“Pleased to meet you,” Francine said, nodding in his direction.
He laughed. “And I you, milady. You must think me made of the most dreadful manners ever.”
“Why would I so?” she grinned. “When I also did as badly.”
He laughed. “I am pleased to have met you, Lady Francine.”
“And I you, Lord Henry.”
Her face flamed, saying his name. It felt sweet on her tongue. She curtsied and he bowed. He went off across the room. He turned around, once, looking back. She was looking after him. She blushed.
Henry Gracewell. She savored the sound of his name, smiling again as she thought it.
The moment he had gone, her mind returned to pressing problems…Such as the problem of Douglas, and what he might or might not have seen. She hastily walked across the ballroom, heading to where she had seen him last.
On the way, she heard a voice from her left. “Milady Francine. You do me dishonor.”
Francine whirled around and stared. “Laird McGuinness,” she said flatly. She took in Fraser, dressed in his kilt and plaid, the traditional garments of the Highland clans. “I dishonor you?” she asked, horrified. “How?”
“You make me wait a week, and dance with that...that fop?” He waved a hand in the direction of Henry.
Francine's heart thumped. How dare he insult Henry so? “I danced with him, Lord Fraser. This is a ball. It is for dancing. There was nothing harmful inherent in what I did.”
“Mind that there wasn't,” Fraser growled.
Francine stared at him. How dare he seek to order her about like this? Strangely, though she would usually have been frightened of him, she felt a glimmer of strength. She was beautiful and witty, and she could face this man. “You take liberties, sir,” she said tightly. “You forget; I am under no obligation to you – not yet.”
“I do nae forget,” Fraser said coolly. “I remember fully well.”
Francine closed her eyes. Words of anger died on her tongue, replaced with alarm and the fear she always felt of Fraser, especially when he leaned over her like that, crowding her.
She made herself stand tall and, turning her back, walked away. As she did, she could still feel his eyes boring into her from behind. She went across the room to the refreshment table, back straight, head up. When she reached the table, she collapsed, leaning heavily on it with one hand.
I don't wish to ever have anything to do with that man.
She was utterly exhausted, she noticed. She felt too weary even to reach for a glass or anything on the table in front of her – all she wanted to do was stand here and rest herself awhile.
“Cordial, milady?”
“Yes, thank you,” she murmured. She held out a glass and allowed the footman to pour a thick red syrupy drink into it, then sipped said restorative drink, letting the sweet taste spiral down to her toes, warming her. She sighed.
“Mayhap he'll leave now. Good riddance.”
“Francine?”
She jumped and turned around, finding herself facing someone she knew. She blinked, squinting. This was certainly someone she knew. She took in the sweet, open face, the dark hair, the rounded body.
“Ambeal?”
Her friend smiled at her. The daughter of the Duke of Inverkeith, Ambeal and Francine had met during her visit to Court. Though the girls had not spent long in each other's company, an instant friendship had sprung up between them.
“Francine!” Ambeal reached out and drew Francine into a firm, rose-scented embrace.
Francine breathed in her perfume and smiled – it was good to see her friend. Shorter than Francine, with a soft face and luxurious dark hair, Ambeal was pretty and naturally vivacious. “Ambeal,” she said, leaning back gently out of the firm embrace. “I had no idea you were to be here!”
“Nor I, you,” Ambeal smiled, her cheeks lifting in sweet dimples. “I wish I'd known! I'm soon to return to Court, or I'd visit with you. This was just a day's outing. This business with the French is making matters hard.”
She frowned. The French were seeking to ally with the Scots Jacobites. It was, at least according to most sources, a plan to divide English attention so France could invade. Ambeal's father was not explicitly a Jacobite, maintaining a neutral stance. Francine decided at once she didn't want to know more – knowing more was worrying more, and that kind of knowledge was a burden.
“I can imagine,” Francine said carefully.
“Well, I don't really mind,” Ambeal said, shrugging in the dark green velvet gown she wore. “Not one way or the other. Except that Father is considering whether or not I should wed a Frenchman, and what that will do to our reputation now that France supports the Jacobite cause.”
“A Frenchman?” Francine stared, aghast. “Ambeal! I didn't know you were promised?”
“We're not,” Ambeal said, frowning. “Not formally, not yet. I myself am of two minds about this.”
Francine frowned. “You dislike him?”
Ambeal shrugged. “I don't know him, Francine!” She looked at her, eyes round with an appeal for help. “We danced, talked a little, exchanged pleasantries. I have no idea what manner of man he is. He seems pleasant. He might be a blackguard or a footpad, for all I know.”
Francine laughed – not because it was funny, but because of Ambeal's dramatic expression of horror.
“Oh, Ambeal,” she sighed. “I wish I could advise you. But...” she trailed off. It was strange, how she found herself facing a similar dilemma. Except for the fact that her father's mind was made up on the topic, where Ambeal's father waited.
“But…?” Ambeal frowned. “My dear Francine! Don't tell me they've put you in the same awful position?”
Francine bit her lip. “In a manner of speaking,” she agreed.
“Francine! That's horrible!” Ambeal shook her head. “I hate this. Why should we have to wed to serve our fathers’ ends?”
“I suppose it's the nature of our station in life,” Francine said quietly.
“I'm sure I don't know why,” Ambeal countered. “It's unfair, is what it is. We shouldn't stand for it.”
Francine giggled. “Oh, Ambeal. I have no idea how we could prevent it.”
“No,” her friend said with a sigh. “Nor do I. Mayhap we could escape together.”
Francine giggled. Ambeal grinned, warming to the theme. “Perhaps we could sail away to France – no, not France...Heaven knows I might meet Luc Beauvais there – the man Papa wishes me to marry.”
“Oh, Ambeal!” Francine laughed, feeling her heart dance with merriment. “You are funny.”
“It wasn't a jest,” Ambeal said mildly. “But it's so lovely to see you, Francine! Forgive my gloomy ways.”
“You're not gloomy, Ambeal,” Francine chided gently. “It's lovely to see you, too.”
They talked for a while, just ordinary, friendly matters. The latest fashions, how neither of them wished to powder their hair. How the latest craze for panniers of lace on the skirts was driving up the price of gowns. Francine, enjoying the conversation, found herself thinking about other things and not about Fraser. She hadn't realized how badly the man disconcerted her.
“Oh!” Ambeal said, waving to someone who stood across the hall. “Francine. It's my cousin, Henriette. I need to go.”
“Of course,” Francine nodded.
When Ambeal left to join her family, Francine stood for a while, looking after her. It was late and she was feeling tired. She leaned against the wall behind her, the coolness of the stone seeping through the thin silk of her dress.
Her eyes scanned the ballroom and alighted on a head of pale hair. She smiled. Across the room, the pale-haired man looked back. She wasn't certain that he'd recognized her, but she thought she saw him smile. She beamed.
Smiling to herself, she drifted out onto the terrace.
Thoughts crowded her mind – Henry was an Englishman. Henry was seen as the enemy. Her father wished to strengthen his alliance through marriage to the Highland clans.
She shook her head, refusing to entertain such thoughts. Like the first leaves of autumn, they tinged her sweet thoughts of Henry with bittersweet urgency.
“Oh, Henry,” she whispered to herself. Outside, the night was quiet, the silence broken only by the distant strains of music, the odd laugh, and the sound of crickets, chirping in the dew-scented flowerbeds. It was a beautiful night.
She had never felt quite like this before.
A RIDE AND A PLAN
The scent of fresh bread wafted up to Francine's nose where she sat in the breakfast-room. She inhaled deeply and tried to focus on the present moment. It was proving difficult.
“...and you'll come with me?”
Francine blinked, realizing that Douglas had spoken. Consciously, she made her mind withdraw from recalling the ball and focus on the moment at hand. “Yes, Douglas? Sorry? I didn't quite catch that.”
“I said, won't you come riding with me after breakfast? I want to wake up properly after that late evening yesterday, and it'll help.” He yawned.
Francine nodded. “Yes, Douglas. I'd like that.”
She looked down at her plate. A ride would be perfect. Not only would it give her time to think, it would take her out of the house and away from her father's dominating presence. Already, though he had left the breakfast room before she arrived, she felt stifled by the demands she knew were on her. Demands to wed Fraser.
She had a week to make up her mind, and she felt the misgivings becoming more inarguable every day. Not only was it that Fraser was insufferable – arrogant, cold, unfeeling – but now she had evidence that not all men were like him.
Lord Henry isn't unfeeling.
She felt her lips lift in a smile, recalling the evening. Lord Henry had been thoughtful, attentive, kind. Anything but arrogant and cold. And handsome, too.
She blushed.
“Um, sister?” Douglas said, drawing her attention back to the present moment.
“Yes?” Francine looked up, finding black eyes on hers.
Douglas looked slightly concernedly into her eyes, handsome face grave. “I was just wondering if you are well? You seem quiet.”
“Is that so unusual?”
Douglas smiled fondly. “Well, I mean, you're often quiet. But it seemed as if you were worrying about something. Is there aught I can help with?”
Francine smiled sadly. “I don't think so, Douglas. It's just, you know – Father.”
Douglas closed his eyes, face grave. “I know. I am sorry. His expectations go too far sometimes.”
“He doesn't consider us, Douglas,” Francine observed, almost vehemently. “He never has. He didn't consider Arabella, and he doesn't consider me either. Or you.”
“I know,” Douglas nodded ruefully. He looked down, his face grave. “Well...at least in one respect, I can out-speak him.” He paused. “His authority was damaged by the matter with Arabella.”
“I know,” Francine nodded. Her father's inability to prevent the slaughter of English officers in his own hall had led to a severe dent in his reputation. In most circles, Douglas spoke with the authority of the earldom, though he was yet young and their father bore the title still. Nevertheless, in this matter, his authority as her father still exceeded that of Douglas.
At least I have a week.
Francine swallowed. She had seven days to make a plan whereby she could evade this duty. However, the harder she tried, the more impossible it seemed.
She reached for a bread-roll, tearing off a bite-sized piece of the soft, warm bread as she thought, then buttering it and adding some jam. The sweet, warm fare certainly helped her to think.
If I could seek refuge in a convent, then Father could not marry me to anyone.
That seemed a little drastic though. In addition, the thought of seclusion was far from a pleasant one. Francine swallowed hard, thinking of all that she would relinquish if she chose that path. Seeing Arabella, and her daughter as she grew up, would be painful. Seeing Douglas become the earl and take up the role he was born to fill was unthinkable. Finding someone she could love, and who loved her, was impossible.
I wonder if I will ever feel that way.
She sighed. Her heart ached. She reached for the teapot, pouring the rich, rare black tea into a delicate cup. “More tea?” she asked Douglas.
“I think if I have more, I'll float away on a lake of tea, sister,” Douglas chuckled. “I haven't counted, but I think I’ve had four cups.”
Francine stared at him. Then, abruptly, she laughed. “Oh, Douglas! What would I do without you?”
“Have more tea left over?” He grinned.
They both laughed. Douglas yawned widely. “I was just hoping it would do the trick of waking me up. It usually does. Not this time, though. I suppose we were awake ‘til after midnight...” He yawned again.
“Yes,” Francine agreed softly. “We were.”
They had remained at the ball at Bronley House until half past eleven, arriving back at the house at just after midnight. It had been a late night. During it, she recalled, she had met Henry…and spoken rather a lot to him.
“You are likewise a Jacobite?” she recalled him asking, his eyes wide.
“Likewise?” She had smiled, feeling her heart sparkle with joy at the expression of surprise he had. “I would rather say I am. You know the earl of Duncliffe? I am his daughter.”
“I regret I have not met the earl, no,” Henry had said. “And as for his daughter, I am honored to make her acquaintance.”
“Thank you, sir,” she had said teasingly. “If you would tell me, I would ask how it is you came to be here?”
He had grinned. The grin lit up his eyes, which were blue, the way the sky is blue. “Forgive me, my lady. My father is the earl of Althorpe, and for reasons best known to him, likewise a Jacobite. Which is why we are here, availing ourselves of your country's hospitality. We both, I think, have strong-willed fathers, yes?”
She had blushed and nodded, heart thumping. “Yes. I am glad to meet someone who is...likewise encumbered.”
He had laughed, his blue eyes warm in a way that made her heart dance. “I like the way you turn a phrase, milady. Indeed yes. I have wished, sometimes, to be back in England. Then, well, I make an acquaintance like you, who makes me feel I am well-placed here.”
He had said it with a tight throat, and she had blushed. “I am honored to make you feel that way.”
“The pleasure is mine.”
They had looked into each other's eyes a long moment and, Francine remembered, the ballroom had faded away, as if only she and he shared all the vast space, and the warm light of the candles.
“Francine?” Douglas interrupted her thoughts again.
“Yes, brother?” She blinked in surprise, remembering suddenly where she was. At breakfast, with Douglas, who looked at her with eyes round with concern.
“I think I will dress for riding now. You're sure you will join me? You seem rather distracted. I pray you're well?”
Francine took a sip of tea, aiming for composure. Her thoughts had left her blushing and she hoped he didn't notice. “I thank you, Douglas. I am quite well.”
“Good.” Douglas smiled, looking relieved, and then nodded to her and went out, leaving her alone.
Francine closed her eyes, feeling embarrassed, and leaned her elbows on the linen tablecloth, head rested on her hands. Stop it, Francine, she thought, vexed. You only met the fellow yesterday, and here you are, lost in thought. Forget your thoughts of him and think about what to do about Fraser.
She quickly drained her cup of tea, stood, and walked lightly to her bedchamber, calling for Bertha to come and help her with her riding-gown and hair.
Dressed in a white riding habit, her hair styled under a high, peaked bonnet, she was ready to go riding. Her footsteps were soundless as she headed down the stairs, the heels of her riding-boots sinking into the thick carpet that lined them as she went down to the front door.
“Douglas?”
�
��Sister!” Her brother was already on the terrace outside, holding his tricorne hat on his head lest the wind should blow it off. He turned and smiled, strained at the edges with the effort of talking over the stiffening breeze. “Shall we ride?”
“Yes, Douglas. Let's!”
He grinned and, laughing, holding onto hats and coats in the stiff wind, they rushed down the stairs toward the stables, excited for the ride.
“Mr. McGinty seems as eager for a ride as I,” Douglas murmured ruefully as his horse tossed his head against the curbing hand on the reins.
“Well, we could give him a canter,” Francine observed, raising her voice against the rising wind as they passed out of the tree-line. “I rather fancy a bit of speed also.”
“Well, then.” Douglas grinned broadly. “Let's go.”
“Yes. And...Whee!” Francine couldn't hold back her joy as her own horse, Damson, took off under her, her long, pale legs stretching as they raced along the path. Francine, side-saddle, held tightly to the reins, twisting and leaning forward as she had been taught, her body strong from hours spent in the saddle.
They shot off down the path. The wind stung her eyes and raced past her ears, and Francine shrieked with merriment. This was life! Riding had been a pleasure for her and her siblings since she was five years old.
If only I could find such freedom in my choices as I do in the ride! I would be happy indeed.
Of all the things in her life, her father had never tried to curb her riding. Partly because of their uncle's support of it, partly because it was deemed an accomplishment suitable for women at the Court, Arabella and Francine had always been allowed to ride.
It suits Father to have us raised as if we were at Court. It matches his ambitions well.
In her heart, Francine knew that her father was not so much wedded to the cause of Jacobitism as he was to the idea of supporting a new king. The king would be bound to reward his supporters, and it suited her father to be at the forefront of the list of allies when the king emerged.
Then what does he hope for? A dukedom? Lands in England? Honors?
She sighed. They had slowed and she let her horse catch up with Douglas and his stallion, the former leaning forward heavily, as if wearied.
Destiny Of A Highlander: Blood of Duncliffe Series (A Medieval Scottish Romance Story) Page 3
