Page 6 of Claiming His Scottish Duchess (Scottish Duchesses #2)
Chapter Six
“ C ha tèid misg gun cheòl.” There will be no intoxication without music.
“What people do not understand is that sheep need so much more than the basic necessities to thrive,” Mr. Featherstone went on.
“I have my cousin play the violin for them every Thursday afternoon. I swear that it improves their mood and quality of life! I read once that the same approach can be taken with plants if you can believe it,” he rambled on, as their discussion bypassed the more tedious pleasantries to something that surprisingly interested Catriona.
A sea of candlelight reflected off the polished ballroom floor, transforming the mere wood to a shining golden hue.
Crystal chandeliers, heavy with prisms, scattered light like a thousand tiny stars on the walls that were thick with heavy curtains.
However, the sparkle of the chandeliers were incomparable to the array of diamonds and emeralds adorning the ladies of the ton.
Catriona was engaging in the delicate art of conversation when she offered Mr. Featherstone an inquiry about his prize-winning Leicestershire sheep. Once started on the subject, she could hardly get a word in as he went on about the merits of music for all animals.
Catriona could feel her heartbeat pulsing in time with the music as she fixed her mind on the task at hand. Yet the mission of finding a man felt less like the pursuit of happiness and more like a stone lodged in her chest. She had to remember why she was here: to charm the right man.
Not for love—there was no room for such luxury.
What she needed was a marriage of convenience, one that would carry her back to Scotland, back to the land that called to her in quiet moments.
She would never again be the same girl who had left.
But with the right suitor, she could return to her home, as her father would have wanted.
The fate of her family—the very roof over their heads—rested squarely on her shoulders.
“I have a surprising number of dogs,” Mr. Featherstone explained, as he began talking of his love for hunting and sport. “They are all named after vegetables.”
At that, Catriona could no longer suppress her laughter.. The tightness of her gown had amplified the curves of her bosom, which quivered with her sudden giggle. It was then she caught Mr. Featherstone’s gaze on her, roving over her curves as he stopped speaking.
Catriona felt confident that evening. With the help of Lady Marchant, she was able to secure a fashionable gown of shimmering sapphire blue. It hugged her generous curves perfectly, a product of the latest fashion.
Her mother had helped her pull the wayward strands of her hair back, letting her curls cascade artfully down her shoulders. These locks were secured with tiny pearls that she could only imagine danced in the ambient light of the room.
To finish the look, Lady Marchant lent her a prized family heirloom, a rich diamond choker adorned with tiny sapphires. It was then that she pictured herself as a part of that radiance, perhaps as Arianrhod in her celestial domain.
And yet, beneath the surface of polite smiles and witty repartee with Mr. Featherstone, Catriona’s mind was spinning like a top. Surely there were other men she could entertain in conversation with if she could only find a polite escape.
She scanned the room expectantly. There were so many factors to consider for success that evening, and so she continued to imbibe in champagne just to have her mind spin the other way.
She had learned to read the subtle cues he was giving her. She registered the fleeting glances he continued to sneak of her décolletage and light brushes of his hand against her bare arm that revealed a man’s true intentions.
Suddenly, a commotion erupted near the entrance of the hall that drew her attention in an instant.
“I can’t believe he is here,” she heard a woman whisper.
“He never leaves Wilthorne Hall,” another responded in shock.
“It’s truly him,” a shrill voice called from the corner, clearly heightened by too much champagne.
Her head turned in a quick jolt as she stood on her tippy toes to get a better vantage of what was happening.
A quiet hush fell over the room. A tall, imposing figure entered the room, his mere presence commanding attention and respect.
She knew without seeing him that it was him —the man from Hyde Park, the girl’s guardian. She could feel it in her bones as much as she could feel her heartbeat. The Duke of Wilthorne.
Finally, a name. I’ve heard the whispers, rumors of a dangerous duke with a penchant for business and nae time for women, livin’ just outside of London in his lush estate. Aye, when those ember eyes soften. Aye, they are about as overwhelmin’ as the swell of the music that moves me.
“One can hardly believe a woman has not scooped him up,” she heard one man remark. “He’s got more money than Midas.”
He had wealth, power, and undeniable allure. In one sense, he was the very embodiment of Catriona’s hopes and dreams for a potential husband. And yet, this particular man could not be further from what she wanted. She thought of his coldness, both toward her and the girl, in Hyde Park that day.
Her father always said that one can feel conflicting ideas at the same time, and that they could both be true.
Catriona had never understood what he meant. Until now.
For she wanted both to edge closer to the man across the room, and fling herself as far away from him as possible—both at the same time.
As Richard made his way from the entrance through the thick crowd of ball gowns, baubles, and suits, his eyes swept over the room.
He took in the dazzling colors, the heavy scents of perfumed sweat, warm liquor, and fragrant flowers, and the hypnotic rhythm of live music. He continued scanning the crowd until he froze.
His eyes met hers : the woman from Hyde Park. The infuriating, intoxicating Scot…
His lips pursed into a thin line as he felt the unfamiliar jolt of nervous energy. He almost mistook it for a flutter in his stomach as he held her gaze.
No, that was not it. He’d simply not had a proper supper. It must have been his hunger, which he would promptly resolve with a warm glass of brandy.
He made his way to the bar, where he met a young woman he did not know. He noticed her golden hair and dazzling smile as she curtseyed politely to him. Next to her was an older woman, who had an oddly familiar appearance.
“Your Grace,” the older woman said politely. “Please allow me to introduce myself. I am Lady Umber, Lord Arlington’s aunt, from his father’s side. We’ve been staying with him for a few months now. He has told us much about you. Please allow me to introduce my daughter, Lady Annabelle.”
He nodded to them both curtly as he grabbed his drink from the bar. He offered a polite smile to the girl, taking a healthy sip of his brandy.
Perhaps this evening won’t be fruitless after all. Arlington is here.
Frustration surged through Catriona like a heatwave in the middle of winter.
She watched the Duke of Wilthorne talk to a young woman. She did not think he was capable of social niceties given their first meeting and yet, here he was doing just that.
Determined not to be deterred by the interloper, Catriona took a deep breath and straightened her spine. She politely excused herself from the still chatty Mr. Featherstone as she made her way to the beverage table.
If nothing else, she needed to know how his niece was faring after the incident. She was nearly there when, as if by magic, Lord Hargrave appeared at her side with a champagne flute. His eyes twinkled with amusement, and perhaps mischief as he took her in.
“Miss Catriona MacTavish,” he said, his voice friendly and warm, with the pliability good dancing provides. “I have been searching all over for you. Your mother and Lady Marchant said you were here. I must say, you are a vision to behold.”
“Lord Hargrave, a pleasure to see ye once again,” Catriona offered a small curtsy as she accepted the champagne flute. “I fear me friend needs rescuing if ye would so kindly excuse me.”
Lord Hargrave cut ahead of Miss MacTavish’s path in an artful dash to the beverage table, approaching the duke.
With a few flourishes of his arms as he pointed toward the refreshments, the women who had been talking with the duke exited.
Seizing the opportunity, Catriona began her walk again to the beverage table.
For a moment, she was distracted by the whispers that followed her like specters.
“That accent,” they whispered. “It’s so… barbaric.” “And those wild Scottish ways…you know what they say about Scottish women, they’ll part their legs to ride any stallion…”
Normally, every part of her body would be livid at their words, but in this moment, all her attention was drawn to the Duke of Wilthorne ahead of her. It was almost… alive, electric, striking her like a bolt of lightning.
As fate would have it, Lady Marchant came to her side in a hurried hobble just before she reached the gentleman.
“Excuse me, my lords,” Lady Marchant said with a huff.
She threw herself in between the three of them with all of the grace of an injured elephant.
“I must take the lovely Miss MacTavish away for just a moment. Her poor mother is ailing,” she offered with a shrug.
“Perhaps it is your fault, Lord Hargrave, for having such delightful offerings?”
She took Catriona by the arm, guiding her through the ballroom to a small antechamber. This would be a small distraction from the evening’s mission, and the thought of another exchange with the duke made her skin prickle in anticipation.
Aye, a true connection with any man feels as distant as the Highlands. And yet, I wish for one, may the goddesses of auld help me.