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M urdo spooned eggs onto his plate, followed by a portion of bacon, then he sat at the breakfast table.

“Ye can take more than that,” his aunt said, eyeing his plate. “A healthy young man like yerself.”

His cousin leaned toward him. “She means huge , Murdo,” he said with a grin. “How many rashers is that, eight? I’m glad you’ve saved some for the rest of us.”

“Simon!” Murdo’s uncle said. “He can take as much as he wants. Be thankful your brother’s not here, or there would have been no bacon for any of us. I swear I don’t know where that boy gets his appetite from.”

“Says the man who ate twelve rashers on Christmas morning,” Aunt Fiona said. “It’s true,” she added, giving Murdo a wink. “I counted every one.”

“I’m surprised you didn’t have anything better to do, my dear,” Murdo’s uncle said.

“Better?” she replied. “I find yer little habits very entertaining. And don’t deny it. I saw ye pick up that bacon with your fingers—in front of our nephew.”

“Murdo doesn’t mind that,” Simon said. “You should have seen him last night—he ate a chicken thigh like a savage, tearing at it with his teeth before tossing the bone to the floor.”

Murdo’s aunt peered at him over her glasses. “I hope Simon’s jesting. We wouldn’t want those Sassenachs thinking we’re savages .”

“Oh, Sassenachs , are we?” Murdo’s uncle laughed. “You do realize, Fiona my dear, that by virtue of your marriage to me, you’re considered as English as the king.”

She let out a snort. “So, not English at all, then, Adam?”

He rolled his eyes. “If I’m to be plagued all morning, I shall retire to the library to read my paper in peace before I go into town.”

“Do, if it means ye’re not getting under my feet.”

Murdo’s uncle folded his paper and tucked it under his arm. He placed a swift kiss on his wife’s lips, then rose, plate in hand, and helped himself to more bacon. “Coming, son?”

Simon stood, scraping his chair back. “I don’t see why I must work while Murdo’s visiting.”

“Because it’s how we earn a living,” his father said. “A business doesn’t run itself, and the mark of a man is that he works, even if he doesn’t feel like working. If you want that Goldenchild lass to take a fancy to you, you’ll have to show that you can support her.”

“ Goodchild ,” Simon said. “Her name’s Goodchild. And I’m not courting her.”

“Then you’d best start, before some other fellow does. It’s how I won your mother—and what a prize I gained.”

“Be off, ye fool!” Aunt Fiona cried.

He blew her a kiss, then exited the breakfast room, followed by Simon.

Aunt Fiona let out a sigh. “I trust ye’ll not give yer wife as much trouble as yer uncle’s given me, Murdo, lad.”

“I’m sure ye give as good as ye get, Aunt.”

She grinned. “Aye. We Scots are made of stern stuff. Yer uncle may be the man, but…”

“But he knows who the real head of the family is?” Murdo chuckled.

“Aye, that he does. Are ye courting yet, nephew?”

“Perhaps.”

“Ah,” she said. “When my favorite nephew says ‘perhaps,’ that means ‘very much so.’ Is it that lass from the neighboring estate to Strathburn? The McCallum lass—what’s her name, Shona?”

Murdo shook his head. “Da wants her to marry my brother.”

“He’d have more success nailing soup to the wall. James isn’t the marrying kind.”

“We must both marry if the clan’s to survive,” Murdo said. “Da’s made it clear that he wants James to marry a Scotswoman of good breeding, to furnish the estate with heirs. It’s his duty.”

“It’ll be his misery,” she said. “I suppose yer duty is to find a rich wife to furnish the estate with cash. The McCallums are hardly wealthy. Old Hamish McCallum drinks too much, though not as much as yer da.”

The door opened and a footman entered, carrying a letter on a salver.

Aunt Fiona took the note and tore it open. Her eyes widened as she read it, then she lowered her hand and stared at Murdo.

He glanced at the note and spotted a crest at the top.

“Who’s it from?” he asked.

“The Duchess of Pittchester. She and her daughter have invited us to take tea on Tuesday. She says that she particularly wants ye to come, Murdo, lad. I wasn’t aware ye were acquainted with the duchess.

“I met her last night at Lady Cholmondeley’s ball.”

“And her daughter?”

“I met Miss Martingale also.”

“I suspect ye did more than meet her, given the color of yer cheeks. Ye always did turn a bright shade of pink when ye were up to no good.”

“I like her, that’s all,” Murdo said.

His aunt let out a laugh. “Ye more than like her,” she said. “Ye can’t fool yer aunt.”

“Do you know her?”

“I’ve met her once. A strange lass, but not unpleasant. She seemed a little shy. She’s being presented at court next Season.”

Not if I can prevent it.

“I beg pardon?”

“I said, I fear she’d be a little out of place in London.”

“Aye, ye’re right there,” she said. “She’s nothing like her brothers, but I suppose she wouldn’t be, given that she’s not related to them, not even half blood.

She seems a little… wild . Henry’s afraid of her—he said she threatened to tie him upside down to a tree when he stayed with the twins last summer. ”

“I can’t believe that, Aunt.”

“ I can,” she said, grinning, “but knowing my youngest son as I do—much as I love him—I suspect the lass was provoked, and where most young ladies would have limited their reactions to a disappointing glare, Miss Martingale would have shown her disapproval more openly. She’ll take some taming—I don’t envy the man who takes her on. ”

“ I like her,” Murdo said.

She shook her head. “McTavish men don’t like women—and ye’ve never liked a woman in yer life, though ye’ve bedded plenty. What makes this one different?” She tilted her head to one side. “I hear she has a sizeable dowry,” she said. “From her ma’s fortune. Forty thousand—so the gossips say.”

Forty thousand…

What had Simon said last night? Enough to restore his estate, and leave room to purchase a small county.

Enough, in fact, to clear the debts on the ledgers and leave the Strathburn estate with thirty thousand.

Imagine what could be done with thirty thousand! It was almost too good to be true.

His aunt frowned and tucked the letter into her sleeve. “Counting the coins already, lad?”

Murdo’s cheeks warmed under her scrutiny.

“If it’s her fortune ye’re after, I’d tread carefully,” she said.

“The duke may be a quiet sort of man, but he’d have yer ballocks if he thought ye intended to hurt the lass.

And if he doesn’t, the duchess would. There’s naught so fierce as a mother protecting her cub.

My sister would have fought to the death to protect ye, lad, but I doubt even she’d have been a match for the duchess. ”

A small needle of pain pricked Murdo’s heart at the thought of his own mother—a woman he could barely recall.

“It’s plain to see where the lass got her wild ways from,” his aunt continued. “But if any man can handle her, then it’s ye. She’d be fortunate to have ye, as I know ye’d treat her right. But whether ye can handle her mother is another matter. I suppose ye want me to accept the invitation?”

Murdo opened his mouth to reply, and she laughed. “Of course ye do! But be careful what ye wish for, nephew. A man wishing to court the daughter of the Duchess of Pittchester is, I fear, entering the lioness’s den.”