Chapter 1
“Ember? Go to the ball? Have you all gone daft?” Baroness Machara Oliphant, proprietress of The Oliphant Inn, threw her head back and laughed that shrill twitter of hers, which made her sound like a breathless tropical bird.
Not that Ember had ever heard a parrot, but she’d read about them—and their ridiculous sounds—in one of Bonnie’s books and often thought her stepmother resembled the birds, from the careful way she picked up each foot and put it down, to the colorful plumage of silks she insisted on draping herself in.
Desperation is not a kind look, Stepmother.
But Ember pressed her lips together, refusing to be baited by the old witch as she focused on making the large bed, and placing each of the forty-five pillows just so, to avoid her stepmother’s wrath.
“Mother.” Tiffany pretended to sigh heavily, although her gaze never wavered from her reflection in the mirror where she was very carefully applying powder to her jawline. “Everyone in the clan is invited. It will be a grand party.”
“It is a ball,” her mother snapped in return, waving the hairbrush dismissively, before returning her attention to Bonnie’s coiffure. “The Duke of Cashard should be there, searching for a wife.”
“His mother is searching for his wife,” Bonnie said so quietly, Ember doubted her mother overheard it, especially with the way Tiffany squealed happily.
“I will catch his eye,” Ember’s beautiful stepsister announced proudly. “How could I not? We have conversed at the Dumpkins house party, and I believe we will suit.”
“How could you not, my pretty?” her mother crooned in agreement. “The Duke will take one look at you in your finery, and whisk you away.”
“Everyone will be in masks, Mother,” Bonnie pointed out sensibly. “He will not recognize Tiffany’s beauty, and she will not know which one is the Duke.”
Tiffany smirked at the challenge. “I will know, and I will find him. Bonnie is right, Mother, everyone will be in masks. Ember could go—”
It was sweet of Tiffany to try again, but Ember should have known it wouldn’t work.
“A Society ball!” Machara huffed, turning her attention back to Bonnie’s coiffure. “It is bad enough I am forced to attend to my daughters’ toilette myself because Ember is too busy to do so. I will not have our little guttersnipe embarrassing me in front of the local gentry!”
In the mirror, Ember caught Tiffany’s gaze, before bending to pick up the discarded undergarments and afternoon gowns Machara had tossed about as she’d helped her daughters prepare for the evening. Her stepsister gave a little shrug, as if to say, We expected this.
They had, and they were prepared. Her sister’s blue eyes cut to the wardrobe, where a simple tangerine-colored gown hung. Tiffany had worn it during her trip to Edinburgh last season, and Ember knew it would fit her, thanks to the slight adjustments she and her stepsisters had made.
But, as if guessing her mother would expect a fight, quiet Bonnie spoke up. “Mother, Ember has been working hard and deserves an evening to enjoy herself like the rest of the clan.”
“And leave the inn unstaffed?” Machara sniffed. “I think not. Hand me those pins, darling,” she commanded, using her chin to gesture to the pearl-tipped hair accessories on the table before Bonnie, as she held the younger woman’s dark blonde locks in both hands.
“Mother, Auld Ben will be behind the bar,” Tiffany reminded her flippantly. “And most of the guests will be at the ball, will they not? Ember can—”
“Girls!” It was as if her own shriek startled Machara as much as the three younger women, because she dropped Bonnie’s hair as her hands fluttered, and then clucked her tongue in frustration. “Now look what you have made me do!”
Pressing a shaking hand to her forehead, Ember’s stepmother sucked in a deep breath, as if trying to calm herself. Ember ducked her head and made short work of hanging up the discarded clothing, wanting to do nothing which would hint at her plans for the evening.
“Girls,” Machara began again, speaking slowly but loudly, as if they were all hard of understanding, “this is really quite simple. Lady Dumpkins’s house party is in full swing—thank goodness you have been able to attend so many of the events!
But her annual Midsummer Masquerade is open to everyone who is anyone, and this year it is in honor of the newest Oliphant son, Mr. Deville. ”
“How remarkable,” sighed Bonnie dreamily, “that he came to the Highlands to run Oliphant Engraving, only to discover his connection to the family. It is like something from a fairy tale.”
“Do not be stupid,” her mother snapped. “Clearly he was given such a lofty position because of his connection. That is how the real world works. Mr. DeVille is about to become a very important man in the Highlands.”
Ember kept her head bent over her task, but her ears pricked toward her stepmother, hoping for more hints about the enigmatic man she was desperate to meet. Her stepsister Tiffany knew this, and made another attempt to draw information from her mother.
“I know you want me to impress Mr. DeVille, Mother, and—”
“I want you to catch the eye of the Duke of Cashard,” the older woman bit out, interrupting Tiffany. “Just imagine! A house party right in our neighborhood, with a Duke attending…and you have not managed to pin him down.”
Bonnie tried to soothe her mother. “The Duke has been busy with his own affairs for most of the party, Mother. I heard he did not even want to attend Lady Dumpkins’s event. There are plenty of other lords for Tiffany to win over.”
The Baroness huffed, then rolled her head and straightened her shoulders.
Her tone was calmer when she addressed Tiffany once more.
“It is possible the Duke has his eye set on marrying a lass of higher standing than a baron’s daughter, no matter how stunningly beautiful you are.
In that case, I want you to be the next Lady Oliphant. You will marry a laird, Tiffany!”
Ember could tell from the way Tiffany’s gaze dropped to the powders and cosmetics in front of her that her stepsister didn’t completely love the idea.
Perhaps because of who the next Laird Oliphant was.
“Oh, my darling,” Machara suddenly crooned, stepping away from Bonnie to place her hands on Tiffany’s shoulders.
She nudged her oldest daughter’s chin up, forcing her shoulders to straighten proudly, as she stood behind her and met Tiffany’s gaze in the mirror.
“There is my beauty, my pride.” The older woman ran a finger down her daughter’s carefully lotioned cheek.
“I look at you and I see myself: the lady our next laird deserves. You are the most beautiful woman the Oliphants have seen in a generation, Tiffany, and I will not allow you to waste it.”
Ember knew “waste it” meant “marrying a man with an income of less than five thousand pounds yearly.”
If she couldn’t land the Duke, Machara would go after the next Laird Oliphant, poor man.
When Tiffany’s eyes began to gleam with pride, Ember turned away.
Over the years, she’d seen the way her stepmother’s words could influence Tiffany.
Her stepsister had gone from a pretty, cheerful, caring girl of Ember’s own age, to a vain and prideful young woman—one who was, admittedly, the most beautiful creature in the clan.
Sometimes, Ember wondered if the girl she used to know was still in there somewhere.
Do not be stupid. She and Bonnie loaned you the gown and undergarments, did they not?
Yes, they had. They were still her sisters after all, and she knew they both cared for her.
The three of them had known Machara would object to Ember attending the ball; not because of the reasons she’d screeched, because the inn could survive without them for the evening, but because she didn’t want her own entrance—and that of Tiffany—marred by Ember’s presence.
Sometimes it seemed everyone on Oliphant Land knew just how little the baroness thought of her stepdaughter. Ember used to be important, back when her father was alive. There’d been wealth then, for Ember to get an education, to understand etiquette as well as art.
Father had taught her what she’d needed to follow after him, and they’d been happy.
But with him gone, the rest of the clan seemed to have forgotten she was once considered the best young engraver around and had now relegated her to drudge.
Just as her stepmother did so often.
Only, whereas Machara had done it on purpose, Ember was certain her clan hadn’t intended to be cruel.
And that was one thing which kept her going.
As she was preparing to slip out the door—she knew it was best to allow her stepmother to believe she’d accepted the no-ball edict—the older woman suddenly snapped around. “Ember! The shoes!”
“Pardon?” Ember asked, turning halfway out the door.
Her stepmother huffed and rolled her eyes as she patted Tiffany’s cheek once more, then crossed back to reconstruct Bonnie’s coiffure. “The shoes, the shoes, you dolt! My daughters’ shoes. The things they wear on their feet.”
“I know what shoes are, Stepmother,” Ember managed coldly.
Machara narrowed her eyes at her. “Then fetch them. You have been tinkering with them in your father’s workshop, have you not? My Tiffany told me she and Bonnie wanted to wear some of your creations or none at all, so I graciously agreed. At least they will be unique.”
The last was muttered as she swept Bonnie’s hair atop her head once more.
Ember, knowing her stepmother couldn’t see her, stuck her tongue out at the woman’s back.
But all she said was, “Yes, I polished the shoes this morning.” Along with her own, the ones she was planning on wearing that evening.
To the ball.
Which her stepmother didn’t realize she planned to attend, with or without her permission.
With or without her stepsisters’ help.