“Paint!” Glencairn shook his head. “We were just speaking of that. I’ll not have it, Sophy. I begin to regret the day your stepmother encouraged you to pick up a brush. It’s no occupation for a woman!”
“Please, Papa,” said Sophy. “There are women who paint; the Countess of Sutherland is very gifted, and Lady Gordon is a pupil of Mr. Turner’s.”
“I’ll not have it,” the earl repeated. “If you will not marry one of your suitors this year, we shall return next spring and see if you like any of them better.”
A stubborn look came over Sophy’s charming face. Harriet watched her apprehensively. She knew that her stepdaughter, while very good-natured, had a will at least as strong as her father’s. Some, she thought, might call the pair of them obstinate.
“But Sophy, if you stay at Glencairn and paint—” Harriet hesitated for a moment before continuing, “—you cannot possibly mean to do that for the rest of your life.”
Sophy wrinkled her nose. “I think perhaps I do.” She looked up to find her father’s startled gaze on her. “Please understand, Papa. I’m not truly happy when I have to go days without touching my brushes, and I cannot go anywhere, not even to a ball, without thinking of how I might paint the candlelight, or render the colors of the ladies’ dresses. I wake up early and sneak out of the house to paint in the park, you know.”
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.
Chapter 4
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.”
Chapter 5
The men left Gentleman Jackson’s together, and Ranulf eventually turned towards his club, leaving Francis to make his way back to Strancaster House. He went searching for Isobel, and finally found her in the nursery where their daughter, Catherine, had just fallen asleep. Isobel held a finger to her lips and led him from the room, nodding to the nursemaid as she left.
“I thought she would never sleep,” she confided. “She is teething, and seemed utterly inconsolable for some time.”
Francis followed her down the stairs and into a sitting room.
“I am glad she is sleeping, as it means you will fret less,” Francis said, wrapping an arm around her waist. “I have to apologize to you for something I have done.”
Isobel leaned into him and laughed. “What is that? I cannot imagine you disappointing me.”
“I don’t think you’ll be disappointed in me, but you might be displeased. I have invited Ranulf Stirling to stay with us.”
The Highlander's Yuletide Love Page 3
