Chapter 13
Chapter Thirteen
“Patience, patience,” Alasdair muttered to himself, the words a quiet chant of discipline.
Lord Farnleigh’s townhouse was exactly as he’d imagined: austere, cold, and carefully ordered to the point of sterility.
The furnishings were polished and the rug immaculate, but the arrangement lacked imagination. There were no flourishes, no warmth, no invitation. In Alasdair’s eyes, the room was a mausoleum of status, a shrine to correctness without soul.
Even the light was deliberate. Slatted sun filtered through half-drawn curtains, casting neat stripes across the carpet. Not a single shaft of unruly sunlight was permitted.
For a man so enamored of his own importance, Farnleigh preferred shadows.
Alasdair remained standing in the center of it all, resisting the overwhelming urge to tear off his cravat and storm out.
But then—Lady Elizabeth.
He thought of her calm, instructive voice, her clever smiles, the way she smoothed her sleeves when she was thinking. Her belief in his potential.
He inhaled. Straightened his shoulders. He wore his best: gleaming black boots, a dark navy coat, an understated waistcoat. His hair was neatly brushed back.
No tartan today. Not even a hint. He hated it, but this wasn’t about pride. Not right now.
It was about conformity.
The door opened precisely at the agreed hour.
Lord Farnleigh entered slowly, moving like time itself had slowed to accommodate his presence. He was gaunt, his face sharp and hawkish, and while not short, he still stood below Alasdair’s towering frame. Despite his age, his gaze was razor-sharp, full of calculation and cool judgment.
He extended a hand with precision and bowed slightly.
“Your Grace,” he said in a low, dry voice.
“Lord Farnleigh,” Alasdair returned, bowing as Elizabeth had taught him. “Thank ye for grantin’ me yer audience.”
They moved toward a pair of chairs near the hearth. Alasdair allowed his host to sit first, then lowered himself with care.
“Let us speak plainly,” Farnleigh said, steepling his fingers. “It is not every day a Highland duke calls on me in my London drawing room. To what do I owe this… pleasure?”
The pause before pleasure was deliberate.
Alasdair clasped his hands together. “I’ve come to settle me faither’s affairs. That was the main reason. But I’ve also come to see that bein’ a duke carries duties that stretch beyond Scotland. Beyond borders. I’d be a right fool if I dinnae reach out and try to understand Scotland’s neighbors.”
Farnleigh arched a brow. “An admirable sentiment. However, I am not often moved by sentiment, Your Grace. Policy tends to serve us better.”
Alasdair resisted a frown.
Patience. Strategy. Lady Elizabeth’s voice again.
“That’s why I’m here. I’ve read yer pieces in The Gentleman’s Review. Yer arguments on trade reform and regional voting rights were particularly keen. I found yer stance on bullion scarcity refreshin’. Clear, precise. I may disagree with a few points, but there’s nae denyin’ yer insight.”
Farnleigh looked genuinely startled. “Most young men don’t know I write for the Review, much less cite specific essays,” he said. “You’ve read them?”
“Some more than once,” Alasdair replied. “Though the language took some wrestlin’, the meanings stuck.”
A breath escaped Farnleigh, a huff that bordered on amusement.
“Yer prose reminds me of fencing,” Alasdair added. “Well-paced, measured, precise. Like every word’s placed to draw blood without the reader even noticin’.”
That earned the older man’s full attention. “Do you fence, Your Grace?”
“I prefer a broadsword,” Alasdair admitted with a small smile. “But I’ve come to appreciate precision. Pure force has its place, but it canna win every fight.”
A subtle shift in Farnleigh’s demeanor followed. Less suspicion, more curiosity. Alasdair knew he’d struck the right note.
“Your reputation precedes you, sir,” Farnleigh said, narrowing his eyes. “I heard about the… incident at White’s.”
Alasdair’s jaw clenched, but he forced himself to stay calm.
“Aye,” he said after a beat. “Tempers flared. Family was insulted. I regret me response, though not the reason for it. I came to London wantin’ peace, not quarrel. I came to learn. I want to be a real part of this community, not just the wild Highlander ye’ve heard of.”
There was a long pause. Farnleigh studied him with quiet intensity.
“I appreciate any man, particularly a young one, who arrives willing to listen,” he said finally. “Most arrive with only their names and self-importance.”
Alasdair inclined his head. “I hope to be more than either.”
And just like that, the tide shifted.
What began as a test became a conversation.
They moved through topics: trade tariffs, agricultural shifts, education, even the gentry’s shifting expectations.
The more they spoke, the easier it became for Alasdair to respond thoughtfully, to choose his words the way a fencer chose his footwork—deliberate, balanced, controlled.
He even admitted when he didn’t know a topic well. Surprisingly, that honesty seemed to earn more approval than bluster would have.
They drank tea, not brandy. Another detail Elizabeth would have appreciated.
At last, Farnleigh offered: “You should meet Lord Penrith. Quiet man, but a powerful voice in policy. He may respect what I see in you today. I’ll write to him.”
Alasdair blinked. “I’d be grateful, me lord. More than grateful. Thank ye. And thank ye for listenin’. I ken not every man would welcome a Scot.”
Farnleigh gave him a thin smile, but there was a glint behind it.
“Don’t thank me yet. Penrith is sterner than I am. He values sincerity. Do not lose that.”
They stood, exchanged final courtesies, and Alasdair left.
Once on the street, he paused beneath the cloudy London sky. It had rained, and the damp air clung to his skin. His boots were speckled with grime already.
He had done it.
He’d held his temper. He’d spoken with grace and strength. He’d followed every rule of the game Elizabeth had laid out, and earned not just Farnleigh’s interest, but his respect. He should have felt triumphant.
And he did.
Mostly.
But something else had wedged itself beneath his ribs, aching.
Elizabeth.
He could see her now: eyes wide with mischief, lips curved around a stolen laugh, the way she moaned accidentally over a macaron. Her innocent face wrapped in mischief. Her clever fingers brushing crumbs from her lips.
God help him, he’d nearly dropped the bloody sweet.
It wasn’t just desire that burned in him. It was the thought that she understood him. Helped him.
“She’s no meant for ye,” he muttered to himself. “No matter how much ye learn to behave, she needs an English lord with perfect manners and perfect lineage.”
His pace quickened. The rain had stopped, but puddles still marked the cobbles. He avoided one, barely.
His reflection in the water showed a polished duke in London’s finest.
It didn’t feel like him. And yet, for once, it didn’t feel entirely false either.
He dragged a hand through his hair, untidy now from his thoughts more than the wind.
“I’m goin’ mad,” he muttered.
And still, even in the quiet of the carriage that waited for him, the scent of lemon and sugar lingered in his memory.
And the taste of Lady Elizabeth’s smile refused to fade.