Page 5 of Claiming His Scottish Duchess (Scottish Duchesses #2)

Chapter Five

T ús maith leath na h-obrach.” A good start is half the work.

“Good afternoon. Could I please have a meeeela-foyyaa?” Catriona asked politely, pointing to the mille-feuille listed on the menu.

She struggled with the placement of her tongue as her brogue tried to enunciate the Parisian words.

She was sitting in a plush tea shop, her patience now wearing as thin as a doily.

Lady Marchant had insisted on this expensive, exclusive establishment for the day’s diversion, where naturally Catriona felt distinctly out of place from the moment she crossed the threshold.

She would have much preferred the terrace at Lady Marchant’s estate, where she and her mother had been staying for some weeks now.

More than that, she would have much desired a respite with her favorite cousin, Isobel. But she was likely holed up with Adrian at Somerset Hall, savoring the early days of marriage.

They had been married for a bit now, and her mother often tried to guess when they would announce the arrival of their firstborn.

Yet as much as Catriona missed her favorite cousin, she could not deny that Lady Marchant was a generous woman for taking them on.

No matter how snooty and conniving Catriona found her.

It seemed these qualities were unavoidable in polite society, making her continue to question the true meaning of the word “polite”.

Why can I nae catch a break? It seems it’s me life’s woe to suffer through these pointless afternoons to please Maither.

A group of ladies at a nearby table began to whisper and giggle, their eyes fixed on her, as if she were clearly the punchline of some joke.

She recognized instantly the insufferable Lady Abigail, her hair piled on top of her head like a bale of hay.

The two had crossed paths a few times since they began staying with Lady Marchant, each encounter more painful than the last.

“She’s just so Scottish ,” she said to her friends, as if that explained everything they would need to know about her personage. “No sense of style, propriety, or decorum.”

“She does look a bit wild, doesn’t she?” A friend of hers asked rhetorically, as they began laughing again.

Initially, Catriona had stuck out her chin and grinned as she’d considered the French delicacies listed on the pastry menu in front of her. Nothing put a smile on her face quite like sweets.

But now…

“Come again, Miss?” The waiter asked in clarification, flustered by her pronunciation. He stumbled over to her seat to get nearer to her position at the table.

Catriona patiently pointed again, and he nodded.

“Ah, yes, the mille-feuille, excellent choice,” he confirmed sweetly with a sharp wink.

The ladies at the nearby table had stopped giggling, replaced by hearty laughter that echoed through the tearoom.

Catriona glared at them in protest, but her mother subtly kicked her under the table. She knew the kick well; it was a caution to keep her sharp tongue caged and to act like a proper lady.

“It’s just a joke. Behave, Catriona,” her mother whispered as she endeavored to tune out their conversation.

Yet the harder she tried, it seemed the louder they became. The sounds of their shrill, vapid laughs went straight up her spine.

Her mind drifted to the girl in Hyde Park, her tiny body trembling as she was faced with a threat no child should have to.

She could still feel the coolness of the pistol through her thin gloves as she pointed it at the smug thug, the yellow in his teeth like kernels of corn.

She shivered as she took in the disgusting image. It was then she realized she was clenching the pistol in the secret pocket of her dress, underneath her shawl. She removed her hand before anyone would notice what she was doing.

Then, the girl’s guardian flashed into her mind. She could still feel his intensity, his anger, his undeniable handsomeness.

The thought of him made her shiver, even more than the thug. She could not put her finger on it, whether it was fear or something far more dangerous.

Catriona had always possessed a fiery spirit, which her father said had been there since the moment she came out of the womb as a bairn. She was a woman of her own mind and ways.

Yet, he had been so imposing, almost scary. What confused her all the more was that something about his dominance drew her in, like a moth to a flame.

She was inexperienced in the art of love, but not due to disinterest exactly. There was just so much more she had to focus on, without the opportunity to explore the pleasures of men.

She felt a not-unpleasant tug between her legs as she imagined him unleashing his intensity on her, in what manner she could not begin to fathom.

The thought of it made her heart beat at a maddening pace, as she tried to make sense of what she felt. She shook herself from the distraction as she took a long sip of hot, soothing tea.

“Oh, Lord Hargrave!” Lady Marchant exclaimed, a delicate fan fluttering in her hand as she beckoned a lean, golden-haired man to their table. “What a delightful apparition! One might think you materialize from thin air, you’re so adept at finding us.”

She arched a perfectly sculpted eyebrow at him, a playful glint in her eyes. For a woman of almost seventy and many years a widow, she had all the charm and flirtation of a woman more than half her age.

“Or perhaps you’ve been following us? I wouldn’t put it past you!” She added.

Lord Hargrave chuckled, a low, resonant sound that was calming as it was infectious, and Catriona was instantly at ease.

“Lady Marchant, your wit is as sharp as ever. Following you? Perish the thought! I simply have an uncanny knack for being where the most charming ladies are. Some may call it a curse, I confess it is my most holy vocation.” He bowed slightly, his gaze sweeping over the group.

“Though I confess, I did hear whispers of your presence at the tea shop. One cannot resist the allure of such esteemed company,” he said as his eyes met Catriona’s.

“Where are my manners?” Lady Marchant exclaimed, touching her hands to her chest. “Please allow me to present Lady Craigleith, the late wife of the Viscount of Craigleith, and her daughter, Miss Catriona.”

“The pleasure is mine,” Lord Hargrave said with a small bow. “Please tell me, how are you all getting on this afternoon?”

“There are few things I enjoy more than sweets, Lord Hargrave, and so you can imagine I am quite happy,” Catriona said playfully, excited to have such diverting company at their table.

“Oh, most certainly, although I endeavor to imagine anything sweeter than the company at this table,” he complimented, as Lady Marchant and her mother smiled like schoolgirls.

“Which reminds me, I am having a ball next week and I think as guests of Lady Marchant, you all simply must come. How does that sound?”

Her mother, ever the pinnacle of maternal enthusiasm, clapped her hands together like a monkey.

“A ball! How absolutely splendid! Catriona, did you hear? A ball!” Her eyes, usually soft and gentle, sparkled with almost girlish excitement.

“We haven’t attended a proper ball in ages.

It’s just what we need to lift our spirits! ”

Catriona, however, felt a knot tighten in her stomach.

“A ball,” she echoed, her voice barely whispering as she tried to feign excitement.

She knew her mother’s eagerness was genuine, and she couldn’t bear to dampen it. But the thought of an evening spent in the crowded ballroom, surrounded by chattering debutantes and eligible bachelors, filled her with a sense of dread.

“How… lovely,” she managed, forcing a smile that felt as brittle as spun glass.

“Lovely indeed!” Michael beamed as his attention was now focused on Catriona.

He gave her a wide smile. “I do hope you’ll grace us with your presence.

As a houseguest of Lady Marchant, you and your daughter are friends of ours.

Why, your absence would be a lamentable loss.

” He paused, a hint of playful challenge in his voice.

“Unless, of course, you’ve already made other, more pressing engagements? ”

“Certainly nae!” Lady Craigleith interjected, before Catriona could formulate a polite refusal.

“We wouldnae dream of missin’ it, would we, Catriona?

” She gave her daughter a gentle nudge, her eyes pleading.

“It’s a wonderful opportunity to… to socialize.

Just think of how happy yer cousin Isobel is now, married and successful. ”

Catriona sighed inwardly. “Of course, Maither. We wouldnae miss it for the world,” she said, her voice laced with a faint, almost imperceptible, resignation. She looked at Michael, attempting a slightly more genuine smile. “Thank ye for the invitation, Lord Hargrave.”

“I assure you, it will be an evening to remember. I’ve secured the finest musicians, the most exquisite decorations, and a veritable feast fit for royalty.

” He paused, a mischievous grin spreading across his face.

“And, of course, the most captivating company. Even my most boring friend, the Duke of Wilthorne, will be there.”

Lady Marchant tapped her fan against her chin, her eyes narrowed in playful scrutiny.

“It has been some time since I have had the pleasure of the Duke of Wilthorne’s company in a social setting,” she remarked. “I hope you’re able to secure some more eligible gentlemen for my young friend here.”

“Besides, I hear the latest dance steps are quite scandalous. We wouldn’t want her to miss out on that, would we?

” Lady Henry said, the first words the old woman had uttered all morning.

In fact, Catriona had forgotten she was sitting as she was just behind Lady Marchant, with an unfortunate history of falling asleep in public.

Catriona’s cheeks flamed an embarrassing pink.

“I expected better from you, Lady Henry!” Lady Marchant scolded. “You’re incorrigible!”

Lord Hargrave laughed, a rich, warm sound.

“Indeed, Lady Marchant, please rest assured I have taken every precaution regarding Lady Henry’s concerns.

And allow me to say it is lovely to see you again, as I did not notice you were there at first. Please forgive me,” he said with a small bow in her direction, to which she nodded.

“The gentlemen will be vying for the honor of a dance with Miss MacTavish, I assure you. And as for the scandalous dances… well, a lady of your refined taste, Lady Henry, will surely appreciate the artistry behind the movement. Yes, I heard the stories from my grandfather of your debut.”

The women began laughing wildly as even Catriona found herself joining in, reveling in his undeniable charm.

He turned back to Catriona, his expression softening. “I promise, all joking aside, Miss MacTavish, it will be a night of enjoyment. And perhaps…” he paused, his gaze lingering on her face, “perhaps even a little surprise.”

He bowed a final time to the group, smiled, and slowly made his way to the exit. Once he was out of earshot, the voices at the table started.

Lady Craigleith, oblivious to the undercurrent of tension, beamed. “Surprises are always welcome! Och, Catriona, just think of the gowns! We must start plannin’ immediately! Silk, lace, perhaps a touch of velvet? And the jewels! Och, the possibilities are endless!”

Catriona, however, couldn’t shake the feeling that the “surprise” Lord Hargrave hinted at might be less delightful than her mother imagined.

She forced another smile, trying to ignore the fluttering of apprehension in her chest.

Coming back to reality, she said, “Aye, Maither. Gowns and jewels. How lovely.”

As they returned to Lady Marchant’s, Lady Craigleith’s face was in a flurry of excitement that she hardly registered the sarcasm from her daughter.

“We must get new gowns! The finest silks! The most exquisite lace!” The excitement became tinged with stress—they were hardly paupers, but they couldn’t live as extravagantly as some other ladies in the ton.

Catriona tried to calm her mother, gently patting her hand, but her anxiety was now palpable, a tangible weight in the air. The usually serene woman was a bundle of nerves, her fingers twisting a delicate lace handkerchief into knots.

“What is the matter, Maither?” Catriona asked as she noticed her mother was now patting her neck with the handkerchief. She had begun to perspire, which was most unlike her.

“This is just so very important, we cannae afford a misstep,” she emphasized. “Our finances are… precarious, Catriona.”

“I know, Maither,” she said softly.

“Ye have to realize, the flood… it ruined everythin’. Our cattle, our crops… everythin’. We’re teeterin’ on the edge, me dear.”

She looked at Catriona, her eyes filled with a desperate plea. “If you dinnae find a husband, or if yer faither’s heir sells the estate… we’ll have naethin’.”

Naethin’.

“Absolutely naethin’. We’ll be destitute, Catriona, dependent on the charity of others. Imagine, after all these years…” Her voice trailed off, choked with emotion.

Her mother paused for a moment or two, steadying herself. It was most unlike her to be so transparent about her fears, and Catriona knew this. She placed her hand on her shoulder, bringing her into a tight hug.

“Let’s nae descend into melodrama, Catriona.” Though her tone was reassuring, the flicker of concern lingered on her now composed features. “I appreciate that ye understand that this ball is… significant. It’s an opportunity. A necessary opportunity. I suggest ye take it seriously, me dear.”

She paused, emphasizing each word. “‘Lord Hargrave’s connections are impeccable from what Lady Marchant has told me. He moves in the highest circles. And he has, shall we say, a certain… influence. If ye were to make a favorable impression, to capture the attention of a gentleman of means… well, it would solve many of our problems.”

Those words hung in the air, heavy with expectation and familial duty.

The pressure was immense, a suffocating weight on Catriona’s shoulders.

It wasn’t just about finding a husband anymore; it was about survival.

It was about securing their future, preventing their descent into poverty.

What would her father say? He would want her to be strong for the family.

“Think of yer faither, Catriona,” her mother pleaded as if reading her mind, her voice barely a whisper. “He would want ye to be safe, to be provided for. He wouldnae want us to suffer.”

“I understand,” Catriona whispered.

“Good,” her mother replied, a hint of a smile playing on her lips. “That’s me girl. Now, let’s discuss gowns. Lady Marchant may be able to help. We have much to plan, and little time to waste.”