The Last Debutante

by Julia London

  He was surprised by her empathy, and surprised even more that it moved him. He remembered his sister every day, remembered the happy glow of her pregnancy and how eagerly she had looked forward to the birth of her child.

  “What music would your family like to hear?” Miss Babcock asked as she gently squeezed his fingers.

  But Jamie could not escape her gaze. He was caught like a fish by a hook, unable to swim away in the fast currents. “Whatever you like.” He had to escape this moment before he did something ridiculous. He leaned forward, his mouth close to her temple, his nose filled with the scent of her. He heard the soft, quick intake of her breath. He felt dangerously close to kissing her, to reclaiming the lips he remembered so fondly from his dream.

  “I know a piece that celebrates spring,” she murmured. “I recall the melody, but not the words. I would wager it has something to do with young love.” She smiled sheepishly, lightly laced her fingers with his. “I had a music tutor who was quite fond of the notion of young love.” She turned her head to look him directly in the eye. “I think every song he taught me celebrated it in some way. Will that suit?”

  Jamie felt himself on shifting ground. “Aye.” He brushed his lips against her temple. She stilled; he could feel the fluttering of her pulse beneath his lips. It roused a beast in him, one that would demand to be sated if he lingered. He untangled his hand from hers and walked over to open the door of his study. “We dine at eight.”

  “Thank you,” she said, and began to move toward him. Her hand, the one he’d held, gripped the side of her gown. She glanced up when she reached him. “And I don’t think your only redeeming quality is your name.” She went out, leaving the scent of roses in her wake, the two dogs trotting after her.

  Jamie glared at them as they went past, then shut the door and leaned back against it.

  What the bloody hell had just happened to him? He felt as green as a boy with his first infatuation. He didn’t care for the feeling it gave him—at sixes and sevens, topsy-turvy, lacking control. All for an English debutante! It went against everything a mighty Campbell laird was.

  He limped back to his desk and sat, staring at the paper before him.

  Mary, Queen of Scots.

  Thirteen

  BETHIA LOOKED STUNNED. “You’ve been invited to supper?”

  “Yes, Bethia,” Daria said. “I will dine on haggis yet again, only formally this evening, instead of in this room by myself, as if I were a leper.” She paused. “It is formal, is it not?”

  “We donna have fancy suppers, as if we are a lot of kings and queens,” Bethia snapped, clearly annoyed by this latest bit of news.

  “Then I won’t wear my ermine cape,” Daria retorted. “What do you think, the silk?” she asked, holding up a cream-colored silk gown encrusted with tiny seed pearls. “Or is it too rich?”

  “I didna say we dress in rags and animal pelts, did I? The gown is bonny enough.”

  Daria smiled. “Thank you. That’s precisely what I hoped you’d say.” She was still determined to win Bethia over, but it was proving a difficult challenge. “Do they gather for wine beforehand?” she asked as she absently sorted through her jewelry.

  Bethia’s answer to that was stated in rather heated Gaelic. Daria was pleased that she actually thought she made out one or two words, one in particular that sounded like Gaelic for “wench,” which Dougal had taught her.

  The prospect of the supper—a small but nonetheless important victory for Daria—was wearing on her nerves. The laird had unnecessarily warned her that she’d not be welcome. One need only roam about Dundavie for a few days to know that people were inclined to dislike her. She’d worked very hard to prove she was not the unfeeling beast they believed her to be, and while some had warmed to her, others had not.

  Hamish’s immediate family was the hardest mountain to climb. They turned their heads and refused to acknowledge her at all.

  But it wasn’t the fear of rejection that made her feel as if she were a new debutante coming out at her first ball. It was him.

  The laird. The man who looked more robust and handsome with each passing day. It was ridiculous to think of him that way, given that she was his captive, but she’d felt something different between them today. They had gone beyond tolerance of one another, or even friendship. The press of his lips—his lips!—to her temple felt like desire. At least in her heart it did.

  As she dressed for the evening, taking pains with her hair—Bethia was no help, apparently believing that a woman who could not dress her own hair was not much of a woman at all—and applying a bit of rouge to her cheeks, Daria chastised herself for believing in her own fantasies. It was the height of foolishness to dress up for a man who held her captive, and she could all but hear Charity’s cackle from Edinburgh.

  But there was a force at work that was far more powerful than her usual common sense. It was the rapid beat of her heart this afternoon, the heat of her skin where he’d touched her. She was incapable of dismissing the idea that there had been a few moments in which they’d drawn close.

  “Diah, is there to be a bloody ball tonight?” Bethia grumbled when Daria emerged from behind the dressing screen.

  “One never knows, Bethia. That’s why it is always prudent to be prepared,” Daria said with a wink, and she went out.

  At the doors of the great hall, Daria took a moment to square her shoulders and lift her chin, assuming the correct posture for a well-bred woman. “There is no greater impact than a lady’s entrance,” Lady Ashwood had counseled. So Daria put a smile on her face, put both hands on the knobs of the double doors, and opened them at the same time, stepping across the threshold and expecting to find Campbell and his family—

  There was no one within.

  Were they truly so uncivilized that they did not come together for a glass of wine before supper? Disappointed in that lapse of gentility, Daria dropped her hands with a sigh and walked into the great hall. Someone might have informed her where, exactly, the Campbells dined. She left the great room and walked down a long, dark corridor lined with armaments, portraits, and tapestries so old and dusty that she sneezed.

  As she moved down the corridor, she heard voices coming from behind a closed door at the very end. The voices were raised, speaking rapidly. Daria walked to the door, hoping to hear something that might identify a person to her, but she could not make them out. She leaned closer, her head turned so that she might hear better.

  The door suddenly opened, and Daria gasped, stumbling backward with shock.

  Standing in the open door, Young John looked just as shocked to see her there. As he moved aside, Daria saw the Campbells gathered in a loose semicircle, staring at her.

  “I beg your pardon,” she said breathlessly, and frantically searched for some explanation as to why she was lurking on the other side of the door. “I was looking—”

  “Please come in, Miss Babcock.”

  She hadn’t seen him before that moment, standing off to the right. He’d put his hair in a queue, and his square jaw was clean-shaven. He wore a coat of navy superfine and a gray waistcoat. He looked like a king, a highborn English lord, save one small detail—the knee-length plaid wrapped and belted about his waist. His muscular legs were encased in woolen socks. In fact, every man in the room was dressed the same, and the only woman among them, whom Daria did not know, wore plaid draped across her shoulder.

  Daria’s beautiful gown was woefully underplaided.

  “Allow me,” the laird said, and moved forward with only a slight limp, his arm extended to her.

  Daria put her hand on it; it was wide and as solid as a tree. She found it oddly comforting.

  The laird shepherded her into the small room while everyone else stared at her as disdainfully as one might view a traitor to country and king.

  “Allow me to properly introduce Miss Daria Babcock,” the laird said to those assembled.

  “Isn’t she a bonny lass, then?” an old man with a balding head s
aid.

  “Aye, that she is,” the laird said, and Daria felt a ridiculous swell of pleasure. “Miss Babcock, you’ve met my brother, Geordie, and my cousin Robbie. May I introduce you to Mrs. Aileen Campbell, Robbie’s wife.”

  Aileen Campbell nodded coolly.

  “And of course, my uncle Hamish Campbell. You’ve heard a wee bit about him.”

  It was one of those rare moments when Daria really did not know what to do. As she had not been schooled in the proper etiquette of captivity, she erred on the side of caution and dipped into a graceful curtsy worthy of royalty. “It is an honor.” She stopped short of saying it was also a pleasure.

  No one spoke. No one even moved.

  Still in a curtsy, Daria glanced up at the laird—whose eyes, she was not pleased to see, were glimmering with delight. He put out his hand to help her up; she took it, squeezed hard, and rose. “Thank you for the privilege of dining in your company this evening.”

  “Thank the laird, then,” Aileen said, and turned away. “We didna invite you.”

  “Aileen,” Robbie Campbell hissed.

  “What?” Aileen said. “She’s held for ransom, no’ to entertain.”

  Daria didn’t have the chance to be offended, for Geordie scribbled something on his slate and handed it to the laird, who smiled and handed it back. “That’s a wee bit pessimistic, Geordie. I feel confident we’ll get at least a few pounds for her.”

  Daria blinked with surprise; the laird laughed.

  But the family was not in a laughing mood, and Robbie said something in Gaelic that suddenly had all of them talking at once. Daria stepped back, fairly certain that whisky decanters would begin to fly at any moment. Certainly hands were flying and voices were raised, and Geordie’s chalk on the slate grew so insistent that Daria feared he would break it clean in two. She was not welcome at their table, just as Campbell had said, and it was made all the more evident that they were speaking about her when Hamish Campbell squinted at her and said, “But she seems rather bonny, aye?”

  All right, then. Daria considered herself a good judge of when one should quit a room, and she was thinking of slipping out the door, but then the laird said something in a quiet voice that made everyone stop talking. He coolly looked at each of them as if expecting a response, and when he received none, he smiled tightly at Daria. “Our supper is served, then,” he said, and offered his arm once more.

  Daria looked at the family standing behind him, but he shifted, blocking her view. “Donna lose your courage now, lass,” he muttered.

  He thought she had courage? Surprised, Daria looked up at the laird, but he had already turned his head and was speaking to his cousin as he escorted her.

  They entered another chamber immediately adjacent, a small dining room Daria had not yet seen in her wanders. The ceiling was low and held up by beams that were a foot thick. A table that seated only eight stood before a blazing hearth. Across from the hearth was a wall covered with a frayed tapestry that depicted unicorns happily leaping through flowers in what she supposed was Campbell territory. It was a cozy dining room, one where she could imagine the family had gathered to dine intimately for generations.

  The butler pulled out a chair and gestured for Daria to sit. She reluctantly took it and sat directly across from Aileen. Daria smiled on the off chance that it might thaw the woman’s icy countenance, but she suspected Aileen was determined not to thaw.

  To add to Daria’s discomfort, Geordie sat on her right, his slate at the ready. Across from him sat Uncle Hamish, flanked by Aileen and Robbie.

  Hamish smiled at Daria. “Quite like the mutton.”

  “We are not dining on mutton tonight, Uncle,” Robbie said.

  “Quite like the mutton all the same.”

  Daria smiled at the old man. He was one of the few Campbells who did not seem to harbor any hard feelings for her—he grinned right back.

  “Mr. Campbell, I have longed to meet you,” Daria said, meaning it quite sincerely.

  Geordie scribbled on his slate and handed it across the table to Robbie. Robbie held it out, tilting his head to the right, studying it. “I make out the letter O,” Robbie said and looked at Geordie. “The rest of the word is missing.”

  “Allow me, husband,” Aileen said, and reached across Hamish and took the slate from Robbie, studied it a moment, then looked up at Daria. “Owe,” she clarified. “I believe he means that you owe our uncle an apology. I agree.”

  “Aileen,” the laird said low.

  “I am truly sorry for the misunderstanding with my grandmother, Mr. Campbell,” Daria said quickly, wanting to address the issue that seemed to float like a dark cloud above them.

  “ ’Twas no misunderstanding,” Aileen said. “It was thievery—”

  “Ba!” Robbie said sharply, and Aileen pressed her lips tightly together and looked away.

  “It was not thievery,” Daria said evenly. “There has been a terrible misunderstanding, I grant you, but my grandmother believes it was a gift.”

  Hamish smiled.

  Geordie gestured adamantly for his slate, but the laird was quick to take it before Aileen could return it to him. “There is no point in debating it now. I will remind you all that Miss Babcock will be treated as we would treat any guest to Dundavie.” He looked pointedly at Geordie. “We pride ourselves on our hospitality, do we no’, brother?”

  Geordie glowered; the laird handed the slate to Young John, who returned it to Geordie.

  An uncomfortable silence began to thicken around the table. Daria sipped the wine a footman poured for her and thought of Lady Eberlin. When she had assumed the title of countess of Ashwood, as was her right, Lady Eberlin had not been well received in Hadley Green. Before her arrival, her cousin had done some dishonest things in Lady Eberlin’s stead, and the people of Hadley Green were slow to forget or forgive. But Lady Eberlin had surely inched her way into the hearts of them all. She’d done it by taking care to speak to everyone, to learn something about them, to make them feel important.

  At first, Daria had not trusted her. But then she’d been among the first to fall under her spell. She would never forget how earnestly and sincerely Lady Eberlin had befriended her.

  Daria glanced across the table at Aileen, wondering if she could find the fortitude or the patience to do the same. But Aileen was making every effort to avoid Daria’s gaze. If she studied the pattern on the china any more closely, she would see nothing but tiny royal-blue flowers for days to come.

  Daria looked hopefully at Robbie Campbell, who happened to catch her eye, and before he could look away she said, “Dundavie is a very interesting place, is it not? Have you always lived here, Mr. Campbell?”

  Robbie Campbell looked confused and glanced uncertainly at the laird. “Aye,” he said. “Where else would I live?”

  Where else indeed. Still, Daria forced a smile and turned it on the most recalcitrant Campbell of them all. “I admire your brooch, Mrs. Campbell,” she said. “It’s quite pretty.”

  Aileen’s fingers went instantly to the brooch at her throat.

  “It’s a bird of some sort, is it not?”

  “A swan,” Aileen said. “One of our clan symbols.”

  “Oh? What does it stand for?”

  Aileen frowned. “It means glory, Miss Babcock. The glory of the Campbell name, aye?”

  “What a lovely sentiment,” Daria said cheerfully. “Did Mr. Campbell give it to you?”

  Aileen frowned again. “And which Mr. Campbell would that be?”

  Which one! The most obvious one, that was who!

  “Just say the name, lass,” Uncle Hamish said, very lucid all of a sudden. “Too many Campbells underfoot to be proper about address, I say. Unless, of course, you mean Keith. Wouldn’t do at all to call the laird by his given name.”

  “Jamie, Uncle,” Robbie muttered.

  He might have a point, but Daria was not going to let that stand in the way of protocol. “Thank you, but I haven’t the right to be so familia
r with anyone here,” she said, and smiled sweetly.

  The laird arched a brow. “No one? But you have seen me at my worst, Miss Babcock.”

  Warmth sluiced deeply through Daria at the memory of his naked body in Mamie’s cottage. “Then you must call me Daria. It seems only fair.”

  She heard the sound of Geordie’s chalk on slate. He handed it across Daria to Jamie so that she could clearly see the chicken scratches he used to communicate. Donna dress her atol.

  “I think you mean address,” the laird said, waving the slate away.

  Daria was sympathetic to Geordie’s rage—she would be just as angry if someone had used Mamie as they accused Mamie of using Hamish Campbell—but Daria had endured Geordie’s wrath for several days now in the form of hard looks and some rather pointed comments to her and about her, the deciphering of which sorely tried her patience.

  Geordie wrote something else and showed it to Robbie, who laughed roundly, and finally, Daria lost her composure. “Look here, Mr. Campbell, I have tried to explain myself, but you seem determined not to listen! Or perhaps you did—but it is not my fault I can’t read your atrocious spelling.”

  Jamie laughed.

  Geordie’s face darkened and he jotted, No me fal you her.

  “There, you see? It would take a scholar weeks to decipher that. I am teaching Peter to communicate. Why not you? Yet when I suggested that I might teach you, one would think I had suggested putting you on the rack, so great was your objection.” She glared at him. “It is not your doing that I am here, you are quite right about that. But you may as well get used to it. Bethia says I won’t leave, and she claims to have the second sight.”

  Aileen gasped; Robbie looked at her in shock.

  Daria looked around warily. “Why are you all looking at me in that manner? You can’t truly believe her? It all seems rather convenient to me, the second sight. I only meant to make a point to the most intractable among you”—she glared at Geordie again—“not startle you. I hoped you would laugh.”