— We’re coming, Lachlan, she says with a smile. We wouldn’t want to keep Maggie waiting, would we?
— Absolutely not, my cousin agrees, swaying slightly. Last time someone made her wait, she rewrote her will and left everything to her canary.
— She doesn’t have a canary, I point out.
— Exactly! he declares triumphantly before staggering back inside.
Jane laughs softly, then turns to me.
— Shall we, Mr. McGregor?
She offers me her arm with theatrical elegance.
— With pleasure, Mrs. McGregor, I reply, taking it.
As we head back toward the ballroom, our hands brush again—and this time, I don’t pull away. Maybe it’s time to allow a little room for improvisation in my life.
CHAPTER 23
JANE
I desperately try to convince myself my makeup isn’t a disaster. Which is a blatant lie. Somewhere between “effortlessly chic” and “experimental art piece created by an LSD-fueled raccoon,” things went horribly wrong. I sigh and grab a cotton pad.
— Get it together, Jane Carter. Or Jane McGregor. Or Jane Carter-McGregor. Or whatever your name is now.
Last night’s ball was surprising in more ways than one—starting with Callum defending me in front of his mother, then that moment on the terrace… and that connection I hadn’t seen coming. We slept in the same bed afterward, without touching, but also without that awkward tension that had defined the nights before. A significant improvement for a marriage that exists only on paper.
Morning came with a quiet promise that something has shifted between us. No words—just a glance, a smile, his hand brushing mine over breakfast. Small things for most couples. Earthquakes on our scale.
And now here I am, getting ready for what Maggie described as “a small informal gathering for a few friends”—which,translated from McGregor into standard English, probably means a lavish event attended by half the Scottish aristocracy.
I redo my makeup for the second time, and this time, I don’t hate it. I slip into a navy skirt, a cream blouse, and comfortable ankle boots—lesson learned the hard way after narrowly avoiding at least three sprained ankles on the estate’s uneven terrain. My hair is twisted into a loose bun my mother would call “perfectly imperfect.” Thinking of her—of how she lives life entirely on her own terms—makes me wonder if, in her eyes, I’m the Callum of this situation. I sigh. My thoughts are all over the place this morning.
As I leave the bedroom, I nearly collide with Keira, who rushes past in denim overalls and a T-shirt that boldly declaresUnicorns Are Real and They’re Rude.
— You look gorgeous, she says, giving me a once-over. Shame it’s for what’s shaping up to be a terrible day.
My stomach drops.
— Why? What’s happening?
— You didn’t hear? Heather’s back.
— Heather? The woman in red who stared me down all night? Wasn’t she supposed to leave after the ball?
Keira shakes her head, her curls bouncing like rebellious springs.
— Apparently she has “business in the area.” About as convincing as a Scottish thong.
— I didn’t know Scottish thongs were a thing, and I’d very much like to keep living in that blissful ignorance, thank you.
— Wise choice, she agrees. Anyway, Heather graciously offered to stop by for tea. And Mother, in her infinite wisdom, accepted.
— Fantastic, I mutter. Exactly what I needed today—tea with my husband’s ex while his mother judges how I hold my cup.
— Don’t worry, I’ll be there too. And I fully intend to be particularly insufferable today. For you.
— You’re my hero, Keira McGregor.
