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Her mother laughed. “Harcourt’s a very different creature to you and me,” she said. “As are Cornelius and Nathaniel.”

“Because they’re men?”

“Partly, and partly because they come from a world that we weren’t born into—the world of dukes and lords.

” She let out a sigh and leaned back. “Can you imagine that? Being taught, from the cradle, that to express your feelings, or say what you think, is the deadliest sin of all? But your stepfather feels a great deal, even if he cannot show it.”

She placed her hand on Clara’s cheek. “He loves you very much, Clara. It’s because he loves you that he appears so strict at times. And it’s why he—and I—want to be sure that Mr. McTavish is an honorable man. You must be careful when you speak to him. Careful about…”

Mama looked away, narrowing her eyes as if in pain.

“Careful about telling him who I am?” Clara said. “Who my real f-father…”

Mama drew in a sharp breath and nodded. “I applaud you for wanting to be honest,” she said. “But I’d advise caution.”

“You want me to lie to him?”

“No, sweet girl, but there’s a difference between being deceitful for our own ends, and protecting ourselves.

I-I couldn’t protect you when you were a child.

I know the time will come when you must strike out into the world, when you must leave me and find your own life, and I confess I live in dread of that moment, for you’ll not have me to protect you.

You must rely on others—one other, at least.”

“Mr. McTavish says he doesn’t value birth or decorum,” Clara said. “He values honesty.”

“A man will declare that he can weather any storm if he believes the storm will never come.”

A tear splashed onto Mama’s cheek, and Clara’s heart ached to see the pain in her eyes.

“Forgive me, my darling,” Mama said. “I’m so sorry that the shadow of my past lies over you, that you must protect yourself from the contempt of others because of my actions—that you bear the scars of the wickedness that entered my life.”

Almost instinctively, Mama reached for her upper arm, where Clara knew there to be a scar hidden underneath her sleeve. It was a scar that matched her own—an ugly red mark in the shape of a D .

“You’ve nothing to blame yourself for, Mama,” Clara said.

“You were hurt by a wicked man, yet you’re kinder than anyone I know—kinder than all those ladies who’ve been brought up in the world of dukes and lords.

You gave me nothing but love, and I’m only ashamed of my behavior when I came here, the things I said to you. But I’m proud that you’re my mother.”

“And I couldn’t be more proud of you, my darling,” Mama said.

“Your stepfather is equally proud, even if he cannot find the words to tell you. He’s always been better at showing love, rather than making pretty speeches.

And I would far prefer a man to show his feelings than give me false promises and empty words.

” She wiped her eyes and smiled. “I daresay your Mr. McTavish is adept at both showing and speaking his feelings. Highlanders are notoriously frank.”

“Like wayward daughters?”

“Your frankness does you credit,” Mama said. “Perhaps I was wrong to want a London Season for you. The suitors who prance about Mayfair’s ballrooms are far from honest. And the truth always has a habit of revealing itself eventually—better it happen while you’re able to control that revelation.”

“You mean I should tell Mr. McTavish the truth about my past?”

“Only if it becomes necessary—and you’ll know when that time comes,” Mama said. “Well, I suppose I’d better have the cook bake another cake or two if Mr. McTavish is going to call on us again.”

“I’ll tell her,” Clara said. “I’ll bake it myself to save her the extra work.”

“Dearest girl!” Mama said. “How could Mr. McTavish fail to fall in love with you?”

She drew Clara into her arms, and Clara rested her head on her shoulder. They fell into a companionable silence, watching the glow of the sun as it slid toward the horizon, bathing the landscape in a soft pink glow.

“Mama?” Clara said.

“Mm-hmm?”

“What if he doesn’t like me when I tell him the truth?”

“Then I’ll cut his—what was it?” Mama said. “Oh, yes…his ballocks off.”

Clara let out a giggle, then her mother squeezed her hand.

“If he does judge you for that over which you had no control, then he’ll have shown himself to be undeserving of you. In which case you’re best discovering that before you set yourself on a path from which you can never return.”

Clara shook her head. The notion of his turning away from her in disgust was too painful to contemplate.

She’d made the mistake of telling one of the lads from Pickton Farm that she was a natural child, and he’d taunted her about it, calling her a tart’s brat—until Papa Harcourt threatened to have the family tossed out.

If even a farmer’s boy looked down on her for having been born out of wedlock, what might the son of a laird think when he discovered her past?

“There’s no use worrying about it until the time comes, my darling,” Mama said, stroking Clara’s hair. “In time, your Mr. McTavish will show his worth. And if not, then you’ll always have a home here. I couldn’t bear to part with you for anyone less than the finest of men.”