Taming the Heiress

by Susan King

  She walked through the gate, her heart slamming, hands clenching inside her gloves. This was the house where Dougal was staying with family while he was in Edinburgh. She glanced at the brass address plaque and saw the name beneath the engraved number: Doctor Connor MacBain.

  A doctor's household would be accustomed to unexpected visitors, and it was not yet late, although the rain made the darkness deeper. She would have to endure the awkwardness of asking to see a gentleman alone, but she would do whatever she must in order to see Dougal. She could not let him learn about her identity in public at her soiree. She owed it to him, out of respect and love, to explain it herself in private.

  Drawing a deep breath, she strode up the walk and climbed the steps. Wide flower beds edged the foundation of the spacious stone house. Bay windows on the first and second levels were hung with golden drapes, warm with light.

  Reaching up to the small black bonnet she wore under her cloak's hood, Meg drew a swath of black netting over her face. Then she drew a deep breath and picked up the door knocker.

  Moments later, a woman in a dark dress and white apron appeared, then stepped back immediately to bring Meg into the foyer. "Are you here for the doctor, miss? He has guests and is not seeing patients at this hour, but if 'tis an emergency, Dr. MacBain is always available."

  The house was cozily warm and smelled fragrant with cleanliness and baking spice. Toward one side of the house, she heard the rattle of dishes, and elsewhere, the harmony of male and female voices mingled in conversation and laughter.

  Clutching the hasp of her cloak with a gloved hand, Meg felt a keen yearning to be part of the warmth and comfort that was so redolent in this place. But she was an outsider. She was suddenly very glad for the protection of her veil.

  "I have not come to see Dr. MacBain. I was told that Mr. Dougal Stewart is staying here. I... I have an urgent message for him, if he is here."

  "Mr. Stewart, aye. Who is calling?" The housekeeper produced a silver salver to accept Meg's card.

  Reaching into her glove where she always slid a calling card or two out of habit, Meg paused, reluctant to produce one. The name Lady Strathlin would cause a stir. "Please tell Mr. Stewart that Miss MacNeill is here to see him."

  To the left of the hallway, panel doors slid open and a lovely dark-haired young woman in a brown silk dress glided toward her. "Hello, miss. May the doctor be of assistance?" She smiled and held out her hand. "I am Mary Faire MacBain. My husband is here—Oh, there you are, sir." She smiled.

  A blond man, wide shouldered and dressed in shirtsleeves and a gray vest, appeared through the same doorway. "Who is it, my dear?" he asked, and then he saw Meg. He smiled and stood back to welcome her into the room.

  "Miss, hello. I am Dr. MacBain. Please come in and tell us what we can do for you."

  Everyone assumed that she was a patient in need. No one questioned her right to be here or acted as if proprieties were compromised. Meg felt grateful to them for their friendly acceptance, but she hesitated, feeling awkward and foolish.

  "The young lady is here to see Mr. Stewart, sir," the housekeeper explained. "This is Miss MacNeill."

  "Pleased to meet you, Miss MacNeill. But I'm afraid Mr. Stewart is not here. He has stepped out for a little while and did not say when he would be back. He has had a busy schedule of business appointments. Might I give him a message?"

  Meg stared at them. "He is—not here?"

  "Would you like to wait?" Mrs. MacBain asked. "We are about to have coffee. You are more than welcome to join us."

  Through another set of half-open pocket doors, Meg saw a few others milling about engaged in conversation. If she waited here for Dougal, someone in the house might recognize Lady Strathlin.

  "I—" Meg paused, looking back at the doctor and his wife. They regarded her kindly, with evident concern. The radiance of happiness and compassion shone in their handsome faces.

  She would never have that, she thought, never. Not now.

  "Miss," Mrs. MacBain said, "is there something we can do?"

  Suddenly she felt lost, alone, and very unsure of herself. Wealth and social status meant nothing to her now. Dougal was not here, and she needed him very badly, needed his arms around her, needed the comfort of his voice, his calm wisdom and gentle humor, and the strength of his passion. She needed him to tell her that he understood. That he forgave her.

  Not so long ago, he had asked for her forgiveness, had told her that he loved her and wanted to marry her—and she had not taken the chance then to tell him how much she loved him, had not taken the risk of explaining herself to him.

  Now she was ready to do that, and he was not here. After the soiree, he might never be available to her again.

  But she could not stay and wait for him, and she might have no chance to return.

  "I—should not have come," she blurted. "Please accept my apology. I am sorry for disturbing your evening." Turning toward the door, she pulled it open and ran down the steps.

  She picked up her skirts and fled down the path, her shoes tapping on stone. Passing through the gate, she ran toward the waiting coach. The driver seemed to understand. Without hesitation, he opened the door and swept her inside, then leaped onto the cab. The two horses launched forward.

  "Did you speak to Mr. Stewart so quickly?" Angela asked.

  Meg settled her skirts and collected herself, breathless for a moment, and looked at her friends. Angela and Guy sat close together on the opposite bench seat, both watching her.

  She pulled off her gloves anxiously. "He was not there," she said. "He is out, and they do not know when he will be back—oh!"

  Looking down at her gloves, she realized that the little cream card that identified her as Lady Strathlin was gone.

  She glanced around, over her wide black crinolined skirt and down at the coach floor. Gone.

  Peering out the coach window back toward the MacBain house, she saw Connor MacBain step outside the house, watching her coach disappear. He bent to pick up something from the ground and stood looking at it, then tucked it into his vest pocket.

  Meg sat back with a soft groan and leaned her head against squabbed leather. "I did not say who I was, but I suspect the entire household will know soon. I dropped my calling card as I left."

  "Oh dear!" Angela said. "Well, they will tell Mr. Stewart when he returns, and no doubt he will seek you out at the soiree for an explanation."

  "If he comes at all," Meg said. If I ever see him again.

  She looked at Guy and Angela, and saw by their somber gazes and the close way that they sat together that they had been deep in conversation while she was gone. And she could tell, simply by the way that Guy regarded her, that now he knew the secret of her son, the thing she had fought so long to protect.

  She trusted Guy implicitly, but she realized that little by little her secrets would unravel and be told. The feeling was one of extreme vulnerability.

  "So you know," she said quietly.

  He nodded silently, then leaned forward and took her hand. "My dear baroness," he murmured. "You could have told me long ago. I might have been a help to you in this."

  "A help," she said.

  "You have taken a great deal onto your shoulders," he said. "But there are others around you, friends willing to share the burden. Willing to love the child, and you, without judgment."

  Tears pricked her eyes. Meg nodded silently, gratefully, and leaned back, gazing out the window as the coach conveyed them back to Charlotte Square.

  If Dougal knew, she wondered, would he feel the same way? He would be angry with her for keeping the secret, but she knew unequivocally that he was capable of real love and compassion. And he had a right to know his son, to love his son.

  But she could not tell him. If she did, Matheson would find out somehow. The man had a way of ferreting out, and learning what was hidden. Some deep instinct told her that Matheson would become a dangerous threat to Dougal if he ever knew the true identity of Iain's father.


  Although she had to tell Dougal that she was the baroness, she must continue to protect the secret of their child. In that way, she could keep both Iain and Dougal from imminent danger. Her continued silence, over the years, would ensure their safety.

  She watched as the rain began a steady, pelting downpour.

  Chapter 18

  "Now this," the seamstress said, as she knelt on the floor, arranging the overskirt of Meg's gown, "is why Monsieur Worth is so pleased with this gown—the tulle overskirt." She inserted another silver straight pin and fluffed out the silken netting until its soft veiling formed transparent clouds around the skirt of the gown.

  "Oh! It's magical," Angela said as she walked around Meg in a wide circle. "Truly a masterpiece."

  "I quite agree," Lenore Worth said. She was more than a mere seamstress, Meg had realized upon her arrival. Miss Worth was the couturier's niece, a capable young Englishwoman who worked with her uncle in his Paris shop. Arriving with the gown packed in a trunk amid layers of silk netting and lavender sachets, Miss Worth had a perceptive eye and a precise hand for sewing. Mere days after her arrival, the adjusted gown now fit like a glove and looked like a vision. The night of the soiree had finally arrived, and she would wear the gown at last.

  Meg looked into the long, tilted mirror, which reflected back the shimmering gown. Of Lyons silk in a pale aqua, the low-cut bodice left her shoulders and upper breasts bared in a graceful sweeping line. A snug waist nipped her to an illusion of impossible slimness, and the wide skirt and graceful train poured fluidly over a lightweight crinoline that swayed in an airy, flexible bell. Over the simple but elegant gown, transparent silken netting in creamy white was caught with silver straight pins. The tulle fell in soft layers to give the impression of floating clouds. Sprinkled over the netting, snug bodice, and puffed elbow sleeves, tiny silver stars were embroidered in metallic thread.

  Her hair, dressed by a maid following Miss Worth's suggestion, was pulled back gently to spill down her back in rippling golden waves, pinned with a few small pearls and a snood so delicate it was nearly invisible. Around her neck she wore only the gold and aquamarine pendant that Dougal had given her, threaded on a black silk cord, its extra length draped in sensuous loops beneath the mass of her hair and down her back. On her left wrist, over her white glove, she wore her golden locket as a bracelet, threaded on a black silk ribbon.

  "Exquisite," Miss Worth said. "A perfect picture of grace and simplicity. The gown is divine, the jewelry is not overdone, and your hair is simply and beautifully arranged. Truly perfect."

  Meg crossed the room to pick up her fan of carved ivory and cream silk, slipping its cord over her wrist, and came back.

  "Heavenly," Angela said. "You float like a cloud when you move. It is a most splendid effect."

  "Monsieur Worth meditated a very long time before designing this gown for you," Miss Worth said. "He was most inspired by the beautiful, unusual color of your eyes. He wanted to create something that suited your beauty and reflected your gentle nature."

  "He could not have designed anything more gorgeous or more perfect for Lady Strathlin," Angela said. Meg saw her friend's wide blue eyes and smile reflected in the mirror.

  "Mrs. Shaw, you would also look beautiful in a gown like this one," Miss Worth said. "Of course, your own gown is elegant tonight. That black watered silk trimmed with black velvet and the touch of pearls here and there, make a stunning contrast to your ivory complexion and pale blond hair. Yet I feel that Monsieur Worth could create something marvelous for a Nordic beauty like you, should you ever feel inclined."

  "Oh, I could not—I could not afford it, truly," Angela said. "And I have worn second mourning for years."

  "But you cannot think to wear it forever, as young and beautiful as you are," Miss Worth replied.

  Meg looked at Angela in the mirror. "Whenever you are ready, Angela," she said, "we will ask Monsieur Worth to design for you. I would consider it a privilege to give that to you."

  "Oh, Meg, thank you, but I could not—"

  "You have birthdays like everyone else, and must accept gifts. And I'm sure Monsieur Worth can design something for you in mourning colors, if you'd like."

  Angela sighed, then smiled, her light blue eyes brightening. "Someday I will come out of mourning and surprise you," she said. "I am finding it a dreary thing to have so little color in my life. Perhaps it does not... honor those who are gone."

  "Life does go on, Angela," Meg said. Her friend nodded.

  "Madam, allow me to just lift this one section," Miss Worth said. "It droops lower than the other side." She gathered her pincushion and knelt on the floor again.

  While she stood still, Meg glanced in the mirror again. Unaccustomed to studying herself often, thinking herself only vaguely pleasing at best, she could hardly believe the transformation she saw.

  But the sheer delight of a beautiful gown and the joy of looking wonderful in it felt diminished by heartbreak and apprehension. She would see Dougal tonight, but all her yearning would come to nothing if he did not care to speak to her again.

  If she could not gain his forgiveness, and she lost his love and respect through her foolishness, then all the glittering evenings and splendid gowns in the world would make no difference to her.

  Besides, she reminded herself, even if Dougal loved her, and even though she loved him—she had decided to accept Sir Frederick's proposal so that Dougal and Iain could be safe. And tonight was the night she must give her answer. Tonight seemed like the hour of her own funeral, as if her life and all chance for happiness had ended.

  But there were others she could not disappoint. She must carry on with a smile and proud demeanor for their sakes.

  Drawing a deep breath, she waited as Miss Worth finished her work. Then she turned, aqua skirt and tulle cloud swinging gently. "Shall we go downstairs? Mr. Hamilton must be pacing impatiently with Mrs. Berry, waiting for us to come down for the concert. The carriage will be ready by now, and we are late."

  Angela took up her fan and her shawl of black fringed lace. "Let him be impatient. I hope, when you come down the stairs, he falls to his knees in sheer astonishment. He will realize that waiting for you was well worth it."

  "My dearest Angel," Meg said, as Miss Worth opened the door, "I rather think Mr. Hamilton is waiting for you."

  * * *

  Lamplight spilled golden over the lean planes of his freshly shaved jaw, flickered gleaming highlights throughout the waves of his hair. Gazing into the mirror, Dougal straightened the small bow of white silk wrapped just beneath his collar points and smoothed the lapels of his white brocade waistcoat, tugging at its buttoned front. He perfected the drape of the gold watch chain slung across his vest and pulled at his stiff cuffs.

  His boots were polished, his coat and trousers immaculate, his skin lightly scented with a soap that mingled spices and vanilla. Sliding his long fingers into white kid gloves, he tugged at the long tails of his black dress coat.

  He felt girded for battle.

  Reflected in the amber sheen of the mirror, his eyes were cold and hard, green glass, the pupils mere pinpoints. A new leanness shadowed his cheeks, tiny lines etched the corners of his eyes, and his lips were pressed flat and humorless. Every fiber in his being had steeled to resolve and defiance.

  He would face them all with the same gritty nerve and unflinching determination he had summoned to brave a gale, dive deep into the sea time after time, rescue men from a collapsing bridge, and shove away a monstrous shark to reach a small boy. None of the people he would see tonight, none of the havoc they had wreaked in his life of late—the lost funds, the rumors that undermined his sterling reputation—could be as terrifying as the physical dangers he had encountered.

  Yet somehow those sniping, condemning people, with their damned opinions and judgments, their haughty criticisms and assumptions, seemed far more intimidating.

  He had made this commitment and would not take the coward's route and stay away n
ow. He would attend the concert with his cousin and her husband, and then he would walk into Lady Strathlin's fashionable home with all the dignity and backbone that he could muster.

  Not only did he anticipate meeting some of those who had condemned him without reason, but he would also see the woman he loved, the woman he had asked to marry him.

  There was little danger in that encounter. He felt sure that he could greet her, even converse a little, and move on through the evening, shielded by coldness. He had no more heart left to hurt, for it had gone numb inside him from anger and betrayal.

  Easy enough to survive the evening in a cool and dignified manner, he thought, as he turned and headed for the door and his companions waiting belowstairs. How he would endure the rest of his life without her remained to be seen.

  * * *

  "Ma leddy, we will not acknowledge those who so rudely wish to catch your eye," Mrs. Berry said, leaning toward Meg from her chair beside her in the theater box. "Give your attention only to the performer, ignoring all else, once the concert begins."

  "Of course I will, Berry." Meg watched the stage with its closed curtains of heavy velvet. Below, as the theater continued to fill with those attending the concert, she noticed several people turning to stare up at her and her companions in the box. Some were even ill-bred enough to point. "Concentrating on the performer will not be difficult this evening. Miss Lind is captivating."

  "Staring up at a private theater box is so verra vulgar," Mrs. Berry complained. She turned away from some onlooker in irritation, snapping her blue feathered fan to hide her face.

  Guy, dressed in black and white dinner attire, leaned toward them from his velvet-upholstered chair. He sat beside Angela, the two of them seated behind Meg and Mrs. Berry. "Lady Strathlin cannot help but attract attention. Nearly everyone in this theater is curious to see the elusive baroness. And with three such beautifully gowned, gorgeous ladies in this box, I'm sure some of them are wondering just which one is Lady Strathlin."