Page 29 of Ghost of the Ton

“Son.”

“Yes, Ma?”

“As yer mother, I had only one objective in life.”

“Which was?”

“To raise ye to be a better man than yer father—a better man than any other. But I failed, and for that I’m truly sorry.” She let out another sigh and her voice cracked. “Perhaps I have no right to be disappointed in ye. I ought to be disappointed in myself for not teaching ye the one simple lesson that even the strongest, most intelligent man should learn above all else.”

“And what lesson is that, Ma?”

“The difference between right and wrong.”

Hamish opened his mouth to reply then closed it.

What could he possibly say that would make her less disappointed in him? And what could he say that would make him less disappointed in himself?

There was nothing.

He bowed his head, then exited the chamber, closing the door behind him.

Chapter Ten

The following morning dawned cold and sharp. Frost covered the world in a dusting, as if a great hand had sprinkled sugar over the landscape.

And what a beautiful landscape it was. The view from Mia’s window took in the mountain in all its magnificence, its snow-capped peak glistening in the sunlight, set against a clear blue sky with a faint pink haze near the horizon. After donning her gown—which, after a fortnight’s traveling, had collected a layer of dirt at the hem that no amount of brushing could remove and a soup stain just below the neckline—Mia settled on the window seat, taking in the view.

What must it be like to call this land home, to spend each day savoring the sweet, fresh air, unencumbered by the demands of London life?

But, in all likelihood, the lot of a woman here was the same as in London. And like it or not…

Mia permitted herself a wry smile at the memory of the words spoken last night:

Like it or not, this woman is yer wife.

Like it or not! He definitely does not like.

Like it or not, she was the property of another. She had vowed to obey him. And though she may have believed that vow, and her life, were only to last a few days, she’d still uttered it, before Reverend Staines, before witnesses—and before the Almighty.

Her life was no longer hers to dictate.

It was his.

She sighed, letting her breath mist on the windowpane. Then she drew the outline of a heart with her fingertip before wiping it away.

Last night, he’d come to her in her dreams. But rather than envelop her in his huge arms and speak soft words of love, he had condemned her, calling her a demon, marked by the devil himself, to be thrown into a fiery pit, and…

Mia startled at a knock on the door. She called out and a woman entered. Her hair, black with streaks of gray, was scraped back into a severe style. Her dress was neat and plain and she wore a chain about her waist, from which hung a set of keys.

Mia retreated from the window and the woman frowned.

“Are ye unwell, lass?” Then the woman sighed and shook her head. “Forgive me, Lady MacLennan. I quite forgot.”

She dipped into a curtsy, then approached Mia and took her hands.

“Och, ye’re freezing! Curse that Ailsa! I told her to light the fire for ye before dawn. What must ye think of us?”

Mia couldn’t think of anything to say in response.