My One True Highlander

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  For Jack, whose teenager logic I find endlessly fascinating and useful,

  and

  For Ryan, who would totally have pet foxes if we’d let him

  Prologue

  “Oh,” Lady Marjorie Forrester muttered, taking a hasty step backward to avoid Lord Belcast and his wildly unpredictable walking cane. “Well, a good day to you anyway, my lord.”

  Pulling her shawl more closely around her shoulders against the October chill, she even gave a polite half curtsy at his swiftly retreating backside for good measure before she continued up Bond Street. One never knew who might be observing, after all. The Season had ended weeks ago, and only those lords and ladies with the most urgent business chose London over the countryside and hunting, but Mayfair was never empty. And so she kept her eyes level, her chin high, and her expression a pleasant half smile. Ladies didn’t show perturbation. Everyone knew that.

  Everyone, Viscount Belcast included, also knew that a gentleman didn’t ignore a lady and nearly trample her, either—which meant, clearly, that he didn’t see her as a lady. He should have; she’d been to boarding school and a reputable finishing school, after all. She knew which utensils to use when, in which order guests entered a dining room, just how many waltzes could be played at a soiree without risking scandal, and a thousand other things merely awaiting the proper moment to be enacted.

  And so she remained a perfectly refined, poised lady on the outside. Inside, though, Marjorie seethed. She tightened her fingers around the ribbons of her reticule and clenched her jaw. For nearly three months she’d faced this daily nonsense, and for nearly three months she’d told herself that eventually Lord Belcast or Lady Ingram or Lord Albert Masters or someone would look her in the eye and nod or tip a hat or inquire as to how her day was proceeding. Clearly, though, she’d miscalculated.

  Keeping her steps measured, she strolled past the milliner’s where she’d intended to purchase a new straw hat, and instead turned up Brook Street in the direction of the supremely fashionable houses on Grosvenor Square. It made no sense to purchase a hat when no one would ever acknowledge her existence, much less her choice of chapeau.

  Two houses from the corner she passed through the open wrought-iron gates and up the half-dozen shallow steps to the grand double doors of Leeds House. As she reached the top step the left-hand door swung inward and the long-faced butler standing there in black livery inclined his head.

  “My lady. We didn’t expect you back so soon,” he intoned.

  Marjorie put on a smile. “I decided the day was too pretty for shopping,” she said. “I’d rather spend it out in the garden. Winter will be here before we know it.”

  “Of course, my lady. I’ll have Mary fetch your gloves and pruning shears.”

  “Thank you, Michaels.”

  “And Mrs. Giswell is in the breakfast room. She … expressed surprise that you’d gone out so early—and without an escort.”

  “If I’d required anyone else’s presence, I would have requested it,” she returned, disliking the brusque tone she heard in her voice and too annoyed still at London to be able to suppress it. “Please tell her that she can do as she wishes for the remainder of the day. I won’t be going out again.”

  The butler nodded, then cleared his throat. “If I may, Lady Marjorie, I believe it will only be a matter of time before your esteemed peers see you for the gracious young lady you are.”

  She’d become completely transparent, then. “Thank you for saying so, Michaels, but I think we both know the truth.”

  Everyone knew the truth. She’d simply become the last one to acknowledge it. A few months ago, when she’d been Lady Sarah Jeffer’s companion and living in a tiny room in a tiny house that smelled of cats and mildew, she’d been perfectly acceptable. Perhaps she hadn’t attempted to shop on Bond Street, but no one had pretended not to see her. Lord Belcast had even nodded at her once, even if it had only been to acknowledge that he’d nearly stepped on her.

  “They haven’t had the privilege of speaking with you, my l—”

  “There you are, Lady Marjorie,” the exceedingly proper voice of Mrs. Giswell exclaimed.

  Inwardly Marjorie winced. “Yes, here I am,” she said with forced lightness, when she would rather be punching something. “I’m off to the garden, as a matter of fact.”

  “Michaels said you’d gone out. I know I do not need to remind you that the sister of a duke does not go anywhere without an escort. Particularly a sister who is barely one-and-twenty years of age and unmarried. If you wish to be accepted by your peers, you—”

  “I would do well to be seen with a proper companion,” Marjorie finished, since she’d memorized this particular speech weeks ago. “Especially one who served as a companion to Princess Sophia.” She didn’t quite understand why Hortensia Giswell held up that bit of her employment as exceptional; Princess Sophia was the sister of the Prince Regent, of course, but there were also all those nasty rumors about an illegitimate child. Perhaps that was why Mrs. Giswell had left the royal household, though. Either she’d failed in her duty, or more likely, she found the scandal too unladylike for her sensibilities.

  “Precisely,” Mrs. Giswell returned, clearly not reading Marjorie’s thoughts. “I know my way around etiquette and protocol. And, if I may point out, you were the one who hired me.”

  “I recall,” Marjorie said, sighing. And she’d done so with good reason. Not only did Society dislike her in general, but even under the best of circumstances she would be considered too young to run a household on her own. Everyone knew a young lady did not introduce herself into Society, either—she always had a mother or an aunt or at the least a more mature female as family or friend who would show her about.

  She, however, didn’t have anyone to step in as her mentor. And until very recently she’d never thought a mature female would be required, except to serve as her employer. Young ladies of her station—well educated, but three or four sidesteps away from the peerage—became either governesses or companions or the wives of shopkeepers. If she’d found a successful barrister or a parson, well, that would be the epitome of the level of comfort she might have hoped to find. And so she’d applied to be the companion of Lady Sarah Jeffers, a minor earl’s youngest sister, and had spent eight months fluffing pillows, hurrying out to purchase hair ribbons or sweet biscuits, and pushing cats off her lap. Until just under three months ago, she’d thought to spend the remainder of her life being someone’s paid … slave. This morning, she remained unconvinced that her new circumstances marked much of an improvement. Yes, she was the one doing the hiring, but she could well imagine cats in her future.

  “Well, if you wish to stay by my side and protect my reputation today, Mrs. Giswell,” she said aloud, “I’ll be pruning back the rhododendrons in the garden.”

  “You still need a new bonnet to wear to Lady Faresie’s breakfast,” the older woman count
ered. “She invited you, and so you must not embarrass her.”

  Marjorie sighed. “I think she invited me precisely so her other guests will have someone at whom to point and whisper.”

  “That is very likely. And it is still your first invitation to a proper gathering. In my opinion, you must attend. At this time of year you won’t be facing the heart of the beau monde, but the fringes. You won’t have a better opportunity to begin to fit in.”

  That encouraging talk followed Marjorie all the way out to her garden, which spoke well for Mrs. Giswell’s determination even if it also made her own head pound. All of the opportunities in the world wouldn’t matter if Society had already decided that the sister of a jumped-up duke didn’t deserve recognition.

  Heavens, when she’d read that Harold Leeds, the Duke of Lattimer, had died and apparently left no heirs, she hadn’t even dreamed that she and her brother might be Lattimer’s last surviving relations. Gabriel certainly hadn’t considered it; he’d been far too occupied with the war on the Peninsula to even read London newspapers. But there they were, the army major who became a duke and the lady’s companion who became a duke’s sister.

  At first when Gabriel had told her about the unexpected inheritance and then given her Leeds House for herself, she’d thought all of her dreams had come true. Ha. Yes, she now resided at one of the grandest houses in London, and yes, she would never have to seek employment again. And for that she did feel blessed.

  Marjorie frowned as she snipped off spent pink blooms and errant branches. A comfortable home and an income. Balanced against being snubbed by viscountesses and pushed away by former schoolmates afraid of losing their own positions in grand households if they were seen with her, perhaps she had nothing at all about which to complain.

  “Am I expecting too much?” she asked aloud.

  “That isn’t for me to say, Lady Marjorie,” Mrs. Giswell returned. The lady’s companion sat on a bench, a parasol in one hand and a book in the other. Evidently gardening wasn’t ladylike enough for her. “You must be content with doing your utmost, and leave the rest to hope. Certainly your plan to remain in London throughout the winter can only help. Your peers who come to visit Town will begin to view you as a familiar sight.”

  “I’m remaining in London because I have nowhere else to go,” Marjorie countered. “This is the residence Gabriel gave me. Whether it does me any good to stay here or not is a moot point, is it not?”

  “But you can see to it that being here does serve you well.”

  Marjorie shook herself. Growing up with only an absent older brother for family, one who’d made certain to send her to the best boarding schools he could afford, she’d never felt the need to complain. She’d been grateful for it. Now, when she had so much more, noting every instance of someone being unkind to her seemed ridiculous and ungrateful.

  “I apologize, Mrs. Giswell,” she said, straightening to face her companion. “All we can do is our best, and you’ve certainly encouraged that in me.”

  The older woman smiled. “And I shall continue to do so, my lady.”

  Before she could resume her pruning, Michaels appeared from the side of the house. He carried a silver salver held out in front of him, and Marjorie took a breath. Could it be that she’d received another invitation? It would mark only the second one in three months.

  “My lady, a letter has just arrived for you,” the butler announced, his own hopeful expression probably a mirror of hers.

  Stripping off one glove, she took the folded missive off the tray. The heavy, precise script spelling out her name and the Leeds House address both made her smile and lifted her heart a little. “It’s from Gabriel,” she said, breaking the wax seal and unfolding it.

  Over the years she and her brother had had more conversations via letter than in person, and she’d become accustomed to his brief, straightforward style. Even so, she had to read the dozen lines twice before her mind grasped precisely what it was he was saying. “Goodness,” she breathed, reading the note a third time just to be certain.

  “I hope it isn’t bad news, my lady,” Michaels offered, evidently intending to stand there until dismissed.

  “No. No, it isn’t bad news. It’s very good news, in fact. I think.” She looked up. “My brother’s getting married.”

  For the briefest of moments Mrs. Giswell looked … disappointed, but she affixed a smile on her face so swiftly that Marjorie couldn’t be certain if she hadn’t just imagined it. Her companion set down her book and clapped her free hand against the fist holding the parasol. “Oh, splendid news indeed! Who is she? The new Duchess of Lattimer could pave your way into the very heart of Society with barely a flick of her fingers.”

  “I … um.” Marjorie gave a short laugh that sounded a bit brittle even to her own ears. “He’s marrying Miss Fiona Blackstock. His Lattimer estate manager.”

  Now Mrs. Giswell looked like she’d swallowed a bug. “A miss?” she forced out. “A Scottish miss? Not the daughter of a marquis or even an earl? But—”

  “My brother,” Marjorie interrupted, “has spent most of his life as a soldier. I doubt a pretty curtsy and a ‘lady’ before a female’s name would impress him.”

  “Well, he certainly hasn’t done you—or his new dynasty—any favors.”

  Gabriel and his new dynasty more than likely would stay as far away from London and proper Society as he could manage. But that didn’t signify at the moment, not when abrupt and unexpected excitement tugged at her insides. “He says they’ll marry next month, but that the weather then will be too harsh for visitors, and so I may come see them in the spring.”

  “That, at least, sounds reasonable,” Mrs. Giswell seconded, nodding. “No civilized person would wish to travel to the Highlands in November. I daresay if he waited until spring, though, he could wed properly here in London, perhaps even at St. Paul’s, during the little Season.”

  Marjorie pulled off her other glove and set both of them together with the pruners on Michaels’s tray. “Gabriel and I have missed celebrating Christmases, birthdays, Easters, and every other holiday together since I turned eight and he joined the army at seventeen. He will not wait for spring, or London, and I am not going to miss his wedding.”

  “It seems to me that he very clearly stated his wishes, my lady,” her companion countered. “As both your older brother and the Duke of Lattimer, he is to be obeyed regard—”

  “You may obey him, then,” Marjorie cut in. A month or two away from the diminished hordes of the haut ton who pretended not to see her, from day after day of feeling more lonely than she ever had as a paid companion, and given the idea that she would now have a sister, a third member of their very small family—waiting until spring would be intolerable. “I’m leaving for Scotland tomorrow.”

  Chapter One

  Graeme, Viscount Maxton, stripped off his heavy work gloves as he strode up the hill toward the house. “Calm yerself, Connell,” he urged, “before ye split the seat of yer trousers.”

  His youngest brother continued circling and leaping about like a pine marten after a mouse. “But it’s the Maxwell!” the eight-year-old exclaimed, grabbing one of Graeme’s hands to pull him along. “Ye said after last year he’d nae darken our doorway again, but there he is, himself! The Duke of Dunncraigh! And two grand coaches!”

  Two coaches? That didn’t bode well. Eight, nine men plus the coach drivers, all of them following after the dinner scraps of the chief of clan Maxwell. “Where are yer brothers?” Graeme asked, sending a glance across the field. Old Dunham Moore stood hip-deep in the irrigation ditch digging out an old tree limb, but other than that the field and green slopes beyond stood empty. Even the crows had flown elsewhere to search for a meal.

  “Brendan says he’s making a fishing lure,” the eight-year-old offered, “but I ken he’s writing a love poem to Isobel Allen or Keavy Fox because he locked his door.”

  Locked in a bedchamber was good, whatever the actual reason for it. “And Dùgh
las?”

  “He’s the one who sent me oot to find ye, Graeme. I heard the Maxwell say he was growing into a fine young lad.”

  Graeme tightened his grip on Connell’s hand, drawing him to a halt. “I ken ye’re excited, duckling, but I need ye to go help old Dunham in the ditch right now. And I need ye to stay there until I or one of the lads come and fetch ye.”

  The boy’s light gray eyes narrowed, then widened. Swallowing, he swiped his too long brown hair from his face. “I can go fetch Uncle Raibeart,” he offered, his young voice quavering a little. “I’m nae tired at all.”

  The offer tempted Graeme. If it had been one of the older boys, he might have agreed to it. But under no circumstances did he mean to send Connell running two miles across the countryside while the Duke of Dunncraigh’s brutes wandered about. “I dunnae think we’ll need Raibeart,” he returned, “but I do need ye close enough to hear trouble and far enough to stay oot of it. One of us has to be ready to run fer help.”

  Connell nodded, swallowing again. “I’ll be ready.”

  Smacking the boy on the arse to speed him on his way, Graeme topped the hill. He knew by heart every inch of this land, of the white and gray walls of Garaidh nan Leòmhann, but the two heavy coaches and accompanying quartet of saddled mounts crowded on the front drive were new. His groom, Johnny, was nowhere in sight to collect or even water the animals, which hopefully meant the stay would be brief.

  As he reached the front door it remained closed; either Cowen was occupied elsewhere, or the butler was in hiding. Graeme lowered the handle and shoved the heavy, stubborn oak open with his shoulder.

  “So ye decided to make an appearance after all,” a low voice drawled from the morning room doorway. “I dunnae ken if that makes ye brave, or stupid.”

  “A bit of both, I reckon. I see ye still dress English,” Graeme returned, debating whether to push past the Maxwell’s nephew or wait for an invitation. “Good fer ye, Artur. I thought after the duke’s dealings with Lattimer, he might have ordered ye to stop wearing Sassenach clothes.”