Highland Awakening

by Jennifer Haymore

  She was a horrible person. The laughter died in her throat, and she looked down, appalled.

  “I’m sorry,” she whispered.

  Henry squeezed her hand. “It’s quite all right. I’m simply concerned for your welfare.”

  He was so good. Yet the man had never made her heart beat frantically. He’d never brought sweat to her palms. He had never aroused her.

  Not like McLeod had after she’d known him for only a few minutes.

  But that was of no consequence. This was the man she was going to marry. Anyone would tell her that craving the tingling feeling in her core was a waste of time when considering a husband.

  She didn’t love Henry, and she was quite certain he didn’t love her. But Esme needed to marry, and when Henry had been presented as an option, it had seemed like the perfect solution to her troubles.

  It had all happened this past winter. After many months, the chatter about the Dowager Duchess of Trent’s marriage to a gypsy had died to a dull roar, and the greedy gossipmongers had needed something new about the House of Trent to spew to the hungry masses.

  When she was twenty, Esme had been kidnapped by an evil man trying to use her as bait to get to her brother Sam. She’d spent days tied up in an attic before her brothers had finally rescued her.

  By last winter this was an old story, but people were hungry for something, and it was a prime opportunity for some inventive person to speculate.

  And speculate, he did. He published an anonymous piece in one of the gossip rags about how Lady Esme hadn’t been kidnapped, but instead was trysting with an unknown lover, only to be found and yanked from the man’s arms by the frantic Duke of Trent a few days later. The writer proclaimed that since then, the duke and his family had done everything in their power to hide the truth: Their sister was no better than a Covent Garden strumpet.

  Esme had been stunned at the viciousness of this attack, but Trent was enraged. He did everything he could to find the author of the piece, to no avail. The best he could do was force the paper to publish a retraction, write his own rebuttal describing the events of the kidnapping, and contract a marriage for her to a decent, respected gentleman who truly believed in her innocence.

  That man had been Henry. He’d been acquainted with her since she was a child. He was a family friend. A respected gentleman. And quite eager to marry her, especially once he’d heard the enormous number attached to Esme’s dowry.

  Trent’s efforts had worked, for the most part. Esme knew some still whispered about her, wondered if she’d indeed run off with some man. But most people had dismissed the article as vicious slander.

  Now she just stood on the terrace, looking down and watching the glow of the wall sconces flickering over the tiles, while Henry pressed on her hand for several minutes. He was so kind, so patient. Finally, she sucked in another deep breath of the cool night air and looked up at him.

  “I’m so very sorry. I just…” Her voice dwindled. She still couldn’t explain it.

  He shook his head, looking stern. “Don’t be.” His brows drew together. “Was it Mr. McLeod? Do you know him?”

  “Ah…” She scrambled in her brain for a response. “I don’t know him, really. I might have seen him once before.”

  That was the truth, after all.

  “Then it wasn’t him who upset you?”

  “Oh no!”

  That was a lie.

  “Good,” he said firmly. After a beat, he cocked his head and added, “Are you ready to go back inside?”

  She looked at the French doors, dread clawing at her gut.

  For all she knew, McLeod had spent the last ten minutes in there regaling everyone with the story of their encounter in the whorehouse. She swallowed hard.

  She’d never considered herself a brave woman. But now was the time for bravery. She needed to know if McLeod had destroyed her. If he hadn’t, she’d be strong and get through this night. If he had…well, she had no idea what she’d do.

  They returned inside just as dinner was announced. They all filed into the grand dining room. Henry wasn’t paired with her as her dining partner; instead she was partnered with Lord Pinfield, a round man who always made Esme feel vaguely uneasy. Esme knew Pinfield and her brother sat in Parliament together and were of a mind about most of the issues. However, while the men encountered each other frequently, Esme knew they had never been friends. And though Trent had told her nothing of his opinion of Pinfield, she knew why. Pinfield was…slimy.

  He held out his arm for her, and she hesitated openly before coming to her senses and taking it. She forced a smile onto her face as she looked up at Pinfield. “I hope you are enjoying your evening, my lord.”

  “Oh, I am.” Pinfield chuckled. “Immensely.”

  And…she had no more weapons in her arsenal of pleasant conversation. She’d run completely out of things to say to him. She was a poor conversationalist in the best of times, but right now she could feel McLeod’s presence behind her. She could feel his eyes burning into the exposed skin of the back of her neck.

  Yet no one else appeared to be looking at her askance. Everyone was talking gaily, and the atmosphere was cheerful. Surely that wouldn’t be the case if McLeod had told them about Esme’s foray into the whorehouse.

  With that thought bolstering her, she lowered herself into the seat Pinfield held out for her. He sat to her right and she took a deep breath, watching as Trent, Sarah, and the remaining guests took their seats around them.

  The grand dining room was just that—grand. Esme and her family only ate in here on special occasions, usually preferring the cozy, sunny comfort of the breakfast room to take their meals. The grand dining room was a long, stately room with an enormous walnut table running its length. Three crystal chandeliers hung over the table, each one containing scores of candles to cast light over the meal.

  The table itself was decorated with a dozen candles placed at intervals interrupted by a pair of large crystal-and-silver epergnes brimming with red roses and blocking Esme’s view of the people sitting across from her.

  The seat to her left was pulled out, and she turned just as McLeod sat down beside her. He was facing away from her, seeing to the comfort of the lady he’d been paired with, and Esme’s mouth went dry as she gazed at the soft-looking strands of black hair that curled against the collar of his stylish, tight-fitting tailcoat.

  Probably feeling her eyes on him, he turned. A slight, wry smile lifted the corners of his mouth.

  “Lady Esme,” he said cordially, with a tilt of his head. But she didn’t miss the slight emphasis on Lady, as if he was chastising her for forgetting to include that very important bit of information when she’d told him her name last night.

  “Mr. McLeod,” she pushed out, her voice sounding breathless and weak. There didn’t seem to be enough air in this room.

  “Will you look at all those lovely roses!” the woman to McLeod’s left squealed, and with a slight nod to Esme, he turned away to answer his companion.

  “Hot in here, ain’t it?”

  She heard Pinfield’s voice as if from miles away, and she returned her attention to him, murmuring yes, it was very hot indeed, and perhaps she should ask to keep the doors open…

  Pinfield kept up a blustering conversation throughout the meal, talking mostly of the food, criticizing it for not containing enough salt, or of the meat being too thoroughly cooked or the vegetables not soft enough. He ladled her turtle soup, then handed her a plate for her fish and carved her venison roast.

  Esme usually possessed a rather hearty appetite, but tonight was different. Her stomach was tied up into so many knots that the thought of introducing food into it made her nauseous. So she moved the food around on her plate to make it look at least partially eaten, and took sips of her wine, all the while pretending to commiserate with Pinfield on the low quality of the food—which everyone else around them appeared to be complimenting generously.

  Pleasant conversation was punctuated by the
clink of silver on porcelain, but even as she tried to pay attention to Pinfield, she thought about the man who was currently making the entire left side of her body burn.

  It was odd that McLeod was at this end of the table. The guests were seated in order of precedence, and he was up here toward the duke’s end, just below Viscount Pinfield. As a “mister” he wasn’t a lord—not yet, at least. To rank just below a viscount, he must be the son of an earl, or the younger son of a marquis, and it wasn’t like the country was awash with earls and marquises. In fact, even as seldom as she was out in society, Esme knew all of the marquises and many of the earls both in England and Scotland by their titles, most of them by sight. So why on earth had she never heard of him before? Why had she never seen him before?

  It was a mystery that whipped around in her head even as she halfheartedly stirred the food on her plate and nodded serenely at Lord Pinfield’s declaration that rump of mutton was the best kind of meat in the world.

  At last it was time for dessert—cherries, apricots, and cheeses, along with an apricot ice and lemon syllabub.

  “May I offer you some cherries, milady?”

  Mr. McLeod’s voice in her ear made her jump, and she turned to him. When she didn’t answer him right away, he cocked his head expectantly.

  “No,” she breathed. “No, thank you.”

  “Very well.” He set the bowl of cherries on the table in front of his plate. A quick glance beyond him revealed that his dinner partner was talking with the gentleman to her left. Pinfield was speaking to Lady Bellingham, who sat to his right.

  Esme and Mr. McLeod were free to converse.

  He held up his wineglass and gave her a meaningful look. He was offering to take wine with her. She lifted her wineglass, squeezing the stem tightly. He raised his glass to hers, his eyes glinting with…with what?

  What did it mean that his eyes glinted like that? She had no idea. Nor did she have any idea how to interpret the slightly mocking expression upon his face.

  He hadn’t told anyone. She was sure he hadn’t betrayed her secret. If he had, she would have known by now. Then why was he looking at her like that? Did he intend to reveal it later, during the dancing?

  Snap!

  The stem of her wineglass broke, flinging the entire upper part toward her. The bottom portion toppled onto the table while wine splashed over her bosom and the rest of the glass plopped directly into her lap.

  She stared at her hand, now empty.

  She’d been clutching the crystal with all her strength. Too hard obviously.

  A cool trail of wine trickled between her breasts, and she looked down. The beautiful dress was ruined, with blotches of red staining the bodice and a big deep-red blob right in the middle of her lap—the most unfortunate location possible. As the liquid began to seep over her thighs, she looked back up to find a dining room that had gone dead silent, more than twenty pairs of eyes staring at her, aghast.

  Her heart began to hammer in her chest. Her palms grew wet. She sucked in short, choppy breaths.

  Mr. McLeod removed the glass from her lap and handed her his napkin before rising and holding out his hand to her.

  “Lady Esme was given a deficient wineglass,” he announced to the room at large, his tone polite but with a tinge of disapproval directed at whomever would be so despicable as to give her a wineglass on the verge of breaking.

  She allowed him to help her out of the chair. But then Sarah appeared, standing at her other side.

  “Thank you so much, Mr. McLeod. Esme, dearest, I’ll take you to get cleaned up. Everyone, please, enjoy your dessert. Lady Esme and I will return shortly.”

  Esme was mute with horror as they left the dining room and headed upstairs. “Oh, dear,” Sarah murmured as she ushered her along. “You’re going to have to change your dress. I don’t believe this one is salvageable—at least not tonight.”

  Esme managed a nod as they reached the top of the stairs and turned toward her bedchamber.

  She was hopeless. She’d embarrassed her family yet again.

  Once they were safely inside her room, she stopped short and put her head in her hands. “Oh, Sarah,” she said, her voice laden with misery. “I’m so sorry.”

  “Don’t be,” Sarah said with her usual efficient kindness. “You are hardly to blame for a faulty wineglass.”

  She shook her head miserably. “Mr. McLeod was just being kind. You and I—along with everyone else in that room—know there was nothing wrong with my glass. I have failed you and Trent again. I knew I shouldn’t—”

  “Stop,” Sarah said, her voice quiet but firm. “Of course you should. You haven’t failed us. All you did was spill a glass of wine.”

  “I…just…I can’t…” Her voice shook, and Sarah led her to the chair at her desk.

  “It’s all right,” Sarah soothed.

  Why was she like this? In the grand scheme, Sarah was right. She’d only spilled a glass of wine. But people would giggle about it tomorrow. There might even be another idiotic caricature of her in the gossip rags.

  It was yet another failure to add to all her other public failures, and en masse, they threatened to crush her.

  There was a knock on the door—Polly come to help her change her dress. Sarah must have summoned her at some point during the long walk from the dining room.

  As Esme sat, trying to get her breathing under control, Polly and Sarah chose another dress for her to wear, speaking in low tones in her closet. They emerged with a primrose ball gown edged with white, with a wide white belt just below the breasts.

  “What do you think?” Sarah asked.

  She gave a nod of approval. “Yes.”

  Sarah came over and laid a hand on her shoulder. “I need to go back downstairs. You’ll be all right?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you’ll rejoin us as soon as you’re dressed?”

  She gave Sarah a hopeless look. “Are you sure you want me to?”

  “Of course.” Sarah’s voice was warm and honest. “Listen, I know how challenging these parties are for you, Esme. But your brother and I are proud of you. We think you’re brave and strong for attending these events that are so difficult for you.”

  Esme managed a small smile, amazed that they were so kind to her after everything she’d done. It surprised her that they hadn’t given up on her long ago. Perhaps the time she’d caused a half-dozen partygoers to fall into a heap on a ballroom floor, provoking a riot of glee in the gossip rags the following day. Or when she’d been so buried in her secret writings that she hadn’t noticed her mother had disappeared from her house without a trace days earlier. Or perhaps when she’d inadvertently given Princess Charlotte the cut direct…

  Truly, she should not be allowed outside her bedchamber. It would be better for everyone.

  “Thank you, Sarah.”

  Sarah bent down and kissed her cheek, and in a flurry of skirts she was gone, closing the door softly behind her.

  “Here now, milady,” Polly said, “let’s get you out of that wet dress.”

  Chapter 6

  Ten minutes later, Esme headed back downstairs, her hands clutched into fists at her sides, reminding herself with each step that she needed to do this. Avoidance was cowardice, and it was her duty to make a reappearance.

  But a part of her knew it wasn’t only duty that drove her; it was an insatiable curiosity about Mr. McLeod. She needed to glean some information about his real identity…and learn what he intended to do with the information he now knew about her.

  She found the ladies congregated in the drawing room, awaiting the gentlemen, who were still in the dining room enjoying their port.

  Ladies flocked to her as soon as she appeared, murmuring how sorry they were about her defective wineglass and commiserating with her regarding the ruin of her lovely dress, though several agreed that they liked the one she wore now even better.

  She managed tremulous smiles and nods until the ladies were drawn away by someone’s suggest
ion to take turns singing and playing on the pianoforte. She took several deep breaths, watching them as they laughed and argued good-naturedly over sheet music, and Sarah came to stand by her side.

  “Are you all right?” her sister-in-law asked in a low voice.

  “Yes. I think so.”

  “Good.” Sarah paused. “What Mr. McLeod did in there…I thought it was very kind.”

  Esme latched on to this opening. “Who is Mr. McLeod? I have never seen him in Town.”

  Sarah’s lips curved. “He is the heir of the Earl of Sutton.”

  Esme blinked. “Oh.”

  The Earl of Sutton she did know. He had once been a friend to her father, but Trent despised him for reasons she’d never been able to determine. She’d met the man once, at a ball, and he’d looked at her with cold blue eyes—eyes, now that she thought of it, quite similar to his son’s. In fact, the earl looked very much like an older version of Cam. She was surprised, come to think of it, that she hadn’t made the connection earlier.

  “Mr. McLeod does not interact with society much,” Sarah continued in a low voice. “He had a very open falling out with his father years ago. Evidently, it included a decision on his part to avoid the haute ton altogether. He did so by joining the army and participating in many campaigns, including Waterloo. But now he’s evidently given up his commission and returned to London. We invited him because he’s a friend of Lord Pinfield, and Pinfield asked if we would extend the invitation. Your brother thought it would be a good idea to get to know him a little better.”

  Esme frowned, remembering Betty at the whorehouse telling her and Mr. McLeod that she and “Pinny” wanted food. Had she meant Lord Pinfield? Had Mr. McLeod and Pinfield come to the establishment searching for the same thing?

  Maybe when she’d encountered him, Mr. McLeod hadn’t yet found his “girl” to entertain him for the evening. Perhaps he’d intended for Esme to be that girl.