The Highlander's Yuletide Love

by Quigley, Alicia

  “Sophy?”

  She started, and colored when she found Isobel’s curious gaze on her. “Oh! I’m sorry! I was thinking about—about a painting.”

  Isobel patted her hand. “I thought it might be something like that. I’ve attempted no fewer than three times to begin a conversation with you.”

  “You must think me dreadful,” said Sophy.

  “No, just that you have been given something to think about,” countered Isobel. At Sophy’s curious look, she smiled. “The painting, of course,” she said.

  “Oh—yes.” Sophy hugged Isobel and climbed down the stairs that the footman had lowered for her. “Shall I see you soon?”

  “I will come talk to Harriet tomorrow,” promised Isobel.

  “Thank you!” Sophy ran up the steps to the house, determined to banish all thoughts of Colonel Stirling.

  Chapter 2

  That night at dinner, Sophy was unexpectedly quiet. They dined en famille, and talk turned to their journey to Scotland in a few weeks. Her brother, Douglas, was eager to spend his summer angling, and a lively discussion rose between him and his father as to the exact spot in the river where one was most likely to catch brown trout. Harriet watched them indulgently, before reminding Douglas he needed to learn something of the responsibilities of the estate now that he was older, and his summer could not be all riding and fishing. He laughingly protested, and agreed eventually that before he returned to Cambridge in the autumn, he would learn from the bailiff how the accounts were kept. A small silence fell, as Sophy toyed idly with her food.

  “Papa, what do you know of Colonel Stirling?” she asked.

  Her father regarded her from under his bushy brows. “Stirling?” he repeated.

  “Colonel Stirling. He was in the army; he served in the Peninsula and in India. He is a friend of Lord Exencour’s. Isobel says his father is the Laird of Spaethness in Argyll.”

  “It’s an old family, and respectable,” replied Glencairn. “Iain Stirling must be very old now. His eldest son was taken by the fever a year or more ago, and the younger son is now the heir. What was his name? Something outlandish. Ranulf, I believe. I don’t know him myself; I heard he was wounded in the war, and keeps to himself.”

  Douglas looked up from his plate. “Ranulf Stirling?” he demanded.

  Glencairn turned to him in surprise. “I believe I said that.”

  “The famous whip?”

  “I would hardly know. Back in my day we didn’t indulge in the nonsense young men do today, with their driving clubs and outlandish races and contests.”

  Douglas flushed. “I saw him once in the park, with such a splendid team hitched to his phaeton. Perfectly matched, a bang-up set of blood and bone. They say he drives to an inch and has the finest horseflesh in Britain.”

  Glencairn snorted. “It seems Colonel Stirling has nothing better to do than worry about his horses.”

  “No, not at all,” continued Douglas, clearly afflicted with a case of hero-worship. “He was famous as the most complete sportsman. He was a bruising rider to the hounds and a crack shot before his regiment was sent to Spain. I’m told he served honorably and was a great favorite of the Duke’s.”

  “That is first thing you’ve said that interests me,” snapped his father. “Horses and shooting indeed.”

  “I don’t recall meeting him at Almack’s,” ventured Sophy.

  “As though a fellow like Ranulf Stirling would go to Almack’s,” scoffed Douglas. “He has no interest in such things. He’s a regular out and outer! Even before he went to Spain he was more likely to be found at Angelo’s or the Daffy Club than some stuffy place like Almack’s. I’ve heard that since he returned he’s taken up boxing and can be found at Gentleman Jackson’s when he’s in London.” It was clear from his tone that he intended this description to be complimentary.

  “You seem to know a great deal about Colonel Stirling,” observed Harriet.

  Douglas flushed. “I’ve heard stories. I’d very much like to meet him!”

  “He seemed rather rude to me,” murmured Sophy.

  Harriet turned to look at her. “Did you meet Colonel Stirling somewhere?”

  Sophy stared down at her plate. “Isobel and I drove through the park on our way home this afternoon, and she introduced him to me. We spoke for a few minutes. That is all there is to it.”

  “If dear Isobel knows him, I’m sure—” began Harriet, but Douglas interrupted her.

  “You met Ranulf Stirling?” he demanded.

  Sophy blinked. “I believe I just said so.”

  “By Jove, you have all the luck! Meeting Stirling, and you don’t even know who he is. They say he was wounded at Waterloo, saving our guns from the French. What did he look like?”

  “He looked like a pleasant gentleman,” said Sophy vaguely. “I didn’t see evidence of a wound.”

  “Pleasant!” scoffed Douglas. “He’s not often in London, they say. I’d give something to see his horses.”

  “Perhaps we should invite him to dinner,” murmured Harriet, eyeing Sophy curiously.

  Glencairn glowered at her. “I’ll not have some Pink of the Ton looking down his nose at us. We’ll do very well without him and his nonsense. Prizefighters indeed!”

  “They say he doesn’t do the pretty with Society,” interjected Douglas knowingly. “I’ve heard he cuts quite a dash with the more sophisticated ladies, but he’s not one to waste his time with girls like Sophy.” He cast his sister a disparaging glance.

  Glencairn paused with his fork halfway to his mouth and glared at his son. “I’ll not have such talk in front of your sister and stepmother,” he said firmly. “I think we have had enough discussion of Colonel Stirling and what ‘they’ say about him.”

  Douglas colored, and Glencairn turned his gaze on Sophy. “This fellow seems like a bounder, friend of Exencour’s or no. If you encounter him again, you will not do more than nod, my girl. I’ll not have the whole world gossiping about you. There’s already enough of that, what with your painting and not finding yourself a husband yet.”

  “Oh, dear, you mustn’t say that,” interjected Harriet. “Sophy’s behavior is all that is proper, I’m sure. She would never encourage Colonel Stirling.”

  “Encourage him! As though he has time for a chit like her. I’ve heard that Lady Elwin—” Douglas broke off as his father made a strangled noise.

  “I doubt we have much to worry about,” said Harriet placidly. “Colonel Stirling doesn’t sound like the sort of gentleman who would be interested in our little family.” She picked up her fork and nodded at them all. “Let us speak of other things.”

  Chapter 3

  The next afternoon Harriet sat in the drawing room, intent on her stitchery. She didn’t notice when her husband fixed her with a firm glare, but continued to work. After a few moments, he cleared his throat.

  “I would think you would be a great deal more concerned about Sophy.”

  “Hmmm?” Harriet looked up. “Did you say something, Euan?”

  The Earl of Glencairn snorted. “Indeed I did. I wonder that you are so blithe about her situation.”

  “What situation is that?” asked Harriet, a worried look coming over her face. “Has she fallen into another scrape?”

  “Another scrape? No, my dear, it is the same one she is always in. It is nearly the end of the Season, and she is not yet engaged.”

  “Oh.” Harriet sighed and put her embroidery down on the little table at her elbow, giving her husband her full attention. “That.”

  “That indeed.” The earl leaned back in his chair and regarded her, his bright blue eyes sharp under his white eyebrows.

  “It is not as though she is not much admired,” Harriet offered. “The young men all seem to be positively foolish over her. Indeed, she might have married any number of gentlemen these past three seasons.”

  “Might is the essence of the problem.” Glencairn frowned. “Four completely acceptable men have asked my permission to p
ay their addresses to her since she came out, and I suspect several of her beaux have proposed without my knowledge, and she will have none of them. The girl might be Viscountess Rackheath today, or Lady Macclesfield, or even Lady Sophia Fadmoor. Instead she is still Lady Sophia Learmouth.”

  “She didn’t wish to marry any of those gentlemen,” said Harriet practically.

  “Why not, that is what I would like to know.” The earl glared at her. “Fadmoor is one of the richest men in England, and Rackheath is renowned for his appearance and address. What precisely is it that the girl wants?”

  “She wishes to be in love, I suppose.”

  “Love!” Glencairn made a dismissive gesture.

  Harriet raised her eyebrows. “What do you have against love? We married for love, Euan, and very happy it makes us both. You also loved Sophy’s mother dearly, God rest her soul. I think it would be very odd of Sophy not to wish for the same joy you have found twice.”

  “Then why does she not fall in love with Macclesfield, or Fadmoor?”

  “It is not quite that easy, you know.” Harriet took his hand in hers. “After all, you did not marry for the first time until you were forty, and you were a widower for years before we found one another. Why are you determined that Sophy must marry now?”

  “Soon, no matter how lovely she is, she will be ‘on the shelf’,” her husband pointed out. “I’ll not have my daughter spoken of with pity and called an ape leader.”

  The Countess gave him a little smile. “I was a spinster when you married me, and Sophy’s life will be very pleasant, whether she weds or not. She has the money her mother left her, and a home for as long as she chooses at Glencairn. I hope you do not mean to make her miserable for not marrying.”

  “Of course not,” protested the earl. “But it seems wrong that she should waste her youth and beauty with nonsense like painting, when she could be married and raising her children, having the same joy that we share.”

  Harriet patted his hand. “It will come to her eventually. Dear Isobel did not marry Francis until she was six-and-twenty, and you know how happy they are together. And Sophy is a very talented painter. You cannot deny it.”

  “Much good it does her. It’s all very well for her to dabble in it—all women should know how to paint a watercolor—but I’ll not have her making a profession of it like Madame Lebrun. It’s not respectable.”

  Harriet hesitated. “Perhaps you and I have underestimated her devotion to painting,” she said slowly. “Isobel came to visit me this morning, and said she believes that Sophy has not merely a true talent, but a real passion for it.”

  “I have a great deal of respect for your cousin, but I’ll not have her stuffing Sophy’s head full of nonsense,” said Glencairn. “Lady Exencour led her eventual husband on a pretty dance indeed, but they are married now and seem to be very happy, despite her unladylike pursuits. If Sophy were to find a husband who wished to put up with her artistic pretensions, I would be very happy for her, but I’ll not have her throwing away her youth on some fanciful notion.”

  “Perhaps she will meet someone she can love next Season,” said Harriet tentatively.

  The earl snorted again. “She’s met every eligible man in England. She’ll have none of them.”

  “We must hope that someone from Scotland will suit her fancy, then.” Harriet picked up her embroidery again and smiled at her husband. “I know you are very proud of her. She is a beautiful, thoughtful, and talented young woman. You must be content with that.”

  Sophy stood in the hall, her ear pressed to the door of the sitting room. Her bright blue eyes sparkled with laughter, and she pushed impatiently at a glossy brown ringlet that had slipped over her shoulder. She held her breath, the better to hear.

  “Are you eavesdropping on Papa and Mama again?”

  Sophy gave a squeak of surprise and turned to see Douglas observing her with amusement. He was only seventeen, but already he towered over her. She looked up at him, her face the picture of innocence.

  “Of course I wasn’t,” she said.

  “Liar.” He grinned. “What are they talking about?”

  “Me, of course.”

  “Of course. Which suitor did you turn away now?”

  Sophy dimpled. “No one this week.”

  “Be careful, sister dear. You’ll earn a reputation as a flirt, and you might never marry.”

  “Would that be so terrible?”

  Douglas gaped at her. “Surely you wish to marry. All women do.”

  “Why should I? Oh, if the right man came along it might be rather lovely,” she admitted wistfully, “but I’ve yet to meet a man I would care to talk to every day of my life.”

  “But what will you do?” Douglas gazed at her, perplexed.

  Sophy laughed. “Do? Whatever I choose. Do you mean to marry by the time you turn one and twenty?”

  “Of course I don’t! I’m a man.”

  “A man!” Sophy scoffed. “You are a boy. But if you don’t intend to marry early, why should I marry someone simply because he is rich, personable, or handsome? “

  “You are very spoiled,” said Douglas. “Papa has been far too indulgent of you.”

  “Spoiled? I like that! Papa and Harriet dote on every word you say. I am the one that they importune endlessly about marriage, and behaving properly, and being polite to my suitors, in whom I have no interest.”

  “They all fall in love with you far too quickly. You need a fellow who doesn’t dance to your tune.”

  Sophy considered his words. “It would at least be intriguing. But that is neither here nor there. If I meet a man who interests me, I will be very happy. But in three Seasons in London, I’ve met only handsome fools, kindly bores, and conceited noblemen.”

  “You value yourself very highly.”

  “Why shouldn’t I?” she said defiantly. “I’m Glencairn’s daughter, I am quick witted, have my own fortune, and I’d be a fool not to know that I’m considered a beauty. Of what should I be ashamed?”

  Douglas shook his head. “You know what pride goes before, do you not?”

  Sophia sighed. “You would not wish a fall on me, would you, brother dear?”

  “Of course not. But I would wish for you a more generous spirit. The broken hearts underfoot are becoming a hazard.”

  “Then find me someone who cares about more than horses, hunting, and how many capes are on his greatcoat,” said Sophia.

  “You ask a great deal. Those are the things all gentlemen care about.”

  “Pooh.” Sophy snapped her fingers. “I give you that for your gentlemen.”

  As she did so, the door of the drawing room opened, and Harriet appeared. She made a sound of distress.

  “Sophy, dear, that gesture is so vulgar,” she protested mildly. “Have you been listening at the door again?”

  “No,” said Sophy guiltily.

  “Of course she has,” said Douglas. “I took her red-handed.”

  Harriet looked from one to the other. “You children will be the death of me. Yet you are hardly children anymore. Sophy, eavesdropping is not what a young lady does. And Douglas, you should not tease your sister.”

  Douglas and Sophy looked at each other guiltily. Harriet sighed. “One would hardly know you are seventeen and twenty-one,” she remonstrated. “Sophy, your father and I wish to speak with you.”

  “But I promised to ride in the park with Lucy Coburn,” she protested.

  “Miss Coburn can wait.” Harriet held the door open, and Sophy reluctantly entered the drawing room.

  “Good afternoon, Papa,” she said, smiling at her father brightly.

  “Hmmmph.” Glencairn glared at her for a moment from under his bushy brows, but then his gaze softened. It was impossible for him to be annoyed with Sophy for long. Not only was she beautiful, her appealing manner, and her obvious affection for her father and stepmother, made him give in to her every whim. “Good afternoon, my dear,” he concluded.

  “What did you
wish to talk to me about?” she asked, seating herself in a flurry of muslin and lace.

  “You may very well guess, as you were listening at the door,” said Harriet, trying to be stern. She sat down next to Glencairn and the two of them surveyed Sophy, who tilted her head and smiled disarmingly.

  “I suppose it must be about Lord Rackheath,” Sophy admitted.

  “Rackheath, and Fadmoor, and Macclesfield and—dash it, what was the name of that fellow who haunted the place this past April?” demanded Glencairn.

  “Mr. Arterbury?” ventured Harriet vaguely. “Mr. Arrington?”

  “Mr. Arthurson,” supplied Sophy.

  “There, you see? There are so many of them about I cannot remember their names. And what I want to know is why none of them are good enough for you.” Glencairn attempted to look stern.

  Sophy gestured aimlessly. “They are all of them good enough, I suppose. It is just that—that I don’t wish to marry any of them.”

  Glencairn snorted, but Harriet looked at Sophy sympathetically. “What do you wish to do, my dear, if you do not mean to wed?”

  “I don’t mean to not wed,” protested Sophy in a rather convoluted way. “I simply don’t wish to marry any of the men I have yet met.”

  “You’ve met every eligible man in the kingdom,” her father pointed out.

  “I don’t mean to be disobliging, truly, Papa.” Sophy bit her lip.

  Glencairn’s gaze softened. “I know, my dear. But what is the point of coming to London every Season if you refuse every fellow who offers for you?”

  “It is not I who insists on coming to London every year,” countered Sophy with a touch of humor. “You and mama bring me here, hoping I will find someone who suits me. I am very happy at Glencairn and see no reason to leave it only so I can dance or ride in the park, and talk to men who do not interest me.”

  “What would you do at Glencairn all year?” asked the earl. “You’ll not meet a husband there.”

  Sophy folded her hands in her lap and gave her father a nervous glance. She looked at Harriet, and saw sympathy in her eyes. “I thought I might paint,” she said tentatively.