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“T here they are!” Mama said as the carriage came into view.

Papa Harcourt glanced at his pocket watch. “They’re almost half an hour late.”

Clara’s stomach flip-flopped in anticipation. She glanced at her companions—Mama, Papa Harcourt, and her brothers—who seemed so comfortable in their finery.

Mama took her hand. “Everything will be well, daughter.”

“What if I do something wrong?” Clara said.

“How could you do anything wrong, my darling?”

“Miss Peacock says—”

“Mrs. Tuffington is nothing like Miss Peacock,” Mama said. “And you’ve met her before.”

“I can never think of what to say to her,” Clara said. “I’m sure she doesn’t like me.”

“Perhaps that’s because the last time Tuffers came to stay, you pushed him into the river,” Nathaniel said.

“She what ?” Clara’s stepfather turned his stern gaze on her.

“It was you who pushed Tuffers into the river, Nate, you dolt,” Cornelius said. “Clarry put a spider in his breeches.”

“I did not!” Clara cried.

“Then what did you do, daughter?”

Clara met her stepfather’s gaze, battling the temptation to lie. But Papa Harcourt, with his quiet patience, had a way of prizing the truth out of her with a single glance.

“I threatened to tie him to a tree,” she said.

“You what ?”

“Upside down!” Nathaniel laughed.

“Clara, what have I told you about inappropriate behavior?” Her stepfather frowned. “You ought to have learned by now that young ladies don’t tie boys to trees. Didn’t you promise never to disappoint me?”

“It wasn’t my fault,” Clara said.

“Were you compelled to threaten the boy?” He shook his head with a sigh and resumed his attention on the approaching carriage.

His anger she might have preferred. Or even a beating—her body had weathered many beatings until she’d come to Pittchester.

But her mother and stepfather had never raised a hand to her.

In fact, they rarely raised their voices.

Instead, they expressed their disappointment calmly and clearly, before leaving her to “resolve the matter with her conscience.”

“It wasn’t Clarry’s fault, Papa,” Cornelius said. “Henry called her a—”

“Stop it, Corn!” Clara said.

“What did he call her?” her stepfather asked.

He’d called her a grubby little urchin when he came upon her knee deep in the river. At which point, Nathaniel pushed him in.

“It doesn’t matter,” Clara said.

“It does if it resulted in your threatening the boy.”

“Leave her be, Harcourt,” Mama said. “Clara knows better than to speak out of turn in front of others.”

“It seems that she doesn’t.”

“Now’s not the time to discuss it. Hush!”

The carriage rolled to a halt. Then the door opened and a woman climbed out.

“Mrs. Tuffington, I’m so glad you could come,” Mama said.

“Thank you, Yer Grace.”

Clara recognized the faint Scottish burr—softer than her nephew’s accent.

“Do forgive us for being late,” Mrs. Tuffington said. “We were delayed this morning. I’m afraid not all of us were able to come today.”

Clara let out a cry, then covered her mouth. Hadn’t she just tried to reassure her stepfather that she could behave with decorum?

Mrs. Tuffington fixed her gaze on Clara. Her eyes were almost as green as the eyes of the man who’d captivated her at the ball three nights ago—the man who, since then, had occupied Clara’s dreams. In fact, only last night…

Her cheeks burning with shame, she dipped into a curtsey.

“W-we’re so glad you could come, Mrs. Tuffington.”

“I trust nothing untoward prevented the rest of your family from coming,” Mama said.

“Merely a little trouble with my husband’s business. It’s a misfortune of being in trade.”

“Ah yes, auction houses, is that it?” Papa Harcourt said. “Cornelius, didn’t you tell me Henry’s father trades in horses?”

“He does, Yer Grace,” Mrs. Tuffington said. “It’s hard work, but honest.”

“Any commercial enterprise is hard work, Mrs. Tuffington,” he replied. “As it is honest—and admirable. Your husband is to be commended.”

“Ye’re very obliging, Yer Grace,” Mrs. Tuffington replied. “I trust ye’ll forgive there only being two of us here today, rather than four.”

A hand appeared at the carriage door, and Clara held her breath. Then a man appeared, his huge frame filling the doorway.

Clara stepped forward, her heart leaping with joy, then a hand pulled her back.

“Not so eager, darling,” Mama whispered.

He uncurled his body, then stretched his legs and stepped out of the carriage.

In the candlelight of Lady Cholmondeley’s ballroom, he was handsome enough—but in the full glare of the summer sun, he was breathtaking. His gaze swept over the company, and Clara caught her breath as his clear green eyes focused on her.

“Ahem.”

Mrs. Tuffington cleared her throat, and he issued a deep bow, first to Clara’s mother, then her stepfather.

“Yer Grace,” he said, his deep voice warming Clara’s blood.

Mama approached him, offering her arm. “Mr. McTavish, I’m so glad you could join your aunt. Do come inside. Harcourt, my love, perhaps you could attend Mrs. Tuffington.”

Clara glanced at Mrs. Tuffington to find the woman’s eyes, once more, trained on her.

Then her gaze wandered about Clara’s person—from her hairstyle, which was already coming undone, with ungainly wisps brushing against her neck, to the silk gown that was far too elegant for her, which she’d already smudged with ink in the library, to the shoes that may look pretty, but were uncomfortable in their elegance, pinching at her toes.

Could she tell, from merely looking at Clara, that she was an outsider, a grubby little urchin , as her younger son had once said?

Then Papa Harcourt took Mrs. Tuffington’s arm and followed Mama inside.

Clara’s brothers appeared at her side.

“Don’t worry, sister,” Cornelius said. “Mr. McTavish has more to fear than you today.”

“I don’t understand,” Clara replied.

“You only have to impress his aunt. He has to impress Mama Betty, and every suitor knows that a mother is a considerably more fearsome creature than an aunt.”

“I can always throw her in the river if she insults you,” Nathaniel added.

“What if he doesn’t like me?” Clara asked.

“Don’t be an ass, Clarry! Did you see the way he looked at you? I’ll wager he’d rather tuck into a slice of you this afternoon than the fruitcake.”

“Stop it!” She giggled, though she couldn’t deny the pulse of pleasure at the notion of the huge Highlander devouring her.

“If he doesn’t like you, I’ll throw him into the river,” Nathaniel said.

“We both will,” Cornelius added. “Only the best of men is good enough for our sister. Don’t forget, he must win our approval as well as Mama Betty’s.”

Her stepbrothers were the kindest creatures in the world. Clara loved Mama and Papa Harcourt, but they were always so determined to ensure she behaved. With Corn and Nate she could be her true self. They never judged her wild behavior, or her frankness.

How she’d miss them when she had to leave!

But marriage was inevitable and with it, the surrender of her freedom and her person to another.

It lingered in the back of her mind, a thick black cloud, moving ever closer until it swallowed her up.

But perhaps in the huge Highlander she might find a flicker of hope that she could be accepted—if not loved—for who she was.

Clara stirred the tea, wincing as the spoon clinked against the porcelain. She’d already splashed tea on the tablecloth—twice—and dropped a sugar lump on the floor. And now she was in danger of tripping over the hem of her gown and sending the cake in the same direction as the sugar lump.

Why must she be so inept at these frivolous rituals?

Had Papa Harcourt’s brandy been on the table, she’d have slipped herself a measure or two to soften her fear, but knowing the way her fortunes were running today, she’d have dropped that as well, then the parlor would have reeked of liquor—just like the morning room last month after she’d helped herself to a measure of Mama’s port, then knocked the bottle over, spilling the ruby liquid onto Mama’s embroidery.

What must they think of her?

Clara placed a slice of cake onto a plate, then picked up the plate and the teacup. Mama Betty smiled in encouragement, but Papa Harcourt sat, body stiff, with his usual dignified attitude.

Her stepfather disapproved of her—but he loved her also, which made her yearn for his praise all the more. Mama was always telling Clara not to strive too hard for his approval, that it would come in time, and what mattered was that he loved her as his own daughter.

But the illegitimate daughter of a harlot and her pimper could never be a worthy daughter of a duke. Deep down, he could never love, or approve of, her.

The teacup rattled as she almost lost her balance, and the cake slid across the plate. She righted herself and sat next to her mother.

Mama placed a light hand on her arm. “You’re doing well,” she whispered.

Clara’s mother exchanged pleasantries with Mrs. Tuffington, while Papa Harcourt sipped his tea in silence.

As tea progressed, Clara picked up her own fork and broke off a corner of her cake, then she looked up to see Mr. McTavish staring at her.

He picked up his cake with his hands, took a huge bite, and winked.

Papa Harcourt glanced at him, the ghost of a smile on his lips.

“Are you enjoying the cake, Mr. McTavish?” he asked.

“Aye.” Their guest licked his lips and met Clara’s gaze. “I can’t imagine anything more delicious.”

“Good. Are you staying with your aunt and uncle for the whole of the summer?”

“I return home in less than a fortnight.”

“What do you think of Northumberland? It must be very different to the Highlands. It’s your homeland also, is it not, Mrs. Tuffington?”

“Aye, Yer Grace,” she replied.

“Are you Mr. McTavish’s aunt on his father’s side?”

“His mother Margaret was my sister,” she replied, casting a look of affection toward her nephew. “The poor lad lost her when he was wee, so I treated him as if he were my own—until my marriage, at least. We Scots place great value on family.”