The Highlander's Yuletide Love (3 page)

Harriet’s eyes
widened and Glencairn made a strangled noise.

“Alone?”
faltered Harriet.

“No, I take my
maid with me.” When her father looked about to lose his temper, she rushed
ahead. “Do not be angry with Wallis. You have never told her that she may not
accompany me, and she has no idea that you might not quite like it.”

“Not quite like
it!”

“I dress very
discreetly, and no one of any consequence is in the park so early. I’m sure I’ve
not been noticed.” Sophy tried to make her voice placating. “The light is so
lovely at that hour, and the dew on the flowers glistens so. You have no idea
how beautiful it is, though not as dear to my heart as Glencairn, of course.”

“Painting in the
park at dawn!” The earl threw his hands up in the air. He glared at Harriet. “What
do you make of this, ma’am?” he demanded.

Harriet glanced
nervously from her husband to her stepdaughter. “There seems to be little
agreement between the two of you about this,” she observed. “But somehow, we
must come to an accommodation. Sophy, are you sure there is no man who appeals
to you even a little?”

Sophy hesitated
as Colonel’s Stirling’s face flashed in front of her, and then she shook her
head. “I have tried, truly I have.”

“Then there is
nothing your father and I can do,” she said simply. “We shall go back to
Glencairn, and you shall paint.”

Sophy gave a
squeal of delight and threw herself into Harriet’s arms. Harriet patted her
back gently while Glencairn snorted.

“I only hope you
will realize what you are missing,” murmured Harriet. “I’m sure you love
painting, but the women you admire—the Countess of Sutherland and Madame
LeBrun—have husbands and children, you know. It is not as though that is
something to be dreaded.”

“I promise if I
find a man I can care for, I will marry him,” Sophy said earnestly. She glanced
up at her father. He was regarding the two of them with disdain.

“Very well, if
your stepmother says you may paint, then I suppose I must agree,” Glencairn
said distantly. “No, don’t—” he protested, holding out his hands, but Sophy
flung herself on his chest, and he found himself thoroughly embraced.

“Thank you!”
said Sophy. “You will see, I will be very happy, and I will cause you no
trouble at all. You will not be sorry!”

“Somehow I doubt
that,” murmured Harriet, but Sophy was gone, dashing out of the drawing room to
share the glad news with Douglas.

Glencairn and
his wife shared a glance. “I hope you know what you are doing,” he said.

“So do I,” she
answered nervously.

 Later that
night Harriet sat at the small desk in her bedroom, scribbling out a letter. She
wore a night-rail of fine white linen trimmed with lace, with a wrapper draped
loosely over it. She concentrated as she wrote, her pale curls glowing in the
candlelight.

Dearest
Philippa,

The Season draws
to a close, and I cannot say that I am truly sorry, as we shall soon leave
London and return to Glencairn, where, as you well know, I am happiest. My
heart lightens at the thought of seeing the gardens there again, and strolling
along the path to visit dearest Isobel in her cottage. You will remember that
she gave birth to a daughter last winter, and very devoted to the child she is,
though I imagine it will not stop her from her everlasting excavations.

But I digress. You
asked if Sophy had accepted the offer of Viscount Rackheath, and I must tell
you that, despite my hopes, she turned him down. It seems very foolish of her
to me, as he is handsome, and personable, and, though I should not say it
matters, very rich. She would have anything she wished for, though, truth to
tell, she has that now, for Glencairn denies her nothing. Still, he must have
ten thousand pounds a year, not to mention Rackheath Manor in Berkshire. I have
not visited there, but I’m told it is truly a noble home, and the farms very
profitable. It is such a pity that she could not reciprocate his sentiments!

How I do go on. You
must know that Glencairn and I spoke to Sophy today and she pleaded that she be
allowed to return to Scotland and devote herself to her painting. She was not
to be moved by any arguments in favor of London or marriage, and so her father
and I relented. I think perhaps Glencairn was annoyed with me at first, as
though I could talk Sophy out of anything when he cannot! She is every bit as
willful as he is, though he will not admit it. At any rate, he soon came to
understand my thinking. The girl will not marry when her heart is set on
something else, and the more we tease her to find a suitable husband, the less
inclined she is to do so. She must come to understand what she is missing. Perhaps
some time away from her beaux will make her more amenable to the thought of
marriage. And if it does not—well, then I suppose it is for the best. I would
rather have her unwed than unhappy.

Harriet looked
up when she heard the door between her bedroom and Glencairn’s opening. She
looked up with a smile.

And so, Philippa
dear, I must to bed. We begin to pack tomorrow for the return to Scotland. I
know that you will wish dear Sophy well in her new venture, and pray that all
will end well.

Your loving
sister,

Harriet

Glencairn
traversed the wide expanse of Aubusson carpet that separated him from his wife,
and as she sanded and folded up the letter, he came to her side. They shared a
smile as he took her hand and raised her to her feet, and led her to the
silk-draped bed.

Francis Wheaton,
Viscount Exencour, exited the premises of his shirt maker in Jermyn Street, and
turned toward Bond Street, pausing here and there to exchange a few words with
an acquaintance, or acknowledging someone he knew only slightly with a nod. He
never stopped for long, however, and in a few minutes he had reached 13 Bond
Street, the hallowed precincts of Gentleman Jackson’s Boxing Saloon, where the
Corinthian set gathered for lessons, sparring, and conversation.

As Francis
entered the Champion’s high ceilinged rooms, he could hear the sound of gloves
slapping against each other, or occasionally the duller thump of one gentleman
landing a hit on another, and smell the chalk used to keep the boxers’ feet
from sliding on the plank floor. He greeted Lord Petersham near the door, and
took a moment to admire his snuffbox, specially selected by his lordship from a
vast collection to complement his coat, as well as the day’s weather. Glancing around
the room, Francis spotted his quarry, and made his way to where a tall, dark
haired gentleman sparred with Jackson himself in one corner. He moved closer to
watch the action.

“That’s it,
Colonel,” the champion said, as his taller opponent used his reach in an attempt
to pop one in over Jackson’s guard, even as he leaned back and slipped sideways
just enough to evade the punch. “Your height and reach are your strengths, but
you need to be a little faster to place a blow on me.”

“A little
faster?” the tall gentleman replied. “You are flattering me now, you rogue. I
have quite a ways to go to be fast enough to fool you.”

“Not that much,
sir,” Jackson said. “It’s a pity you’re an aristocrat; I might have made a
champion of you with your size and power.”

The pair
exchanged a few more blows, with Jackson commenting as they sparred, before
declaring the bout at an end. Gentleman Jackson turned away, pausing to greet
Lord Exencour, and then went on to deal with other students. Francis turned to
the man who had been sparring with him.

“Ranulf
Stirling, it has been an age since I have seen you in London,” he remarked.

“At least three
years, I suppose,” Ranulf answered, as he wiped his face with a towel. His bare
chest and arms had the lightest sheen of sweat on them, which emphasized his
powerful muscles; broad shoulders with defined pectorals above narrow hips, and
well developed abdominals marching down his torso between them.

“My wife tells
me that she met you in the Park, and asked you to visit us. But I suspected you
would not, so I came to find you.”

Ranulf picked up
the fine linen shirt that lay on a chair against the wall and shrugged into it.
He looked up to see Francis watching him gravely.

“I value your
friendship greatly, Exencour, but I find the endless round of house calls and
parties in London tedious. Your wife is an exception to the rule that all
Society women are dead bores, but I don’t see myself sitting in her drawing
room exchanging niceties.”

Francis laughed.
“I don’t see Isobel doing that either.”

“Perhaps not. The
war and my travels have made me impatient with Society, and others in her
drawing room might not be so kind. She had a pretty slip of a thing with her
the other day, and after so many years in the Army I scarcely knew what to say
to her.”

Francis raised
his eyebrows. “A slip of a thing?”

“Dark hair, big
blue eyes,” said Ranulf briefly. “She could not have been more than twenty.”

“Ah, Sophy.” Francis
paused. “Lady Sophia Learmouth, I should say. Lady Exencour and her stepmother are
cousins and very close friends.”

“Glencairn’s
daughter, I gather.”

“She is. But she
is twenty-one and the veteran of three London Seasons. Sophy’s a charming girl.
You might even find her amusing.”

Ranulf
shuddered. “Innocent girls are not my forte. But how is it she remains unmarried
at her age?”

Francis laughed.
“She refuses all offers, and her father loves her too much too insist that she wed.
She leads him a pretty dance.”

“As I said,
society women terrify me,” said Ranulf. “I’ve no time for their whims.”

“Unless they are
very lovely and very sophisticated,” said Francis wryly.

“Perhaps then.”

There was a
moment’s pause as the two men shared a smile. “I hear that you are no longer a
younger son,” Lord Francis murmured. “I was sorry to hear of your brother’s
death.”

Ranulf frowned. “Yes,
it was a very sad thing, and I feel for his widow, as well as my father. I have
been in the Highlands for some time seeing to things at Spaethness. My father
is growing rather infirm, and relied very much upon my brother.”

“Then what has
brought you to London so close to the end of the Season?”

Ranulf shrugged,
a sardonic expression on his face. “Months in a four hundred year old Highland
keep, with only the company of an ailing parent, are not good for my spirits. I
felt I needed the solace of my fellows.”

Francis raised
his brows. “So you are in London visiting your cousin Hugh? He’s dashed dull.”

“I need some,
er, dullness in my life at this point,” said Ranulf thoughtfully.

Francis raised
his eyebrows. “Been dipping too deeply?”

“That, and the
neighboring laird has a very young, very lovely, and very bored wife.”

“Ah.” Francis
sat down and indicated the chair across from him. “Does her husband know?”

Ranulf dropped
into the chair and stretched his long legs out in front of him. “He suspected.
I thought it best to make myself scarce.”

“You’re a dog,
Stirling.” Ranulf didn’t respond, and Francis continued. “Lady Exencour and I
will be leaving in a few weeks for Scotland ourselves. She owns a cottage on
the Dargenwater near Glencairn, and prefers to summer there. But you must
certainly come for dinner as soon as possible. I promise there will be no
terrifying young women present.”

Ranulf smiled. “I
would like that. I’ve missed you, Francis.”

Francis sat
back, regarding him thoughtfully. “The hand is no better?”

Ranulf did not
meet his eyes. “No, no better,” he said shortly.

Francis
hesitated. “The doctors do not think it will improve?”

 “It’s been six
years. They shake their heads and make tutting noises, and assure me that
perhaps someday I will have full use of it again, but I can tell it will never heal.”

Francis looked
at his friend’s left hand. “It does not show.”

“As for that, I
am thankful the bullet hit my wrist.” Ranulf turned his hand over and pulled
back his sleeve, revealing an ugly scar running up his inner arm. “It cannot be
seen when I am in public. And the hand is well enough.” He flexed it slightly
and grinned wryly. “That is why I have taken up the pugilistic arts; I now no
longer have to protect my hands.”

“I know it pains
you that you can no longer play the pianoforte—” began Francis, but Ranulf
shook his head.

“When you say
that, I hear how foolish it sounds. Like you, I returned from Spain and
Waterloo alive, when so many did not, and what must I do but mope about because
I can no longer play music.”

“But it meant a
great deal to you. If I were deprived of a thing I held so dearly—” his voice
trailed off.

“It was a thing,
not a person,” said Ranulf. “You are thinking of your wife, or your child. I’ve
told myself it is time to do something with myself other than drink gin and
seduce my neighbor’s wives.”

“Wives?” Francis
grinned.

“Aye, wives. I
told you I need some dullness.”

Francis regarded
him for some moments, his fingers gently drumming on his thigh. “Perhaps you
need dullness, but must you be bored to death? Pack your traps and come to stay
with Isobel and me. We are a bit more lively, though we are not prone to
debauchery.”

“It is a tempting
thought. Hugh’s company is not enlivening; he falls asleep over his port.”

“Then it is
settled, as we cannot have you enduring that,” said Francis. “Although I
suppose I’ll have to keep an eye on you around my wife.”

Ranulf laughed. “I’d
not serve you such a turn, Francis.”

Francis laughed
as well. “I know you wouldn’t. I also know you couldn’t. My Isobel is rather
formidable.”

“I’m glad to see
you so happy. I tend to think love a mere notion, but if you find yourself in
the midst of it, I can only wish you well.”

Francis inclined
his head. “I thought like you once, Ranulf, but I learned better.”

“No doubt it is
too late for me. When I joined the Life Guards after I left Oxford, knowing
that a younger son must always have an occupation, I found the life suited me. My
fellow officers always welcomed my ability to bring some music and cheer to
even the filthiest billet, and I loved to fight, so I always had friends. But
now the social world seems stale, and I must learn to manage the land, so spending
time in London feels like a waste.

“You are a young
man, what can you mean by too late?” Francis asked in surprise.

“If I had sold
out and left altogether after Waterloo, perhaps I’d be a more likely family
man,” Ranulf responded. “But India changed me. The distance, the heat, the
people--” his voice trailed off. “It hardened me, even as it made me a fortune.
I don’t need love, I need a young widow, maybe with a child so I know she isn’t
barren, who’ll give me an heir and be grateful for the security.”

“That’s a grim
view of the world, to be sure.” Francis said mildly. “I think spending too much
time with the oh-so-dull Hugh has soured you. You must certainly come to
Strancaster House where life will be more cheerful.”

The colonel
stood and picked up his blue superfine coat, slipping into it while gazing at
his friend thoughtfully. “Speak to Lady Exencour first. I would not want to be
an interloper in your happy home.”

“Nonsense. Strancaster
House has room for a dozen guests. You need not see us unless you choose to. You
will be no bother at all.”

“I’ll come
tomorrow, then, if I do not hear otherwise from you. But I would not trespass
on your wife’s good graces.”

“Isobel will
care not a whit. You might occasionally have to endure the company of Lady
Sophia, however; she is always in and out of the house,” Francis teased.

“Is she?” Ranulf
raised his eyebrows. “Then I suppose I will have to find a way to tolerate her presence.”