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She drew Clara close. “I’m only thankful that my daughter has been saved from making a terrible mistake. My dearest wish is that she’ll have the happiness she deserves. I wish the same for you, Lord McTavish—that you have the happiness you deserve.”

“Yer Grace, I…” Murdo began, then he lifted his gaze to Clara’s. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” Mama said. “I’m sorry for being so mistaken in my opinion of you. Please send for your carriage to take us to the nearest inn.”

“At least stay until the morning,” he said. “Da will have slept off the whisky. I’ll speak to him.”

“And say what?” Clara asked. “Beg forgiveness for offering your hand to a whore’s brat?”

“Don’t say that, Clara.”

She laughed bitterly. “You were content to call my mother a whore.”

“Aye,” the laird said. “That’s because she is.”

“Da, stop it!”

Murdo’s brother let out a cry and leaped to his feet. He swept his plate off the table, and it shattered on the floor in an explosion of crockery and stew.

The laird approached him, fists raised. “I’ll beat ye raw!”

“Go on, then, Da—I dare ye!”

“Miserable lad!”

“Sweet heaven, what kind of a place is this?” Clara’s mother cried. “I’ve no wish to stay here a moment longer.”

“Then get ye gone,” the laird said.

“With pleasure.”

“Murdo?” Clara said, but he remained still.

Her heart breaking, she let her mother steer her into the main hall, where the housekeeper and ghillie were approaching the dining room, followed by a young man.

“What the devil’s happening?” the ghillie asked.

“As if ye need to ask, Duncan!” the housekeeper said as the angry voices continued from inside the dining room. “Ye ken what happens when the laird comes home after a bout of drinking.”

“We’re leaving this instant,” Mama said.

“But—”

“I won’t spend another minute in this place. Have the carriage take us to the nearest inn. Failing that, give us directions and we’ll walk.”

The housekeeper glanced toward the dining room. “Yer Grace, it’s just the laird’s way. He’ll have slept it off by morning. It’s dark outside, and—”

“Do as the duchess says,” a quiet voice said.

Murdo stood in the doorway, defeat in his eyes.

He gestured to the young man. “See to it, Callum. Now!”

The young man nodded and scuttled off. Murdo’s gaze wandered about the hallway, settling anywhere but on Clara.

Why did he not look at her? Did she repulse him now he knew what she was?

“Murdo?”

“Duchess, tell the driver to take ye to the Kelpie’s Inn,” he said, ignoring her. “They’ll accommodate ye if ye mention my name and will set ye on a coach to Edinburgh. I’ll settle the account, of course.”

“Can you afford it now you’re not getting your hands on my daughter’s fortune?”

He flinched and closed his eyes.

“Murdo…” Clara said, pain swelling in her heart.

He opened them, and her heart shattered at the defeat there.

“I think it’s best, lass.”

“For whom? That vile, drunken bully you call a father?”

The housekeeper drew in a sharp breath.

“Now, lass, there’s no need—” the ghillie began.

“There’s every need!” Clara cried. “Did you hear what he said to me, to my mother? Damn you, Murdo. Why can’t you even look at me—the brat of the whore your father fucked?”

“Sweet God Almighty!” The housekeeper crossed herself.

“Joan, see that our guests’ trunks are brought down,” Murdo said.

The housekeeper nodded, then scuttled up the stairs. “Elspeth! Marsaili! Come here this instant!” she cried.

Fists raised, Clara strode toward Murdo, but a hand caught her wrist.

“He’s not worth it, my darling,” Mama said. “He’s not worth anything .”

Murdo’s brother appeared from the dining room. “He’s passed out,” he said. “Help me get him upstairs, will ye?”

“Not now, James,” Murdo said.

At that moment, the crunch of wheels on gravel could be heard outside, and the young man reappeared, panting. “The carriage is ready.”

“I’ll show ye to the parlor where ye can wait until yer trunks are loaded,” the ghillie said.

“We’ll wait in the coach,” Mama said crisply. “I don’t wish to spend another heartbeat in this house.”

The young man led them outside. At the threshold, Clara glanced back at Murdo. A flicker of despair pulsed in his eyes, and for a heartbeat, she thought he might call her back.

But he didn’t. He glanced at his brother, who stood, red-faced, by the dining room door, while snores could be heard from inside.

Then Clara turned her back and followed her mother into the carriage.

As soon as Mama drew her into an embrace, Clara surrendered to her sorrow, shaking with sobs.

“I’m so sorry, my darling,” Mama whispered.

“Why didn’t he defend me?” Clara cried.

“Because some men are weak. They care for honor, propriety, and bloodlines, yet, deep down, they’re nothing more than bloodless little boys desperate to please their fathers.” She let out a sigh. “Even Harcourt—much as I love him—once cared more for propriety than for love.”

“But Papa Harcourt loves you, Mama, doesn’t he?”

She kissed Clara’s forehead. “He does. But when I first knew him, he was bound by the rules of Society that his father insisted he follow. We both suffered as a result, but perhaps we needed to suffer to appreciate what we have now—the love we share.”

“I-I thought Murdo loved me.”

“He did, darling. Perhaps he still does.”

“But not enough,” Clara said. “Will there ever be anyone to love me enough?”

Her mother caressed her hair. “There will, my darling. And I know just the place to find him.”

Clara’s skin tightened in apprehension. “Not London? A Season would be far worse than this. Men like him —ladies like Miss Peacock. I don’t fit in. Please don’t make me have a London Season.”

“I won’t, my darling,” Mama said. “I’m thinking of somewhere—and some one —very particular. The hand of fate who reunited your stepfather and me.”

“Who?” Clara asked.

“My dear friend Bessie Dove-Lyon,” Mama said. “It’s time to take you to the Lyon’s Den.”