Taming the Heiress

by Susan King

  "Well, true," Mrs. Berry conceded. She smoothed the skirt of her deep blue velvet gown and flounced her coiffed head, crystal earrings shivering. "Now remember, ma leddy, during the promenade at intermission, walk slowly and decorously, and dinna stop to converse, expecially with gentlemen. This isna the beach at Caransay."

  "Oh? Did Lady Strathlin chat with a gentleman on the beach?" Guy asked. Meg turned to see his teasing smile. Mrs. Berry rounded eagerly toward Guy and Angela.

  Lessons in decorum were no match for a chance to gossip a little, Meg thought, both amused and irritated.

  "Indeed she did, wearing no more than a skirt and blouse, and barefoot, as well," Mrs. Berry whispered. "And I was in ma bathing costume," she confided. "I was mortified!"

  "Understandably. Who was the gentleman?" Angela asked.

  "Mr. Stewart o' the lighthouses," Mrs. Berry replied. She folding her gloved hands one over the other, lips pursed. "He thought I was the great leddy herself, the baroness. Must be my manner o' deportment," she said, straightening her shoulders.

  "No doubt," Guy murmured, smiling as Meg looked at him.

  "This Mr. Stewart is a fine man, charming and handsome, though I havena spoken with him maself," Mrs. Berry went on. "Brave, too. He saved a small child from drowning in the sea. And fought off a shark to do it! Amazing heroics."

  "Really? Quite impressive," Guy said.

  "Madam, you never mentioned such excitement during your holiday," Angela said, leaning forward.

  "Mr. Stewart did save a child from drowning, and very courageously," Meg said.

  "Iain," Mrs. Berry said. "It was little Iain. You know who he is, Mrs. Shaw." She looked pointedly at Angela, who gave an audible gasp. Guy Hamilton frowned thoughtfully.

  Meg flapped her fan, rapid and silent. Mrs. Berry took the hint and sat back without further comment on the subject.

  "I want to hear that story later. And think we should make it a point to congratulate Mr. Stewart on his brave deed," Angela said. "I, for one, look forward to meeting him, after all I've heard lately of him. It is a shame what Sir Edward and his cohorts have done to him. It's said they've nearly ruined him. And all over this dispute."

  "Once," Guy began, "I might have said Mr. Stewart deserved it, for all his arrogance and aggression regarding the lighthouse. But I must agree with dear Mrs. Shaw—for all I've learned about him lately, he did not deserve this attack, which was unfairly done. Had I known what Uncle Edward was about, I would have done what I could to stop it." He glanced at Meg.

  "Withoot fifty thousand pounds to spare," Mrs. Berry hissed, "no one can stop the poor man from losing his lighthouse."

  Meg stayed silent, feeling utterly miserable. She looked out over the sea of heads and shoulders arrayed beneath them and listened as the crowd settled at last, quieting to a murmur.

  He was here somewhere, she knew, in the theater. She sensed the inexorable pull of his presence so strongly that her heartbeat quickened as she looked around. She knew she should not glance around the theater but felt compelled to do so.

  It was dark, though, and impossible to find one man in that vast and glittering crowd, no matter how well she knew the turn of that head, the set of those shoulders.

  And if he did see her, she was certain he would turn away.

  The orchestra tuned their instruments, the gaslights dimmed, and the voluminous draperies slowly parted. The stage was bare but for a pedestal holding an arrangement of flowers and a small table covered in a paisley cloth with a pitcher of water and a single glass upon it.

  Silence deepened in the theater. Then a small woman walked out to the center of the stage, her brown hair pulled back simply, tucked with a small spray of pink roses. Her gown was cream colored, simple, lightly touched with lace. Jenny Lind looked like an innocent young girl, though Meg knew that she was easily in her mid-thirties. Clasping her hands in front of her, Miss Lind lifted her head and began to sing.

  Her voice flowed outward, pure as crystal, a delicate trill like a lark in the morning. Listening, Meg felt her worries and fears ease a little under that magical sound.

  * * *

  During the promenade, the crush around Lady Strathlin and her party was deep and crowded in the wide foyer of the theater. From his vantage point across the hall, Dougal could scarcely see the baroness. He hardly cared to come any closer.

  Still and silent, he waited out the intermission in the company of his hosts at the Calton Hill address, Connor MacBain and his wife, Mary Faire, Dougal's cousin. While the MacBains chatted with acquaintances, Dougal stood as cold and stiff as the jasper column beside him, although he nodded and murmured greetings now and again with unerring politeness.

  Once he saw her clearly, when the sea of gowned ladies and black-clad gentlemen parted for a moment. Her back was turned to his direction, and an opera cloak of dark blue velvet covered her from shoulder to hem, but he knew the golden waves of her hair, had pushed his fingers through that mass himself. Now it was wound and pinned with gewgaws and a spray of feathers and roses.

  Then she turned her head, and he saw the lovely profile that was so achingly familiar to him. His heart nearly stopped. She was uncommonly beautiful, and he loved her still, wanted her so intensely that it hurt.

  Once he had told Meg that he would never give up on what he most desired in life. After what had assailed him since he had come to Edinburgh, he felt betrayed, even uncharacteristically defeated. Persistence, just now, was a challenge.

  Yet his nature demanded that he continue through sheer will and determination. Despite setbacks, somehow the lighthouse would be constructed, even if, as he had told Aedan, he had to build it himself, stone by stone, and fund it out of his own pocket.

  Watching her now, as the crowd closed around her again and her golden head was once more hidden from his sight, he decided that he must persist in one other matter as well. That new goal sat heavy and bitter in his heart.

  He intended to forget Meg MacNeill, though it might take him all his life to accomplish it.

  * * *

  The carriage slowly edged forward in a long line of gigs, hansom cabs, and coaches approaching Charlotte Square. Dougal leaned sideways to peer ahead through the side window. He could see the baroness's town house a little distance ahead. The block of houses, made to look like a single palatial facade, had been designed by the celebrated Robert Adam. A magnificent and enormous building roofed several town homes as one, with a row of grand doorways.

  Under the light of lanterns held high by grooms, footmen in dark livery assisted ladies out of vehicles, while gentlemen emerged clothed in stark black and white attire, in contrast to the garden colors worn by the women.

  "I do hope we are nearly there," Mary Faire said. With gloved hands, she smoothed the wide flounces of her gown of pink silk. "The concert was marvelous—Miss Lind is astonishing to hear—but I am ready to move about after being seated for so long."

  "We shall soon be dancing, Cousin," Dougal said, smiling fondly. He knew Mary Faire loved dancing and music, although she was otherwise a serious sort, a trained nurse who assisted her husband in his practice. He greatly appreciated the hospitality that Mary Faire and Connor freely extended to him whenever he came to Edinburgh, and he was glad that they had decided to attend the baroness's soiree this evening.

  At least he would be certain of two friendly faces, although he knew that they did not plan to stay long at Lady Strathlin's soiree, having another invitation to honor as well that evening. Miss Lind's concert had engendered several parties.

  "Patience, my dear," Connor answered, while glancing out the window as Dougal had done. "We'll be there in a few minutes."

  The vehicle lurched forward again. Dougal flexed his gloved fingers, then rested them calmly on his thighs. He felt cold and detached, had felt so for days. Miss Lind's soothing, entrancing music had affected him briefly, but he did not want mellowing. As soon as he had glimpsed Lady Strathlin among the concertgoers, he had felt chilling anger seep th
rough him again. He welcomed it, for that hard, brittle shield around his heart would see him through any encounters with her this evening.

  "The crush of people at the theater and outside of it, was astonishing," Connor said. "I've hardly seen such a thing, but for a few years ago, when the Nightingale also came to Edinburgh. I wondered if we would even get inside the theater through the crowds waiting in the street."

  "I believe the place was even more crowded because Lady Strathlin had decided to attend," Mary Faire said. "There has been enough mystery around the baroness that people are curious for any chance to see her. They say she decided to give a soiree this evening because she is a great admirer of Miss Jenny Lind. Otherwise, I think we would hardly see her at all this season."

  "With all the concert parties being held this evening, it seems Lady Strathlin is not the only one who admires Miss Lind," Connor said. "Though hers may be the only party that the singer actually attends."

  "We were invited to three different parties, all held at the same time," Mary Faire explained to Dougal. "So we thought it best to attend two—Lady Strathlin's, of course, and one other, given by friends on Calton Hill, close to home."

  "Ah. I've been meaning to ask," Dougal said, "if you know the baroness well."

  "We met her once or twice at soirees and concerts," Connor answered. "And along with my associate, Dr. Lewes, I attended the wife of Sir Frederick Matheson, one of Lady Strathlin's banking associates. The woman had a chronic illness and became an increasing invalid until she died about a year ago. It was a very sad case. As I recall, Lady Strathlin insisted on paying all the medical bills. A very generous gesture."

  Dougal frowned. "Indeed. I met recently with Sir Frederick, but I had no idea his wife had died. He never mentioned it." In fact, Dougal thought, he had mentioned that he shortly expected to become engaged to Lady Strathlin. "But I had the impression that he is not in dire need at all. Lady Strathlin's assistance in his expenses is... curious."

  "She has a magnanimous nature for such a young woman," Mary Faire said. "She has modesty without arrogance."

  "One might think so," Dougal said.

  "After all, she inherited only six or seven years ago, when she was barely eighteen. The fortune had come to her somewhat earlier and was held in trust by the bank until she reached majority."

  "Majority?" Dougal looked at her.

  "Have you never heard of the Matheson Bank heiress?" she asked.

  "I pay very little attention to the doings of society."

  "True. You avoid parties and gossip like the plague, which is commendable in its own way," Mary Faire said. "And you're always out there on some rock or another."

  "He quite literally seldom comes up for air, from what I understand of his work lately," Connor said, and he grinned.

  "One does not hear much gossip under the ocean," Dougal drawled.

  "I thought you were acquainted with Lady Strathlin and have carried on a regular correspondence with her," Mary Faire said.

  "Aye, we thought you knew her," Connor added. "She came to the house to call on you and dropped her card—Lady Strathlin, it said, which was a surprise to me, for I did not recognize her."

  "You have been introduced only once, and you do not have a good memory for faces," his wife said.

  "She came to the house?" Dougal asked.

  Connor nodded. "She seemed rather nervous and wanted to remain discreet—gave her name as Miss MacNeill. You came home so late that evening that I had no chance to tell you."

  "I wonder what she wanted," Mary Faire said. "Lately her lawyers have turned on you in a most vile manner. I thought perhaps you two were... well, more devoted friends than that."

  "The lady and I have corresponded, but it was through her lawyers for the most part and never... well, diverting." He twisted his mouth awry. "Essentially, I routinely asked permission to build on her island and she routinely refused through her soliciting firm, until the Lighthouse Commission finally authorized me to appeal to the government. I would not say that we are acquaintances, but more... adversaries." He felt the impact of that like a blow. And he wondered why she had come to Calton Hill—what had she wanted to say to him? "Tell me what you know about her."

  "Her inheritance created quite a stir, from what I understand, although I was not in Edinburgh at the time," Mary Faire said. "She was originally from a simple Highland family, I believe... or was it the Isles... when her grandfather left her the greatest fortune in Scotland."

  "Ah," Dougal said. "Her grandfather." He nodded once, remembering Meg's references to a grandfather on the mainland who had left her his library. Indeed, he thought bitterly. Quite a library it must have been.

  "When did the initial inheritance occur, Connor dear?"

  "Seven years ago, I believe," he answered his wife.

  "It really is quite a romantic story," Mary Faire went on. "The amount was something like two million pounds, from a maternal grandfather. Apparently, his two sons had died without issue, and his only daughter had died years before, leaving behind a young daughter. The girl had visited her grandfather as a child, and he designated her his heir, to the shock and surprise of many, from what I understand. She was so young that a trust was required, as well as special tutors to train her to the position."

  "She was born in the Isles," Dougal said. "When she acquired the inheritance, I suppose almost the first thing she did was purchase the lease to the island where she was raised."

  "And thus began your difficulties," Connor told Dougal.

  "It would seem so," he agreed.

  "As a very young woman she took on not only an enormous fortune," Mary Faire continued, "but the formidable task of overseeing a bank. None of that could have been easy for one of her years, but she has done an admirable job of it, from what I hear. Lady Strathlin is well-known for her generosity, and she has been particularly helpful to Highlanders and Islesmen who suffered in the clearances."

  "And closer to home as well. She has lately founded a home for unmarried mothers," Connor said. "It is apparently a particular sympathy of hers—these young women who find themselves in poor straits, with child and without husbands."

  "She is not yet married herself," Mary Faire said, "yet she is a prize of such consequence that it is surprising she has not been caught before now."

  "I'm sure her bankers and lawyers will have a say in her marriage. Someone of her position can afford to take her time. No doubt she has many suitors," Connor said.

  "Aye," Dougal murmured. "No doubt."

  That added to the blow of her betrayal. She had not told him who she was or that she intended to marry Sir Frederick Matheson. If it were true—instinct told him Matheson thought far too much of himself—then she was not the woman he thought he loved. She was neither the passionate creature he had met on the sea rock, nor the winsome, earnest girl with whom he had fallen so completely in love.

  Who was she inside? What did she truly want? What scheme had the baroness concocted when she had led along the engineer whom her lawyers were setting up to ruin? Why would she come to see him anonymously at the house on Calton Hill? If she felt remorse and wanted his forgiveness, she would not have it of him.

  He wanted to feed his anger and hurt. It sat cold within him, and he was not ready to give it up. If Meg had betrayed him as it appeared, all he had left was anger.

  Chapter 19

  A vision of uncommon beauty waited in the drawing room, spun of aqua silk and netted clouds, sparkling with silver and pearls. As a steady stream of guests poured past Lady Strathlin, each person received her bright smile and the touch of her gloved hand in welcome. Dougal approached behind Connor and Mary Faire, watching Meg as he came forward.

  As he waited, he glanced around at elegant furnishings and crystal chandeliers shining with gaslight, at oil paintings by old masters, and marble and bronze statuary. In a corner, musicians played violins and flutes, and through open doors in the hallway, he saw a long table draped in snowy linens and illumined
by candlelight that gleamed on silver and over a variety of foods beautifully arranged on platters.

  Everywhere he looked he saw luxury and privilege and the stamp of sophistication and graciousness. Nowhere did he see the Meg MacNeill he knew—yet she stood at the center of it all, impossibly beautiful in that tranquil, sparkling gown.

  He ought to seethe in fury to see her as the baroness who had ruined him. He ought to reject her—he ought not to be here at all. Now, looking at her, within moments of greeting her himself, he knew why he had come, despite her betrayal.

  He loved her. The simple strength of it, the warmth and certainty of it, flowed through him. He loved her and could never stop. He did not know why, after all that had passed, he still burned for her. Instead of feeling filled with joy and the discovery of love, he ached with the sadness of its loss.

  Edging closer, he saw that her gown was the elusive shade of her eyes, the delicate blue-green of sunlight through water, the white veiling like the froth of a wave. She stopped his breath, stilled his heart, whirled him on the axis of his soul.

  "Dr. and Mrs. Connor MacBain," the butler announced. "Mr. Dougal Robertson Stewart."

  She looked up then, quickly, her eyes wide and startled, but that quickly melted into a smile as she greeted Connor and Mary Faire with murmurs and handclasps. Then Mary Faire glided past, and Dougal was a step away.

  Meg tilted her head to smile at him tremulously, her eyes limpid and beseeching. If she meant to request his forgiveness, he had none to give her—not now, not yet, if ever.

  She lifted her hand to his, and he took it, glove to glove, cool and cordial, and bowed; then he gazed at her. He knew the sweetness of those lips, the creaminess of her skin. He knew the silken feel of her hair. Now it was drawn back, scattered with pearls, revealing the perfect oval of her face, the slender line of her neck and shoulders. Her slender collarbones rose with the catching of her breath.

  A single black cord encircled her throat. Suspended on it was the aquamarine and gold pendant he had given her, its gold a spark of warmth in the serene perfection of her ensemble. Seeing it there, he narrowed his eyes.