She had always dreamed of how it would feel to attend a ball, but whenever she found herself getting lost in her imagination, she reminded herself of how impossible it was for her to attend one, considering her family situation. In light of this, the Countess’s offer was a dream come true.
In no time, it began. She was invited to the modiste in London and was fitted for several dresses. The process was tiring, standing and enduring the pinning and the poking, but she was happy to endure it in the hope of getting beautiful gowns.
The weeks that followed were filled with lessons—dancing lessons, comportment lessons, all aimed to prepare her to put her best foot forward in the battle with the other debutantes who had had years to learn and practice.
Eventually, when the day came, she did surprisingly well, smiling and dancing even while her brain was doing its best to keep count. In the end, her first outing was a success, and the Countess had been satisfied and confident that she would make a good match before the Season’s end.
Well, she did make a match, but not necessarily a good one.
It was there that she had caught Lord Westall’s eye. He had tried to woo her, calling on her with flowers, offering to take her on walks.
On paper, he was a good suitor. He had a title, was wealthy, and had graduated from the great Edinburgh College. While he was nowhere close to the prestige ascribed to dukes and earls, for the daughter of a baronet, he was a good suitor. But somehow she could not bring herself to accept him as a suitor, her aversion to him rooted in his confidence that everything would go his way.
He boasted about his family wealth, and that pride she foresaw as what could bring his downfall. Eventually, she had expressed her disinterest in marrying him.
At first, he seemed to have accepted her decision, but soon she realized just how treacherous he could be. He went behind her back to consult with her father. She had repeated her decision to her father. She had expected him to protect and respect her decision, but she must have overestimated the remaining shred of his integrity because in no time, he was coercing her to marry Lord Westall, without giving her any reasons.
She had not been willing to sacrifice her happiness for his comfort, and yet she had found herself forced to the altar.
By all means, this wedding was supposed to be different compared to her first trip down the aisle. She did care about her groom and wanted to marry him because she thought he felt the same, but that was before he had reduced the vows that they were about to speak to duty.
“Are ye well?” Keira asked from beside her, watching her with a concerned expression.
“Yes,” Violet replied, forcing a smile for the little girl’s benefit.
“Ye look verra bonny. I am verra sure Da wouldnae be able to look away,” Keira said with an excited chuckle.
Violet maintained her smile, feeling the strain in her cheeks.
She could see through Keira’s efforts. It was obvious that the girl had felt the tension between her and her father.
Violet wondered if Ruaridh would ever look at her with adoring eyes, her presence not already a reminder of her father’s betrayal. A part of her was tempted to run away, far away from this union and the constant judgment she was going to see in his eyes for a time, but she refused to give in to cowardice. She knew the damage surrendering to one’s fear could cause.
Standing up, she made her way outside. Her father took her arm, and they walked towards the castle doors. The closer they got, the more nervous she grew, her hand trembling. She instinctively tightened her grip on his sleeve.
In that moment, she was grateful for her father’s presence, for it grounded her.
“You look beautiful,” he told her with a proud smile, his eyes shining as if he were fighting back tears.
He did mean it. She was his only child after all, and she was marrying and staying permanently in the Highlands, which was miles away from England. Despite her reservations, she was going to miss him. Immensely.
Overcome with emotion, she simply nodded in reply, not trusting her voice. When the doors opened, she saw the clansmen gathered inside the chapel and the priest standing on the top of the raised dais in front of the hall..
Ruaridh was there too, standing at the foot of the stairs, and he was watching her. Even from a distance, she could feel the intensity of his gaze, even though she could not read his expression.
“You know you can change your mind,” her father said quietly beside her, drawing her gaze. “I might not have been a great father in recent times, but if you say the word, I would take you away from here.”
“You do not have to, Papa. I want to marry him.” She smiled in gratitude.
She gripped his sleeve, and they stepped forward, making their way towards the raised dais in the chapel amidst murmurs. She knew that asides Logan, none of the other clansmen had witnessed her father’s treachery but perhaps the news had spread as the murmurs she was now hearing were far from friendly.
She could feel the heat of their gazes on the nape of her neck, and shame tied her stomach in knots. Through it all, she kept her head up, walking down the aisle with confidence. She had not come this far to crumble easily before paltry criticism.
When they got to the stairs, Ruaridh held her gaze even while her father placed her hand in his. The heat of his grip sent the butterflies in her belly into confused flight.
It was mortifying just how easily he could upset her composure with a simple touch, even now, when the tenderness was missing from his eyes.
Breaking their gaze, she stared at his chest and the brooch that was at her eye level. It was shaped to resemble the petals of heather, pinned to his kilt.
