Rejected by the people of Scotland, rejected by London Society, and now this cruel rejection.
Her heart grew heavy, her limbs stiff with a weariness that went beyond the physical.
Without a word, she turned and fled, her footsteps echoing as she hurried up the grand staircase and down the long corridor to her chambers.
She longed for the comfort of her bed, her heart pounding an unrelenting rhythm against her ribs, a storm she feared might break her.
She slammed the door shut behind her and collapsed onto her bed, pulling the covers over her without bothering to undress. She burrowed deeper, folding herself into the duvet, willing the harshness of the world to fade away.
Closing her eyes, she imagined the rolling hills of her homeland, the scent of heather carried on a gentle breeze. She picturedInverhall, with its rugged beauty. The feel of cold mud beneath her boots, the braid of wildflowers in her hands.
Her thoughts drifted further to a distant memory from her childhood: a simpler time, at her family’s humble home nestled in the northern wilds of Scotland, far from the cold eyes of London.
Backhome.
Memories flooded her: her mother heating water in the iron kettle over the fire as they sat alone in the kitchens at night, the staff fast asleep. The steam rising, carrying the earthy scent of peat with it. She placed fresh chamomile in a small earthenware pot and poured the hot water over it.
The delicate flowers seemed to sigh, releasing their soothing essence into the liquid.
After Elspeth had finished her cup, she told her mother that the tea was magic. But her mother had shaken her head and said, “Ye are wrong, Elspeth. Ye are the magic.”
Slowly but surely, Elspeth’s heart rate slowed. While longing for a warm cup of chamomile tea, she settled for her memories.
She let herself be grounded by the image of her mother’s face, falling into a deep, if restless, sleep.
Chapter Seven
“Lady Inverhall, may I present Lord Marvant?” the Duke said, his voice drier than champagne left out overnight. “A most amiable gentleman and a devoted connoisseur of equestrianism, if memory serves.”
Elspeth turned around with a polite smile, her eyes flicking to his annoyingly handsome profile before settling on the unfortunate creature beside him.
“That is correct, Your Grace,” Lord Marvant replied, his words escaping through a congested nose. He clutched a goblet of burgundy as though it were the crown jewels. “And a very fine pleasure it is to meet you, Lady Inverhall. I have only had the honor of visiting Scotland once, though I must say it made quite the impression.”
“Impression, is it? How so, Me Lord?” she asked, already regretting the question.
“Well,” he began with the solemnity of a man delivering a lecture, “it was terribly green, wasn’t it? Almost offensively so. Treeseverywhere. And sheep—dear God, the sheep! I had a terrible time with my boots in the countryside, mud all over the stitching, and these were from Harlow’s on Bond Street, mind you—quite impossible to replace.”
Elspeth’s smile remained fixed in place, though her soul began to leak from her ears.
“And the air! So bracing. I feltassaultedby it. I recall turning positively pink from the cold, though my valet insisted it was a ‘healthy glow.’” He gave a nasally titter. “Naturally, I was there to inspect a herd belonging to a Laird Mac-something-or-other. Mac… Ross? Or was it MacRintle? No matter. The horses were decent. Stocky. Hardy. A bit too rustic for my tastes. I prefer a more refined gait. Delicate hooves, you know, like Lady Featherstone’s mare, Celestine. A divine creature. I once watched her trot a full circuit without disturbing a single plume on her harness. Remarkable!”
He paused to sip his wine and somehow managed to slurp it.
Elspeth considered throwing her champagne flute into the nearest potted plant and pretending to faint.
She glanced around the grand ballroom at the Duke of Markway’s townhouse, hoping for a rescue.
The chandelier glittered overhead, diamonds sparkled on necks and wrists, and soft music swirled beneath the hum of chatter.And yet, none of it could distract from the thrum of frustration in her blood, or from the man beside her, who was now explaining the bloodline of a particular grey stallion as if he were reciting scripture.
Another sip of champagne. Another attempt not to scream.
It was the third suitor the Duke had presented this evening. The third tedious, over-perfumed bore in a cravat and waistcoat.
She glanced at the Duke, infuriatingly composed in his tailcoat, as though he hadn’t kissed her breathless just days ago. Now, he stood like a blasted statue, cool and indifferent, watching her be paraded about like a prize pig at a market.
His lips—those full, maddening lips—now formed polite, distant smiles for every prospective husband he summoned to her side. She wanted to slap him. Or kiss him.
Possibly both.
