“The braw bruiser, Zipporah calls him. Ah, how the plot thickens very much upon us, as the duke of Buckingham once said.” Loveday smiled, ever the optimist. “Surely there’s a silver lining somewhere. Though I prefer the words of Saint Paul—in everything give thanks. Why not think of our sudden and precipitous situation in those terms?”
“We have no choice in the matter, it seems.”
Loveday reached over and squeezed Juliet’s hand. “So Father has arranged a Scottish marriage for you. You’ll be mistress of Ardraigh Hall with its lovely gardens. More importantly, you’ll be stepmother to the twins. Though we don’t know their names and ages yet, that seems a delightful prospect.”
“Delightful? More daunting.”
“Perhaps a blend of both.” Sympathy clouded her pale features. “But I shall be there to help you in any way possible. If we were to be separated, I couldn’t bear it.”
“Nor I.” Expelling a sigh helped Juliet not at all. “Butthere’s tomorrow to get through first, when I must go to the Ravenals’ for Christmas dinner and meet my intended, knowing all the facts and figures. How can I possibly face Mr. Buchanan when I feel such mortification over the matter?”
Her pride was wounded. Her independence. Though he’d seen through her own matchmaking, she’d not had a whiff of his—rather, her father’s—scheme. The secrecy of it still stung. Amid the marriage negotiations, she felt a deep hurt. A betrayal.
“He wanted to tell you how matters stand from the first, but I objected.”
At least Leith Buchanan had attempted to deal forthrightly. Father had likely objected because he knew she would refuse.
“I know ’tis difficult.” Loveday’s dulcet voice returned her to the present. “As for tomorrow, remember Christmas Day. Think of our sudden change of fortune as a gift.”
25
Gestures in love are incomparably more attractive, effective, and valuable than words.
François Rabelais
Leaving their wraps in the Ravenals’ foyer, a maid ushered the Catesbys toward the dining room on Christmas Day. With a wince, Juliet, in the rear, looked up to the generous bunch of mistletoe hanging by a red velvet ribbon from the chandelier. Unbidden, future intimacies leapt to mind. Though theirs was an arranged marriage, what sort of union would it be? In name only? Or did Mr. Buchanan want more children?
She smoothed her skirts, having chosen the indigo silk gown she’d worn for her portrait painting, with its tiers of lace ruffles falling nearly to her wrists. A sign of surrender? Nay. A statement that she was now well aware of his and her father’s intentions.
Though Loveday had donned a wig for the occasion, like Father and Zipporah, Juliet chose unpowdered papillote curls, her one vanity. The tidy, tight spirals cascaded abouther shoulders nearly to the small of her back, a velvet indigo ribbon threading through them. When she stepped into the dining room where all the Ravenals were gathered, her gaze found Mr. Buchanan by the hearth—and he was looking straight at her.
Did he know Father had told her all?
“A happy Christmas to you Catesbys!” Nathaniel greeted them with his usual high spirits. “Come, make yourselves at home. I’m sure I’m not the only one whose stomach is rumbling—but first some Christmas punch.”
Tearing her gaze from Mr. Buchanan, Juliet looked to the sideboard, which held a cut crystal bowl afloat with limes and lemons atop the proverbial holiday punch. She took a cup and, in a few moments, moved to the dining room and her assigned place, unsurprised when the Scot sat to her left. Did the Ravenals know of their impending nuptials? Rattled, Juliet turned her attention to the spotless linen napkins folded like swans and the beautiful blue and white dreftware dishes.
She was very aware of the man beside her. His plain attire contrasted sharply with Father’s gaudy green velvet dress suit. He regarded her with a tight smile as if gauging her reaction to being seated beside her future husband. Given that, how would she be able to choke down a morsel of food?
“A happy Christmas to you, Miss Catesby,” he said, eyes on the ornate sugar sculpture atop a mirror at the table’s center.
Her reply was a whisper. “And to you, Mr. Buchanan.”
Across the table, Loveday sent her a reassuring look.
The next hour was a blur of dishes, dialogue, and dismay. Juliet felt the latter welling inside her as course after course was served. There was none of the banter like before when she’d explained any curious foods or customs. He seemed sunk in thought too, making no more attempts at conversationafter his subdued Christmas greeting. Everyone else indulged in lively conversation and laughter.
When they rose from the table for the customary firing of the guns outside, Father took Juliet aside to tell her she was needed in the library. She froze, hands on the back of her chair, as Loveday and the Ravenal daughters moved to the music room across the hall.
“I’ll leave you and Buchanan alone to discuss your future and all the particulars,” Father said.
With that, he left and Juliet entered the book-lined room ahead of the Scot. Both of them passed beneath another giant knot of dangling mistletoe. Someone seemed intent on making kissing a requirement for every room.
She took a seat, feigning a calm she didn’t feel, hands folded demurely in her lap. He sat in the chair opposite, feet to the fire, his engraved silver shoe buckles a work of art.
She focused on those, not his handsome face. There, she’d admitted it. He was handsome. Braw, didn’t the Scots say? A trace of lime or mint lingered about his fine garments—or perhaps it was the punch. Desperate, she searched for something pleasing to murmur, feeling pushed into a corner.
“I sense this is as awkward for you as it is for me,” he finally said.
