“This is it,” Callum said.
Angus grunted. Callum felt like pointing out that that was not what a gentleman did in polite circles, but he doubted Angus would appreciate his helpful advice.
The older man directed his attention to a gentleman in skintight pantaloons, his cravat so high he could barely turn his head, and his hat perched on top of curled and primped hair. “Look at yon peacock,” he said, forgetting to lower his voice.
The gentleman in question turned to stare, lifting a quizzing glass to his eyes. He took in Angus’s splendor—he was wearing a kilt—and smirked before turning away again.
Until then, Callum had been pleased that Angus was here with him. There was something about the man’s pithy comments and occasional deep laughter that made him feel less homesick. Now he was wondering if it had been a mistake. Especially when he had insisted on wearing his kilt as usual.
“I am what I am,” he said, when Callum had tried to tell him that the people of London were not used to seeing a man in askirt. “You should be proud to wear the MacKenzie colors. What would your father say?”
Callum struggled briefly with his doubts but eventually he had worn his kilt too. The dark green tartan was firm about his hips and swung jauntily as he walked. The cool air on his lower legs, and higher too beneath the shielding fabric, was pleasingly familiar.
And yet they were the recipients of stares and whispers, and a nursemaid walking with some children gave a little shriek and pulled her charges to safety.
Penelope was not going to like this, but he told himself any woman he chose to marry would have to get used to seeing him in his native finery.
“What a place this is!” Angus growled, sending a scathing look after the nursemaid. “I would never question your father’s decision to send you south, but surely there are wives aplenty at home.”
“He says we need a gentlewoman,” Callum reminded him. “A well-bred lady who knows which spoon to use at the dinner table and what to say to awkward guests. The ladies at home look down upon us. And sometimes...” He bit his lip. “You remember when Sir Hector insisted Cook had not made the oatcakes the way they should be?”
“Aye, and your mother told him to go and cook his own,” Angus said with a laugh.
“Well, a lady would not do that. She would smooth over the situation, not make it worse. Sir Hector refuses to speak to us now.”
“Your mother has a temper, aye, but she is still a lady.”
Callum knew that to be true, but his mother had never been very good at diplomacy. If the MacKenzies were to rise through the ranks of nobles to the top, where they belonged, then they needed someone who could navigate a way through the pitfalls.
“I’m not saying it is what I want, but my father is ambitious for his children,” Callum said. “He has a vision for our future. He wants us togivethe orders rather than bow to those who currently make them.”
Angus gave him a bewildered look but was wise enough not to argue.
Callum understood his father’s desire to see his children thrive in a cut-throat world, but he was not sure he shared it. He was happy with the way things were, with his quiet life at Bonnyrigg. If his wife wanted to rub shoulders with titled gentlemen and ladies, she could, and good luck to her, but he preferred to spend his days away from such distracting noise.
A horseman rode by, and Callum looked after him longingly, thinking of Midnight, but Penelope had specified they were to be on foot. Perhaps she did not trust him. Perhaps she thought he might gallop at full speed through the park and frighten everyone. Callum was not a fool, he understood he couldn’t do that, but he needed to be patient with her until she declared him ready for Aunt Jennie’s ball.
His aunt had spoken to him this morning over breakfast. “I think I would like to hear from Miss Armstrong herself when you are ready for the ball. It will give me a chance to discuss your progress, and I am curious to meet her.”
Callum had shrugged. “I think I am progressing very well. Walking in the park can’t be that hard, can it, Aunt?”
Jennie had paused with her coffee cup halfway to her lips. “I don’t know, Callum. But I remember your father in his kilt on his wedding day. No one had ever seen the like.”
Callum smiled. He imagined Maxwell on that day, marrying the duke’s daughter in all her finery. And they were still together, still in love, and he did not doubt they would remain so. If he could find someone like that, he would have made his father happy, and himself too.
And yet whenever he thought of that faceless bride, he pictured Penelope on his arm, smiling up at him. Perhaps she had cast a spell on him after all.
He was relieved when Angus interrupted his thoughts. “I don’t understand why they are all staring,” he muttered. “We are wearing clothes, aren’t we? We’ve combed our hair and washed our faces?”
“Perhaps they’ve heard about my attack on the boar,” Callum said with a grimace.
“Aye, mabbe.” Angus grimaced too. “Don’t worry, the memory will fade soon enough, if you don’t do anything else to get tongues clacking.”
“I have already said I won’t. I was sloshed. I drank that whisky to give me courage, and I went too far. If I could do it over again...” He hmphed.
Angus made a noise of his own but thankfully said no more.
They strolled on for a little, and then Angus said suddenly, again his voice far too loud, “Is that them? Coming toward us now? The wee lady in the pale blue gown and the muckle one in green?”
