, to cultivate her passion, to ensure she maintains her independent identity.”
Lilah had an ally in Mrs. MacGregor, which only made her subterfuge even more treasonous.
“Perhaps another time,” Lilah said. “I’m rather tired.”
“Is our Highland air too much for you?” Miss MacKenzie asked.
Ignoring the young woman, Mrs. MacGregor took Lilah’s hand. “You poor dear,” she said. “Not only have you been subjected to such a long journey, my son saw fit to drag you round his factory without a single thought for your comfort. Fraser, you should take better care of your lovely guest.”
“I assure you, ma’am, he’s taken the utmost care of me,” Lilah said, “but I am very tired, and would beg to be excused.”