Speaking of pressure...he risked a glance around and noted the ladies hungrily eyeing him. He was not unused to English people giving him a certain look. Usually it was one of distaste at his Highland attire and upon hearing his thick accent but these young women were different. He half-wondered if he should pick up the plate of tiny cakes on the table and fling them their way. That would distract them long enough for him to make an escape.
He took a cake and put it in his mouth in one go. No wonder the women looked hungry. After a journey of over a week from the Highlands, he was tired and ready for a hearty meal. Cakes the size of his thumb definitely did not satisfy his appetite.
He gave one lady a tight smile and regretted it immediately. No tiny cakes would satisfy her either. He shifted on the chaise causing it to creak. Niall stiffened. If the spindly furniture held his weight for the rest of the afternoon, he’d be surprised. None of the pieces of furniture in his castle were like this—they were all made of sturdy wood with simple fabrics, designed to survive for decades to come. Some already had, having been purchased or created by his ancestors.
For want of anything else to look at, he eyed the intricate lace covering the table in the center of the drawing room. Niall didn’t know much about lace but apparently his aunt had a great appreciation for it. If he skipped his gaze about the room, he’d find some over the backs of chairs, spread over more tables, and even under the candleholders. He had not seen Aunt Joyce since he was a boy so he’d had little idea of what to expect, but he was not certain he could have pictured all this...fussy stuff.
Especially when he’d set eyes on his aunt. He glanced over at her as she spoke animatedly with one of the ladies in attendance at the afternoon supper. Though she was from Niall’s English side of the family, she had the family build—broad through the shoulders, with exceptional height for a woman, and a jaw that was constantly set at determined. There was no denying they were related.
It seemed, however, his aunt was trying to make up for her lack of delicacy through her décor. He’d already seen the room he’d be staying in for the next few weeks and he suspected he’d be opting to sleep on the floor or in the damned stables at the inn. Anything would be better than trying to squeeze his form into the short bed while surrounded by flowers and lace and the odd addition of several stuffed birds.
“Do you not think, my laird?”
He blinked and straightened, forcing his attention to the woman in the chair beside him. There had been somewhat of a wrangle when sitting as his aunt’s visitors tried to find a seat. Apparently, they found him worth fighting over as there was very nearly an unladylike scuffle as the woman took the seat next to him.
“Um...” He fought for a response. Even a name. He could not recall who the dark-haired, petite lady was for the life of him.
“I think you’re right, Miss Cooper,” his aunt interjected, swinging a stern look his way.
Niall nodded hastily. “Aye, I agree. Definitely. Certainly. You could not be more right, Miss Cooper.”
Miss Cooper’s smile widened so he had to assume he had said the right thing. He really ought to be paying more attention. After all, it was hardly a secret that he had travelled south to find a woman to take back to Scotland with him.
Although, his main reason for staying with his aunt for the moment was H.W. Bentley’s visit. Really, he should be heading straight to London to take part in the season and find a wife but when he’d heard his favorite author would be visiting Aunt Joyce’s village, he could not resist calling upon her—and his widowed aunt had seemed happy at the idea of company. Besides, his meeting with the palace to discuss future business and selling some of his cattle was not for a few more weeks. He had plenty of time to prepare.
Now, he realized that perhaps she had been happier at the idea of getting to play matchmaker. He had not expected to be ambushed by a half-dozen eager women upon his arrival. None of whom he could claim sparked his interest.
A sinking feeling dragged his gut down toward his feet. This was probably what the marriage mart in London would be like. He could not profess to be familiar with it. His time at home was spent looking after the farmland around what had once been his father’s castle—and was now his.
Unfortunately, there was a distinct lack of eligible women and having inherited a sizable plot of land and the castle, he’d discovered the reason his father had married hastily once being in the same position. A laird with a castle and farmland needed a woman to run his affairs.
He could not help hope he might find someone who interested him but if this was what England had to offer, he was not so certain that was a possibility.
“We shall head over to Lord Uxbridge’s shortly. Mr. Bentley should be there by now and I am excited to meet him,” his aunt commented.
Niall nodded. “As am I.”
“Have you read his books, my laird?” the woman opposite asked. “I believe I have read every single one.”
He nodded again. “I have indeed. Which did you find your favorite, Miss, uh—”
“Oh, almost every single one. It’s so hard to choose.” She saved him from recalling her name. From the giggle that followed, he suspected the lady had never so much as glanced at a H.W. Bentley book.
“Will you be staying with us long?” queried a fair-haired woman whose gaze had been raking up and down his person since his arrival.
He shifted, acutely aware of his bare knees beneath the kilt. “Just a few weeks. I travel to London for the start of the season soon.”
It was hard not to notice the disappointment flickering in her eyes.
“You should stay longer,” breathed Miss Cooper. “We have much to entertain here.”
Niall smiled tightly.
“Oh yes.” The fair-haired one nodded eagerly. “We have the...um...fields.”
The lady next to her rolled her eyes. “We have some beautiful countryside, perfect for picnicking. And some excellent families who are wonderful hosts. I wager you shall not find any such families in Town.”
“I am sure my nephew shall enjoy much of the company here but, alas, he cannot stay with me forever. Perhaps, though, we can persuade him there is much to like about our village and he can come back after his time in London.” Aunt Joyce smiled.
“So long as he avoids those frightful Chadwicks...” muttered Miss Cooper.
Niall straightened. It was not the first time he’d heard mention of these Chadwicks since sitting down for tea. What was so awful about these people? “The Chadwicks?”
His aunt sighed. “Miss Lavinia Chadwick is a wonderful girl, but the rest of them...and the mother.” She gave a shudder. “Let us just say you should avoid them at all costs. Unfortunately, that might not be easy. They are arranging a lot of Mr. Bentley’s events and entertainment. Why it fell to them, I do not know, but there we have it.”
“They shall be at Lord Uxbridge’s?” he asked.
“Indeed,” his aunt said tightly.
“Mrs. Chadwick and your aunt fell out years ago,” Miss Cooper murmured.
Aunt Joyce caught her eye and scowled. “I am certain my nephew does not want to get involved in my personal affairs.”
Perhaps it was all those country dramas he had read but Niall could not help wonder what had happened between his aunt and this woman, and what made these people so awful. He’d have to try to quiz Miss Cooper later.
If he could tolerate the hungry look long enough, that was.
“Well, I think we should get moving.” Aunt Joyce removed a napkin from her lap, folded it up and placed it on the table. “We would not want to be late for the arrival of Mr. Bentley.”
Niall stood and hit his head on a low beam. Wincing and rubbing his head, he grimaced to himself. As much as he wanted to meet the author, these few weeks amongst all these English ladies were going to be long ones.
Chapter Three
Though it was one of the biggest houses in the area, Uxbridge seemed to be filled to capacity. The grand drawing r
oom with its vaulted ceilings and subtle elegance of pale blue with gold trimmings had always seemed daunting in a spectacular way. Not today, however. It seemed everyone in England had descended on their small village to meet Mr. Bentley in the setting of his latest book.
Lavinia had not even had a moment to speak to the author and introduce herself as one of the ladies who would help play host to him. The man, a good fifteen years older than herself, was attractive in an unusual way with a slightly bent nose and intense green eyes. His hair and moustache were perfectly styled and his clothing was impeccable. It was no wonder many women were crowded around him, although just as many men were hanging onto his every word.
“He is happily married, you know,” said Emma. “Not a single one of them has a chance. Nicholas said he is meeting his wife in London after this little tour of the country.”
Lavinia eyed the women around the poor man. “I suspect some of those women do not care. To gain a famous man’s attention would be quite the blessing.”
“I am surprised Amelia is not trying to speak with him.” Emma took a sip of punch.
Lavinia shrugged. “It is not like she can openly say anything anyway.” She pressed her lips together. “The joys of being a female author.”
Emma made a face, scrunching her freckled nose. “And she is just as talented as Mr. Bentley. But she will never get any acclaim.”
Glancing over at Amelia who was talking with the viscount and blushing at every word, Lavinia shook her head. “I suspect Amelia would rather keep it a secret forever anyway. She’s far too modest for all the attention. Could you imagine her attending something like this?”
Her sister sighed. “I suppose. It still seems mightily unfair.”
Julia and Catherine burst through the crowds. They giggled, sharing a look, and came to a stop in front of the table filled with punch bowls and food.
“Goodness, I need a drink.” Julia fanned a hand in front of her face and ladled a generous helping of fruit punch into a glass.
Lavinia lifted a brow at both of her sisters. Though Julia and Catherine were the most likely of them all to argue, they were also the most headstrong and liable to get into trouble. If they were up to anything, Lavinia and Amelia would never hear the end of it from their mother.
Lavinia swung a look between them both. Catherine was still at a slightly awkward age, having not quite yet grown into womanhood. Though, if she took after the rest of the Chadwicks—with the exception of Lavinia—she would remain skinny. It did, unfortunately, mean that Catherine was especially mischievous, with no sign of growing out of it yet.
“What are you doing?” Lavinia demanded, her tone low.
Julia pressed her lips together. “Why, enjoying the delicious punch of course.” She shared a look with Catherine and a laugh burst from her.
Catherine clamped her lips together but the amusement creased her eyes. Whatever the two of them were up to, it was nothing good. Lavinia sighed. Why did it have to be up to her or Amelia to control her sisters? She had other things to worry about.
Like her impending season. Or the scattering of ‘new’ men in attendance who Mama kept thrusting her way.
Julia put a hand to her hips. “I do not know when you became such a dry old stick, Lavinia.”
“Lavinia is not a dry old stick,” Emma said. “She just doesn’t want you showing her up.”
“Or any of us,” murmured Lavinia.
“Do you really care that much about making a good impression?” Catherine eyed Lavinia. “I mean, you always said if you ever met a man, you wanted it to be natural. Not forced on you. And we all know that is the only reason Mama has obliged us to be involved in this. She wants a husband for you.”
Lavinia swung her gaze around at the crowds of people in the large drawing room. “Believe it or not, I would still prefer for my sisters not to be getting up to trouble, even if Mama were not set on us making a good impression to all the visitors.”
Catherine folded her arms in front of her. “Look, I promise we will not do anything to embarrass you, if that is what you are worried about.”
Waving a hand at them, Lavinia shook her head. “I am not certain I want to know.”
“We have to make our own entertainment somehow. Everyone here is a dullard.” Catherine giggled.
“It’s true,” agreed Julia. “Apart from the Scot.”
“Scot?” asked Emma.
“Oh yes.” Julia’s eyes glinted. “He’s even wearing a kilt and says ‘aye.’ Neither of us could even get near for an introduction.” She rose on to her tiptoes and eyed the room. “Look, there he is. That chap with red hair. He’s ridiculously tall.”
Lavinia peered in the direction her sister was pointing. “I cannot see any redheaded men.”
“He does not have red hair.” Catherine gave her sister a jab with her elbow. “Julia hardly got a look at him. It’s dark with the slightest hint of red.”
Taking another look, Lavinia shook her head. “I still cannot see him.”
“Nor I,” agreed Emma.
“It’s no wonder.” Catherine picked up a biscuit and shoved it into her mouth, speaking around the crumbs. “He is utterly surrounded by pretty much every woman in Hampshire. Anyone would think they had never seen a kilt before.”
“And you have?” asked Julia, rubbing her ribs.
“Yes, several times.” Catherine eyed her defiantly.
Julia rolled her eyes. “You are such a liar.”
Catherine scowled. “How would you know what I have and have not seen?”
“You forget we are almost never apart. Unless you have visited Scotland without us all somehow, there is no chance you have seen a real-life laird.” Julia said.
Lavinia stepped between the two. “Why do we not see if we can get closer to this elusive laird?”
Not that she was all that interested in meeting him but if it stopped her sisters from creating a scene, it would be worth it. The Chadwicks did not have the best reputation at times. Their few jaunts into society had not been successful and their slightly wild looks and bluestocking ways did not do them any favors. If it were not for her own more fashionable looks, Lavinia was certain people would think the same of her.
Emma nodded. “I have a hankering to see what all the excitement is.”
“Mama will not like you being anywhere near him. He is nephew to Mrs. Moore,” Julia explained. “That’s why he is here. He is on his way to London to find a wife and is staying with Mrs. Moore while Mr. Bentley is here.”
“How do you know all this?” Emma asked.
Julia lifted a shoulder. “There are some benefits to being a wallflower. People do not watch their tongue around us. I also heard he has made arrangements with the palace to sell them some of his cattle stock. If he is not rich now, he will be soon.”
Catherine frowned. “Mama cannot be angry that you are talking to Mrs. Moore’s nephew surely? It is hardly his fault—or ours for that matter—that they had a falling out.”
Lavinia pursed her lips. “You are too young to remember their disagreement. I was too really but I can still recall how furious Mama was.”
“Do we even know what the disagreement was about?” Catherine queried.
Shaking her head, Lavinia looked in the direction of the Scot. She could just make out the head of chestnut hair amongst the sea of ladies but little more. “They fell out over a rumor.”
Catherine lifted a brow. “Is that all?”
Lavinia sighed. “Apparently, when Mrs. Moore was engaged to her second husband, it was said that she was only marrying him for money, and she secretly loved another.”
“Ooh and did she?” Emma asked.
“Mrs. Moore refuted it most soundly and blamed Mama for the rumor, claiming she was jealous that she would be richer than Mama,” explained Lavinia. “Of course, Mama was livid and refused to ever speak to Mrs. Moore again. Unfortunately, they are both as stubborn as each other.”
“At least we know where Cathe
rine got that trait from.” Julia thrust her tongue out at their sister.
Catherine made a face in return. “Says you. You are far more stubborn than I.”
“Are we to see this mysterious Scot or not?” Lavinia forcefully thread her arm through Catherine’s and began to move in the direction of the hair that her sisters could not agree on the color of.
They got close, pushing their way through the crowds, but ended up forced back toward the wall. Lavinia shook her head to herself. The man was utterly surrounded by females of all ages.
“I can hardly see him,” Emma moaned. “Is he handsome?”
Lavinia shrugged. “From the women gathered around him, he must be. His hair is nice at least. And hardly any red in it at all.” She giggled.
Catherine sniggered. “Let me try to get close. I am smaller than all of you.”
“No need,” Julia hissed. “He is heading this way. Look.”
The four of them froze. Lavinia peered in his direction and her heart stilled as the crowd parted for a split second. No wonder all these women had been crowding around him. Handsome seemed too mild a word. His gaze locked on hers while he parted the throngs of eager ladies like Moses parting the Red Sea. Every single one of them was enraptured, unable to do anything but his bidding.
Lavinia glanced away and searched frantically for their mother or Amelia. Even Nicholas would do. They had not been introduced properly to the man as yet but he was still heading determinedly their way.
“Oh Lord,” Lavinia heard one of her sisters murmur. Which one it was, she could not be certain. Maybe it was herself. Her head had become strangely muddled, as though filled with cotton.
She understood why all these women fawned over him. He was a welcome relief to all the slick hair and cleanly shaven, dull faces. A little stubble lingered on a strong jawline and she saw why Julia had thought him redheaded. Under the light from the chandeliers, little dashes of red illuminated in his thick, dark, wavy hair that touched his collar and curled slightly over his forehead.
Lavinia and the Laird (Bluestocking Brides Book 0) Page 2
