What a Highlander's Got to Do

by Sabrina York

  Not ever.

  “Then why are there tears in your eyes, for heaven’s sake?”

  “There are not.” She wiped them away, those annoying little traitors.

  “Say what you like, but I know you, my darling. Something has happened and it’s . . .”

  “What?”

  “Made you sad.”

  “Nonsense.”

  Cat blew out a heavy breath and tossed her red locks over her shoulder. “Fine. As you wish. But know I love you, Isobel. And I am here if you ever want to talk.”

  For some reason, this generosity engendered tears as well. “Thank you, Cat,” she said, but she was talking to herself: Cat had spurred her mount and was racing toward the Serpentine, a certain invitation to follow.

  * * *

  Isobel was warm and dewy by the time she and Cat finished their ride.

  Dewy, it was, Aunt Hannah said. Not sweaty.

  Still, when they came into the grand foyer after settling their well-used mounts in the mews, Isobel was not prepared to entertain visitors, even though her mother called her from the drawing room.

  “Give us a moment,” she called back, pulling off her hat and shaking out her hair.

  Cat made a face as they headed up the grand staircase to their chambers. “Calls? So early?”

  Aye. It was annoying to go from the glorious freedom of a mad ride down Rotten Row, deserted as it had been, to having to change into morning dresses and chat with members of the ton.

  Isobel wasn’t looking forward to it in the least.

  Naturally, she took her time in her ablutions.

  So long that Mama sent a maid to check on her. With a sigh, she collected Cat, who had been equally sluggish with her toilet. They exchanged a pained glance as they headed for the parlor. At least some tea would be welcome after the dusty ride.

  What awaited them in the drawing room was not a surprise. Mama, Aunt Hannah, and Aunt Lana were seated on the divans facing a pretty young debutante with jet-black hair, and a grand lady with a magnificent crown of red curls wound around her head. The elder was apparently holding court, much to the disgruntlement of Aunt Esmeralda.

  Aunt Esmeralda preferred to be the one holding court, but in this case, her pique was muted, limited to a slight tightening of her lips, which led Isobel to the conclusion that this lady was one of great standing, one she dare not usurp.

  “Ah. Darling,” Mama said, waving Isobel into the room. “Finally. Do come in. There’s someone you must meet.”

  Someone you must meet was code for “a maven of the ton,” the exact type of person Isobel had been dreading to meet.

  Not that she was worried she would spill her tea or otherwise disgrace herself and her family name.

  But she was worried she might say something that might be construed as rude, should she be provoked.

  And she was easily provoked by the British.

  Still, she forced a smile onto her face and curtsied as she had been taught when her mother introduced the Duchess of Moncrieff and her daughter Sorcha.

  “Your Grace,” she said in an acceptably awestruck tone.

  She was not prepared for a laugh.

  Or what came next.

  The Duchess of Moncrieff, a grand maven of the ton, opened her mouth and said, in a delightful Scottish brogue, “Ach, lass. You must call me Kaitlin. Your mother and I are great friends, after all.”

  Despite all her training, Isobel gaped.

  Great friends? With a duchess?

  And then she remembered her mother speaking of Kaitlin, or Kait as she sometimes called her, the Scottish lass who had snagged a British duke and lived happily ever after.

  Isobel had ignored most of those stories—which were clearly told as an allegory for how she might proceed—but truth be told, she could never have imagined a lady of such beauty and, well, grace.

  Against all her inclinations, Isobel liked her at once.

  “I canna tell you how pleased I am to finally meet you. And Catriona?” She reached her gloved hands out to Cat who, equally dumfounded, allowed the duchess to take them. “How is your mother?”

  Cat glanced at Isobel, who shrugged. “She’s fine, Your Grace.”

  “Kaitlin, when we are private. Please. Ach, I remember when she and your father fell in love. Right here in this house.”

  “And dear Kaitlin. How can I ever thank you for your help with my husband’s cousins?” Aunt Lana said. Ten years ago, Lachlan’s long-lost cousins had had their Season, with near-disastrous results. Isobel recalled Mama mentioning that the Duchess of Moncrieff had stepped in and averted disaster. One of those happy couples had been Catriona’s father and her new mother.

  “It was my pleasure,” the duchess said. “Ach. It was so romantic, was it no’, Lady Esmeralda? Especially Anne and Bowermadden.”

  “Indeed, it was,” the old woman said, clearly pleased to be included in the conversation.

  Mama smiled. “Hearing Anne tell of it, it was, indeed.”

  “Though she resisted him heartily,” the duchess said with a laugh.

  Esmeralda joined her. “That she did. That she did.”

  Which was surprising to Isobel, considering how besotted Anne and Bowermadden seemed now.

  The duchess said fondly, “I’m so pleased all the St. Claires found their loves.”

  “As am I,” Aunt Esmeralda said. Then she turned to Isobel and Cat. “Well, do sit down. I cannot tolerate being loomed over.”

  She was hardly looming, but with a quick glance at her mother, Isobel decided not to mention that. She took a seat beside Sorcha, and Cat beside her.

  “It is so nice to meet you,” Sorcha said, holding out a hand. “Welcome to London.”

  “And how are you finding our fair city?” the duchess asked.

  Isobel was not able to withhold her snort.

  Mama’s nostrils flared, but it was far too late by then. The duchess had noticed.

  “Do you no’ enjoy living in town?”

  Isobel took a quick sip of her tea before she responded, searching her mind for a socially acceptable response. “We are just settling in,” she finally said, with a frown at Mama.

  Who sighed. “The girls are anxious to explore, you see. But we’ve been so busy, hiring the staff and unpacking.”

  “It is a trial,” the duchess said. “We spend most of the year in our northern estates. Packing up the household to come here can be overwhelming. And you have little ones, don’t you?” she said sympathetically.

  “Ten of them,” Isobel said sotto voce.

  “Ten?” Sorcha whispered in horror.

  “Ten.”

  “Oh, heavens. You do need to get away.” And yes. Isobel liked her at once, too. “Why don’t you let me show you around town?” And she liked her even more.

  “I would love to see the Elgin Marbles,” Isobel suggested.

  For some reason, her aunts and the duchess spewed their tea simultaneously.

  “I would love to show them to you,” Sorcha said with a grin. “And Astley’s, Vauxhall . . .”

  “Covent Garden?”

  “Yes, and so much more.”

  “We will have to arrange suitable chaperones,” Aunt Esmeralda said. “Especially if they are going to see the Elgin Marbles. I would be happy to volunteer.”

  No doubt she would. For all her years, Aunt Esmeralda made no secret of the fact that she enjoyed the male form. Clothed or not. In fact, upon such reflection, she was probably not a suitable chaperone in the least.

  “Oh!” the duchess said, clapping her hands. “We should have a welcome dinner for you all, you know, to introduce you to everyone.”

  Everyone? Lovely.

  The duchess must have noticed her chagrin, for she chuckled and said, “All our friends, that is.”

  “You will adore them,” Sorcha said.

  “The Tullys, for certain. The Penningtons. The Grangers,” the duchess ticked off on her fingers.

  “Uncle Ewan,” Sorcha reminded her.<
br />
  “Oh, of course Uncle Ewan.” She grinned at Mama. “He’s a Scot as well. You will feel precisely at home.”

  Mama cleared her throat. “And in this crowd,” she said coyly, “are there any . . . eligible gentlemen?”

  Sorcha laughed. “Eligible, certainly. Though probably not willing.”

  “Sorcha Wyeth!” the duchess scolded.

  “It’s true.” She grinned at Isobel. “They’re all still sowing their wild oats.”

  Kaitlin sighed. “I’m afraid that is true. Sad, really. Malcolm is getting long in the tooth and Sean not far behind him. They are the duke’s brothers,” she explained to Mama.

  “How many brothers does the duke have?” Mama asked, surely out of politeness and not hunting for information about eligible gentlemen—though Isobel suspected the latter to be so. In fact, this entire conversation had become one such treasure hunt.

  “He has five brothers, actually.”

  “Edward is the eldest,” Sorcha said. “But he’s already married.”

  Isobel blinked. “I thought the duke’s given name was Edward.” The words were out before she could stop them. Mortification rose in her with a scorching heat to her cheeks. Young ladies were not to mention men’s given names, especially not those as lofty as a duke’s.

  But the duchess laughed off her gaffe. “That is a long story. In short, Edward, my Edward, discovered his cousins were actually his siblings. In fact, he has five brothers and a sister, Violet, who is married to Ewan. So one of his brothers is also an Edward.”

  “We have a plethora of Edwards,” Sorcha said conspiratorially.

  “That is so true.” The duchess tugged on her gloves. “My husband. My son. My brother-in-law . . .”

  “Don’t forget Edward Tully and Edward Pennington,” Sorcha said with a laugh and, Isobel noticed, a blush.

  “Yes. Them, too. We affectionately call them the Edwards.”

  “You’ll meet them soon. We’ll have such fun.”

  Her beautiful brown eyes glimmered with such mischief, Isobel couldn’t help but believe her. “I’m looking forward to it,” she said. And it was true.

  “We have our own plethoras,” Mama said. Alexanders, Andrews, and Lachlans. To make matters worse, the boys could have been twins, or triplets, they so favored one another. It could be a tangle keeping them apart.

  As Mama explained all this, the duchess and her daughter laughed.

  Conversation shifted then to plans for the Season and Her Grace’s advice for them going forward. It was helpful and kind and despite herself, Isobel appreciated the insight. There were so many rules to remember.

  Mostly, she enjoyed the easy company she found with these two. It was as though they’d always been at home together. The conversation was informal and the laughter frequent.

  It was, in short, a delight.

  But alas. The delightful tea was spoiled then when Henley scratched on the door and announced more visitors.

  These were more the type Isobel had been dreading, starchy and proper ladies with long Corinthian noses they enjoyed looking down. They were, in turn, Lady Frey, Lady Battersby, and Lady Swofford, with her daughter Celia in tow.

  Isobel’s suspicions were confirmed when she heard Sorcha groan beneath her breath.

  But it was worse than she imagined.

  While all the ladies were painfully deferential to the duchess, it was the sideswiping comments toward everyone else she found irritating.

  It began simply, and civilly, with an invitation to Lady Swofford’s ball that evening, but it deteriorated quickly.

  “I understand you hail from Scotland,” Lady Frey said in a brittle voice.

  “Aye, we do,” Aunt Lana said. Her smile was brittle as well, for she had caught the insult in the comment, as well as the fact that, though Lady Frey had Your Graced Kaitlin several times, she’d neglected to show Lana, the Duchess of Caithness, the same courtesy.

  “The High Highlands,” Mama said with a gleeful enthusiasm.

  “The true wilds,” Aunt Hannah added, with a bite to her tone as well.

  It was clear none of them were about to sit here and be demeaned by snobs.

  It was as it should be.

  Isobel nibbled away her grin.

  “Is it true men run naked there?” Lady Battersby asked with a hint of horror and fascination.

  “Only in the summer,” Isobel said, before she could stop herself. When she saw the shock on those pinched, painted faces, she had to add, “We eat raw meat, too.”

  “With our fingers,” Catriona added with élan.

  They gaped, all of them, while the Scotswomen present attempted to swallow their chuckles. One or two escaped.

  “Oh.” Lady Swofford said, glancing around the room. A hint of relief flittered over her expression. “You are bamming us.”

  “Of course we are,” Kaitlin said with a kind smile. Isobel wasn’t quite sure how she managed it. “People in the Highlands live every bit as well as those in London, you know.”

  “In actual castles,” Aunt Lana said demurely.

  Lady Frey sniffed. “But you are savages. I mean, I’ve heard tell . . .” For some reason, she glanced at Isobel, and then pressed her lips together tightly.

  Apparently, Mama noticed. “What have you heard?” she asked.

  Lady Frey paled. “Nothing.”

  “Nothing at all,” Lady Swofford added, pointedly looking anyplace but at Isobel. Which was telling indeed.

  Apparently Lady Battersby had some pluck. “It’s just we’ve heard tell of what happened to Scrabster . . .”

  Ah. That old chestnut.

  “The traitor to the Crown?” Kaitlin asked in a chilly tone.

  “You heard that I shot him in the arse?” Mama said, causing gasps to round the room.

  “Did you really?” Kaitlin said. “Good show.”

  Lady Frey’s chin firmed. “Not that. We heard what she did.” She pointed—pointed—her bony finger at Isobel, which, any child knew, was rude as hell.

  “She blew up his castle,” Lady Battersby spat.

  “Only the one wing.” Lord bless Mama. She was always and ever Isobel’s champion.

  Aunt Hannah nodded. “And it’s been fixed now. Much better than before.”

  “She. Blew. Up. His. Castle.” Lady Frey repeated herself in a tone that inferred this was the worst thing a person could possibly do.

  “She was five.” Mama shrugged dismissively. “Children will be children.”

  “I’ve hardly blown up anything since,” Isobel said agreeably.

  It was, perhaps, wrong, playing with these women the way a cat toys with a mouse, but they were more annoying than mice. And this was . . . fun. More fun than she’d ever imagined she would have in London, in fact.

  Besides, it wasn’t as though she wanted or needed to impress them—or their sons, if they had them. Even if she were in the market for a husband, which she decidedly wasn’t, she wouldn’t want one of theirs.

  Needless to say, the women collected themselves and left shortly thereafter, hopefully to never return.

  “Oh, well,” Mama said, with a glance at Isobel. “That could have gone better.”

  “I think it went perfectly well,” she responded.

  Sorcha patted her on the shoulder. “They are a wretched crowd,” she said. “Especially that Celia.”

  “Really?” Celia had barely said a word. In fact, of all of them, she’d been a perfect lady.

  “She’s the worst.”

  “Now, Sorcha,” Kaitlin said. “Do be kind.”

  Sorcha pulled a face. She leaned closer and whispered, “She fancies herself in love with my brother.”

  “Poor thing,” Catriona murmured.

  “He says she’s practically hunting him.” She sighed. “Can you imagine my misery if she catches him? Having her for a sister-in-law?”

  “Because it’s all about you,” Kaitlin murmured.

  “You know it is.” Sorcha sighed again and took
a cake. Then she gasped so loudly, Isobel started. “Do you know what would be famous?”

  “What?” Isobel stared at her new friend, enjoying the wicked light in her eyes.

  “If you and my brother fell in love. Then Celia’s plot to win him would be scuttled and we would be sisters. Wouldn’t that be divine?”

  Isobel smiled, but it was an effort. She did adore Sorcha, but her brother was, no doubt, one of those stuffy popinjays she deplored. Aside from that, a certain stable hand had undoubtedly ruined her for all men.

  But she didn’t have it in her heart to disappoint Sorcha, so she simply nodded and bit her tongue.

  “Well,” Aunt Lana said primly. “At least Lady Swofford had the good grace to invite us to her ball.”

  Mama snorted. “Probably only because Kaitlin was here. I sincerely doubt she wants us to come.”

  The duchess laughed. “Of course she wants you to come. Why, it would be a coup to be the first to parade the wild Lochlannachs before her crowd.”

  “We’re not going, of course,” Mama said.

  Kaitlin drew herself up into a starchy pose. “Oh, but you will.”

  “We will?” Isobel asked. Certainly not on a whine.

  “You will. And we will make sure you outshine everyone else.” She winked. “I’ll command all the Wyeth boys to attend and shower you with attention. It will be famous.”

  And who could deny the duchess?

  So, as easily as that, Isobel was trapped into attending her first event of the Season.

  It would be undoubtedly horrid.

  Chapter Eight

  The Edwards lounged lazily in the reading room at White’s, each with a fine Scottish whisky in hand.

  There was Edward Tully, whom they all called Tully, and Edward Pennington, whom they called Penny, and of course himself, whom they called Nick to avoid confusion.

  The only ones who still called him Edward were his family, and then it was usually Edward the Third, and though he was that—the third of his line—it was still confusing, on account of all the Edwards.

  He, Tully, and Penny had been friends from the cradle, because their parents were longtime friends and it was convenient that way . . . and they sincerely liked one another. They were, in Nick’s mind at least, brothers as well.