Chapter 2
Chapter Two
“The Inverhall widow,” Hugo overheard a lady hiss as they entered the ballroom, her eyes narrowed as she looked Lady Inverhall up and down, and then playfully elbowed her friend.
“Oh yes, I believe it is her! They say she put a curse on the old man to have the place to herself,” another murmured, sipping wine with her left hand and making the sign of the cross with the right. “A witch, no less. Can ye believe it?”
“Oh, I can! Word is that she has all the villagers over to the estate, that she feeds them food and wine, and they saunter about like Pagan wildlings!”
Hugo’s jaw tightened at their harsh words, and he looked at Lady Inverhall. He noticed how she looked around with vacant eyes, scanning the guests with an unreadable expression, not showing any reaction to their words, at least outwardly.
She was a strong woman; he had to give her that. Yet, between her sharp tongue and her standing in the realm, he would have a more difficult time on his mission than he had thought.
This is worse than I had anticipated, and it seems her reputation does precede her. Finding a suitor will be a challenge. I just need to narrow my focus and make sure I find the right candidate.
The Highland gathering was a far cry from the opulent London balls he was accustomed to.
When their carriage had arrived at the sprawling, albeit slightly weather-beaten, estate, he immediately noticed the difference.
It was not just the clothing, a riot of tartans and kilts, or their voices, a mix of formal English and guttural Gaelic.
It was something in the air, a certain energy that he felt.
While he could not name it, he knew that it unnerved him.
The Great Hall, where music already resounded, hummed with an almost primal energy. Hugo glanced out a sprawling picture window to see that the Highland games were underway out on the estate grounds.
He tried to imagine such diversions at a proper English ball. While they often enjoyed games during picnics and other events, they were rarely mixed with formal gatherings.
How odd.
He was relieved that Lady Inverhall, despite his dismissive words the previous night, had chosen a dress that, while modest and a bit dated by London standards, was undeniably pretty. She had selected a deep forest green hue that complemented her eyes and accentuated her milky, porcelain skin.
She was a far cry from the woodland nymph he had seen in the gardens just the day before. She was simply elegant, every bit what one would expect of a young marchioness.
Perhaps there is hope yet…
As they continued to meander through the hall, Hugo felt the tension in her body.
It was subtle at first. She stiffened as the whispers followed them like a cold draft in the dead of winter.
Hugo ushered her past as they navigated the crowded hall toward the host, Lord Allan, a man of a stern countenance and a formidable beard.
Lord Allan acknowledged Hugo with a polite but reserved nod. “The esteemed Duke of Arrowfell, so far from London. A surprise to see ye here,” he offered with a firm handshake. “Welcome to Lochlan Hall.”
“Lord Allan,” Hugo replied smoothly, meeting his firm shake in kind. “Indeed. I have recently inherited Inverhall, and I felt it only proper to introduce myself to my new neighbors. And of course,” he added, glancing at Lady Inverhall, “to secure a suitable match for the Dowager Marchioness.”
Lord Allan’s eyes flickered to Lady Inverhall, raking up and down her body. “A match, ye say?” he asked, the slight tremor in his voice hinting at a suppressed laugh.
Lady Inverhall stepped in front of Hugo, her hands planted firmly on her hips. “Is there somethin’ odd about me choice of dress, Lord Allan? Or perhaps me presence here offends ye?”
“It isnae me place to judge anyone, Lady Inverhall,” he said with a small cough. “But I do say that Inverhall had seen better days. When I had ridden past on rare afternoons, enjoyin’ a bit of the fresh air, I couldnae help but notice a bit of disrepair that betrays the majesty of the place.”
“Well, perhaps yer own judgment could use a bit of dustin’ off, Me Lord,” she shot back, her green eyes flashing.
“My Lady,” Hugo whispered in her ear, his lips nearly grazing her lobe as he grasped her arm firmly.
“Forgive us, Lord Allan. Lady Inverhall is not accustomed to such lively gatherings, it seems. We merely wished to pay our respects and certainly mean no disrespect. I think some refreshment is just what she requires.”
He pulled her away before she could utter another word.
Once they were a short distance away and out of earshot, Hugo rounded on her.
“What in God’s name was that? Your bluntness is astounding, Lady Inverhall! Do you think insulting the host will endear you to these people?”
“Endear me?” she scoffed, pulling her arm from his grip with a sharp tug.
“They already have their minds made up about me, Yer Grace. Did ye nae hear the whispers as we walked in and how they got louder as we walked around the room? They call me a witch. What difference does a bit of politeness make when they have already condemned me?” She gestured around the room wildly.
“You do not make it easier, the way you go on—”
“I am tired of hidin’, of pretendin’ to be somethin’ I am nae, especially for people who judge without knowin’ a thing about me.”
“And I am growing tired of your stubborn defiance,” Hugo snapped. “This is a society built on subtle cues and presentation, on reputation. Even in the Highlands! You cannot simply charge headlong into every slight like a bull. Have some decorum.”
“And ye cannae simply expect everyone to bow and scrape to yer every whim, Yer Grace! I am nae a puppet,” she fired back, her shoulders squared as she dared him to challenge her. “This isnae London, where yer title alone parts the Red Sea!”
“The Red Sea is not in England.”
“I ken where the Red Sea is, ye blot!”
The music suddenly swelled again, drowning out their bickering, signaling another set of dances.
It was a lively quartet, with a portly gentleman playing the bagpipes, the tune a pleasant jaunt.
Men and women began pairing up, readying for the next round of dancing.
Smiles were exchanged, and the air became light and fun.
“Ah, perhaps now someone will finally ask you to dance,” Hugo murmured. “You are, after all, dressed well enough.”
Lady Inverhall gave him a cynical look. “You are overly optimistic, Yer Grace. But wait, did ye just compliment me? I ken it was a bit backward, but it sounded like a compliment.”
Hugo shook his head as he ushered her closer to the edge of the dance floor. He watched the men circling about the room as set after set began and ended.
No one approached her. Instead, the men chose other partners, some far plainer than her. Not one offered his hand to her, even the awkward or unfortunate-looking lads. Instead, all she received were stares. Their looks were curious, suspicious, and damning.
Why are they so insistent on avoiding her? What on earth has this woman done to earn their scorn?
This was going to be far more challenging than he had anticipated.
After what felt like an eternity, the music finally died down. The Duke, clearly frustrated beyond measure with her failure to secure a partner, took her arm again. He steered her toward a group of young lairds, clustered near a display of clan weapons in the room adjacent to the Great Hall.
Elspeth could not fathom how he would approach such a group, chalking up his effort to pure desperation.
I am just bein’ paraded around like a prized mare, but aye, he will see how this willnae work the way he imagines it will.
“Good evening, gentlemen,” he greeted as he raised his wine goblet, which a servant quickly refilled as he passed with a tankard of barley wine. “I am the Duke of Arrowfell. You may know my late uncle, the former Marquess of Inverhall.”
“Aye, of course. We were quite sorry to hear of his passin’. I wish ye a good evenin’, Yer Grace. I am Laird MacLeod,” a young lad no more than eighteen said, with a brief dip of his chin. “We were just catchin’ up. This here is Laird Brown and Laird Stewart.”
“A pleasure, gentlemen,” the Duke offered as he drained his glass, far too quickly for Elspeth’s liking. “Did the last harvest treat you well?”
“Aye, the barley was fair enough. And Laird Brown, I trust yer whisky is as potent as ever?” Laird MacLeod asked with a wry smile.
“No complaints from me cellars. Why dinnae ye lads try for yerselves?” Laird Brown pulled out a small flask and poured a few fingers of whisky into each man’s glass.
“Hmm,” Laird Stewart grunted, taking a slow sip from his glass. “Let us make a toast, then. To a good year, for both field and barrel.”
“Aye,” the men called in unison as they clinked their glasses and drained them in one go. “Slainte!”
“Lady Inverhall here is rarely able to leave the hallowed halls of Inverhall. Perhaps you could tell her of some of the local customs she might enjoy or special places she may visit,” the Duke suggested as he turned to Elspeth, his massive height hiding her.
Silence descended as she sheepishly stepped forward.
Her expression grew cold, as if a rush of ghostly wind had hit her cheeks.
She watched as the lairds shifted uncomfortably, looking anywhere but in her direction.
She noted how one cleared his throat, rubbing his hands over his unkempt red beard.
Another suddenly found his boots fascinating, staring down at the ground and kicking in time with the music in the next room.
Just then, a hulking figure of an older, grim-faced laird stepped out from behind Laird Brown. “I will tell ye what she can enjoy, Sassenach,” he snarled, his voice thick with drink and contempt. “She can enjoy leavin’ these parts. Ye’re nae welcome here, witch.”