Chapter 27
Chapter Twenty-Seven
An afternoon at Hyde Park used to be a kind of soft torture for Elizabeth.
It had always begun innocuously enough, a stroll among the budding trees, the breeze lifting the ribbons on one’s bonnet, but it never ended that way.
Her stepmother would watch her with hawk-like vigilance, maneuvering her into the paths of eligible gentlemen like a chess master cornering her final move.
Elizabeth had always hated the parade. Even among the flocks of other debutantes enduring the same fate, she had felt exposed and inferior. Too pale, too quiet, too forgettable.
Today was meant to undo those memories. Alasdair had declared it so: a picnic, informal and unchaperoned, surrounded not by judging eyes but by the warm laughter of people who truly loved her.
And she’d believed him.
At least, she wanted to believe that this moment, this calm, could replace what once had been.
They settled beneath the wide boughs of an ancient oak tree, its green canopy casting dappled shadows over the large tartan blanket that covered the grass.
The spot overlooked the shimmering Serpentine, where swans floated languidly in the afternoon sun, and carriages rolled along the edges of the wide paths.
It was, Elizabeth thought, almost idyllic.
“This is a delightful spot, Lizzie,” Marianne said, lowering herself onto the blanket with a contented sigh. She leaned back on her hands and lifted her face to the sky. “Even the sun seems to be smiling on us today.”
“I chose it meself, ye know,” Alasdair added with a slight grin, glancing at Elizabeth as if seeking reward.
She offered him a half-smile and a subtle nudge of her knee against his. A quiet thank you.
He understood it, as always.
“It’s perfect!” Victoria exclaimed, clapping her hands together. “But who’s forgetting about all this food? Sandwiches, strawberries, lemon cakes, raspberry tarts… heaven!”
“You’re right,” Daphne chimed in, reaching for a triangle of cucumber sandwich. “This is no picnic without a feast.”
“You do know the food’s meant to be shared, not hoarded like a dragon’s treasure?” Wilhelmina said, lifting a brow at Victoria, who already had a tart in one hand and a strawberry in the other. “At this rate, you’ll have your own picnic kingdom before the rest of us get a bite.”
“Oh, a dragon,” Victoria muttered around a bite she’d taken from a raspberry tart. “I wouldn’t mind being one at all.”
Daphne choked on a sip of lemonade. “You what?”
Victoria shrugged, crumbs dusting her skirt. “I mean it. Dragons are powerful and no one tells them what to do. They sleep all day and fly wherever they like. It sounds amazing.”
“Victoria,” Daphne said with wide eyes, as if her sister had just confessed to villainy. “Dragons are always the bad ones. They eat knights! And villagers! And sometimes puppies!”
“They do not eat puppies,” Victoria huffed. “That was one story. And it was a very small dragon who didn’t know better.”
“Didn’t know any better? It was a puppy, Vicky!” Daphne asked, indignant. “And what about the princesses they lock in towers?”
“Maybe the princess wanted a tower,” Victoria said sweetly. “Maybe she needed a break from people saying ‘sit up straight’ and ‘don’t eat like an animal’.”
That earned a snort from Wilhelmina, who had been lying back against the picnic basket, eyes half-lidded in sun-drenched amusement.
“You two have clearly lost the plot. Dragons don’t do anything half as exciting as this.
If Victoria were a dragon, she’d only hoard jam tarts and complain about the temperature in her cave. ”
“I would not!” Victoria protested, scandalized. “I’d also hoard necklaces. And art. And… probably a cat.”
“Villain,” Daphne whispered, pointing accusingly.
“Oh hush, you’d cry if someone called you a villain,” Victoria retorted. “And I’d breathe fire at them.”
“I would not!” Daphne retorted. “But you are impossible.”
“You’re both ridiculous,” Wilhelmina declared, flicking a leaf off her bonnet. “But I’ll allow it. Better a dragon than a debutante, I suppose.”
Elizabeth, seated on the blanket nearby, shook her head with a smile as she exchanged a glance with Alasdair. “I don’t know whether to worry or take notes.”
“Take notes,” Alasdair said dryly. “We might need them if Victoria ever starts hoardin’ livestock and roastin’ footmen.”
“I would not roast footmen,” Victoria muttered. “Only rude ones.”
“It was meant to be a foolproof plan,” Alasdair whispered in Elizabeth’s ear, his mouth curving in mischief. “But I dinnae account for yer sisters, wife.”
“Nothing can be foolproof when they’re involved,” Elizabeth replied fondly, glancing at the twins as they argued about whether or not Victoria would realistically be able to wear necklaces as a dragon.
Seth, lounging nearby with a hand resting lazily on his knee, grinned. “I thought this was supposed to be a romantic outing. Instead, Sandy boy here looks like he’s bracing himself for battle.”
“Sandy boy?” Elizabeth arched an eyebrow at Alasdair, who put a hand on his face in exasperation.
“Must ye humiliate me before me wife, Whitton?” he hissed at Seth.
Seth only laughed, “Oh, please. You know that damn well that is the very purpose of unmarried friends.”
Alasdair rolled his eyes, and Elizabeth smiled. She enjoyed this easy, familiar version of her husband. She deeply enjoyed the intimate version of him that was just for her, but this… This moment, with him, his friend, and Elizabeth’s family… It was all she could ever dream of.
“I shall repeat myself: Sandy boy?” she teased, nudging Alasdair gently.
Alasdair sighed, “Me grandmaither called me Sandy in the years before she died. I believed this cad over here picked it up when I told him a story involving her.”
“Very observant of you, Lord Whitton,” Elizabeth turned to the earl.
“My dear duchess, please call me Seth. I feel terribly left out when you address everyone else here by name,” Seth purred.
Elizabeth giggled, “Very well, Seth. I’d very much like to hear… Sandy boy’s story from your perspective.”
Alasdair groaned the moment she referred to him by his nickname.
“Thank you, my dear. As for your request, it’d be my pleasure,” he bowed his head with a flourish, “So, our fearsome Highland warrior here—your Sandy boy—was once a sprightly lad of eight who attempted to rescue a duckling from the estate pond.”
“I already regret this,” Alasdair muttered into his lemonade.
“Oh no, you don’t,” Seth said cheerfully. “You told me this over brandy once, and it was the highlight of my week.”
Elizabeth leaned forward, eyes alight. “Go on.”
“Well, there he was, a small, wild-haired, and determined boy. The duckling had wandered off from its mother, and little Sandy believed he was uniquely called upon to reunite them. In his infinite wisdom, he leapt straight into the pond—fully clothed, I might add—while screaming ‘Ye’ll nae perish on my watch, wee beastie!’”
“No,” Elizabeth gasped, biting her knuckle to suppress laughter. “You did not.”
“Oh, he did,” Seth confirmed smugly. “Then he got tangled in the lily pads and had to be hauled out by the groundskeeper, sputtering about heroic duties and water spirits. His grandmother gave him a tartan blanket and a warm scone and said, ‘Ye’ve got a brave heart, Sandy.’ Thus, the name stuck.”
“Traitor,” Alasdair said flatly. “All of this slander. And in front of my wife.”
Elizabeth’s eyes shimmered with laughter. “I can’t decide what I love more, ‘wee beastie’ or ‘brave heart.’”
“Don’t forget the water spirits,” Seth added helpfully.
“I was eight,” Alasdair growled. “And the duckling survived, if anyone cares to ask.”
“It did,” Seth conceded. “Though I’ve always suspected it wandered off again purely to escape your war cries.”
“You know, I never thought I’d say this,” Elizabeth said, turning back to her husband with a beaming smile, “but I think I love Sandy boy.”
“I knew I should’ve married a lass with no sense of humor,” Alasdair muttered, pulling his hat over his face and reclining in mock despair.
Victoria, who had caught only the tail end of the conversation, popped her head up. “Wait, wait, wait. Did someone say ‘beastie’? Are we back to dragons?”
“No, darling,” Wilhelmina sighed. “We’ve moved on to ducks.”
“Disappointing,” Victoria mumbled. “I was rooting for more chaos.”
“I think we’ve had quite enough of that for one outing,” Elizabeth said fondly, leaning into Alasdair’s side, who, despite the teasing, wrapped an arm around her waist.
She felt different and lighter, somehow, but the fear that it would all vanish too quickly still lingered beneath the surface.
“Lizzie,” Wilhelmina reached for a strawberry and popped it in her mouth. “I suppose now you’re going to show off all those new sketches you’ve been working on in your little studio, hmm?”
Elizabeth and Alasdair exchanged a glance. She barely stifled a laugh.
“Oh yes,” Elizabeth said lightly, “I’ve been sketching a great deal.”
“We’d love to see them,” Marianne said. “Perhaps I’ll stop by one afternoon?”
Elizabeth hesitated, picturing a very particular sketch currently hidden in their bedchamber. Alasdair seemed to think of the same thing, as his mouth twitched.
“Some of them,” Elizabeth said with a vague smile. “The ones suitable for general audiences.”
“Oh!” Victoria suddenly piped up. “Have you been in a duel, Your Grace?”
The abrupt question made everyone pause.
“Why are we going from dragons to duels?” Alasdair asked, chuckling.
“I just remembered the rumors,” Victoria replied, unfazed. “Well, only what Mother has been muttering under her breath since your wedding.”
Alasdair laughed. “Aye, I’m certain yer maither has her own opinions of me, Lady Victoria.”
“Is it true, Your Grace? Have you been in a duel?” Daphne asked.
“I’d like to think I’ve matured past duels,” he said dryly. “Though I might consider one if anyone insults my wife.”
Elizabeth’s heart squeezed. The protectiveness in his tone was no jest.