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 heredoesserve 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 amnotgoing 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 thehaut tonwho 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.”
