Chapter Two
Ten years later…
Miss Romola watched as her younger half-sister and cousin were ushered out onto the dance floor by two eligible gentlemen.
Her position as a wallflower, or rather a companion, could not be clearer.
She kept her back straight, her smile serene, and her composure calm.
No one here would ask her to dance, despite the fact she was a better dancer than both Olivia and Emillia.
It had taken her years to master such rigidity and poise, to put away childish things, but at twenty-six, Romola was a fair way toward mastering it.
The harsh reality of her situation gave her very little choice.
She was a bastard, the daughter of a one-time governess and a powerful duke.
His family might be one of the wealthiest in Britain and the richest in Scotland, but nonetheless, her dead father was loathed throughout Scotland, and the feeling was mutual—that was what the previous duke had stated repeatedly whenever she met him.
It was important that she know and loathe a lot of her fellow Scots.
“If you aren’t hated for being a Campbell, then you’ll be hated for being a bastard. Better to distrust and dislike all who you meet,” the duke had said with cavalier arrogance. His sister hadn’t helped matters either, insisting she shouldn’t fraternize with the locals.
It was only when she’d moved to Fife that at last Romola had abandoned the lingering impact of her mother.
Given her dead mother’s reputation, no one would want to marry her, unless they desired her small annuity, no matter how kind her half-brother was, since the current duke could hardly make her legitimate.
The best her half-brother could manage was to see her accepted amongst his friends and acquaintances and for her to have a position as a companion.
It was far pleasanter situation than what her father had intended for her.
Any romantic notions Romola might once have clung to had died on the departing of the McGregor carriage ten years ago.
It had left her to walk home crying through miles of uneven countryside to a disapproving uncle and aunt.
Aunt Caroline’s burning gaze and harrowing remarks on the lowly nature of the McGregor clan hadn’t tempered her desire for Julian.
She had tried to change their fate, writing to Laird McGregor as soon as he was at school, but no reply from him had ever reached her.
After a year she had given up hoping that Laird Julian McGregor ever felt the same way about her as she had for him.
“Put away your childish hopes and notions,” her aunt had said, and Romola had squashed them down, until all that remained was a shell of herself that might glide through a London soiree unnoticed.
Her brother, the current Duke of Angus, arrived and offered her his hand.
“Lemonade, Romola?” Hugo’s voice was low, and she was grateful for his consideration.
It was strange the terrible reputation the Campbells had, when all she had received from the people most known for the name was kindness.
Hugo and his two sisters, Olivia and Beatrice, as well as their adopted cousin Emillia, had no reason to extend such consideration to her.
Especially given the fact that Romola’s mother had caused such a scandal amongst the family.
But instead, all of them, and in particular Hugo, had seen it as their job to protect Romola.
He escorted her through the busy ballroom, the glimmering light of the hundreds of candles set off against the cheval mirrors that lined the sparkling room.
The scent of the imported hothouse flowers was rich and heavy in the air.
Gossip and fine silks swirled through the room, accompanied by Society debutantes and their swains.
“Anyone catch your eye?” Hugo teased, playing the role of big brother so well that Romola envied Olivia and Beatrice all over again.
“It would take Lord Byron returning to the ton to make me an acceptable dance partner to any one of these gentlemen,” she said. She ignored the pity in Hugo’s eyes and instead tried to find joy in the beautiful setting of the Earl and Countess of Haversham’s home.
“Do you wish I had left you pining away in Fife—or what was the suggestion of yours, that you become a governess?” Hugo asked as he led her over to the corner of retiring room, away from the eagerly watching throng.
Romola knew he would much rather direct his feet to the billiards or adjoining card room than linger here for any length of time.
After all, staying too long in such a position might draw the attention of the matchmaking mamas that he was so desperate to avoid.
He had precisely the opposite problem to her—everyone wished to be matched with him.
“No, there was nothing left for me there.” It was true from a certain perspective.
After her aunt had died, there was no familial reason for Romola to remain in Fife, despite the hold the region had on her affections.
Despite the generous gifting of the little estate to her.
She was not clear if this was by Hugo’s guiding hand or if it had been her aunt and uncle’s will, but it was a comfort to know she was financially independent in her own right.
“It was right I see more of the world. It’s what I always wanted. ”
“From your estate you could indeed travel and see wherever you might wish to,” Hugo said amiably, “but I hope you will always know that Beatrice, Livie, and I want you to be as close as you find comfortable. The rigid rules that Father clung to, ones where he hated another outside his influence, are not ones I wish to form my life around. Nor ones you must cling to.”
Romola squeezed his arm. She could see the gathering mamas and their daughters eager to conduct the proper introductions, and she could not inflict that on poor Hugo.
They circled closer, like bees around a honeypot.
“I think I will venture outside for a little air. I hear Lady Haversham’s rose garden is the loveliest in London. ”
With a grateful kiss to her hand, Hugo hastily departed, and Romola slipped through the nearby wall-length open doors and down the steps into the walled gardens of the fine London townhouse.
Moonlight was a relief after the heated oppression of the candles and press of bodies.
The night’s air washed over her skin, and Romola walked into the staged bucolic greenery with a happy step.
The silvery gardens were spread out before her, the sweet scent of roses clung to her skin, and, despite herself, Romola recalled in vivid color the memory of her last sighting of Julian McGregor.
That proud boy, with his dark green eyes and brown hair, that delightful curve of his mouth when he was trying not to laugh but instead wished to instill some moral lesson he knew.
She had adored him at first sight. So tall, so dashing on his warhorse of a stallion, so dear when she had no one else to cling to.
Not for a moment had she cared he was laird—she would have loved him whether he’d been a pauper or a king.
He had showered her with attention, with interest, and with care—what more could her young and vulnerable heart have wanted?
The unfair thing was that within the intervening years she had met no man prepared to look past her status as a bastard and see her inner self.
Raising a hand, Romola touched a nearby outcrop of pink-tipped roses. There were as beautiful as the countess had claimed, their petals soft and yielding and their perfume intoxicating. Romola leaned forward to take a sniff and enjoy the fragrance.
“Ma’am?” A Scottish burr made her turn around and start a little.
The sight before made her wish she hadn’t. Five feet away stood the man she’d spend ten years trying her best not to dwell on, romanticize, and write to. Laird Julian McGregor. There he was, slowly approaching her.
He was still tall, damn him, if not having gained an inch or two.
At least six foot three now. His long brown curls had been ruthlessly cut close to his head, which, of course, suited his features.
He still had that jutting, proud nose, the firm chin, and square shoulders she longed to hang off.
The years had transformed him from a boy to a man, one whose earlier slimness had given way to a broad-chested ruggedness that Romola told herself she held no regard for.
“My lord.” She nodded with only the slightest of movements and told herself if she ever imparted to Hugo what McGregor had done, her brother would take the greatest delight in running him through.
To her dismay, McGregor held up a hand to halt her progress. “I am surprised you are in London.”
“You are?” She tried to keep her tone as steady as possible, but she was certain some emotion crept in.
How she wished to the bottom of her heart that she was not a person who showed every one of their emotions on their face.
With as much scorn as she could manage, she asked, “Did you expect me to distance myself from running into you forever?”
“I would not give myself that much credit, madam.”
“Good,” she fairly snapped back. Looking over his shoulder, she could see the Havershams’ townhouse, and the sensible thing was to try to head inside. The stupid thing would be to stay here. Turning on her heel, Romola walked along the hedgerow, hoping McGregor would not follow her.
Instead, he fell in step next to her. “I thought you would finally travel, go and see the sites you always dreamt about.”
“Instead, I choose to accompany my family. I might be a natural daughter, but they see me as kin.”
If Julian had any reaction to this, Romola couldn’t spot it. But nor did he drop away or leave her. Desperately she searched for some means of making him leave.