Chapter 11
Staring at the lass in the mirror, Tiffany hardly recognized herself. She seemed…duller, perhaps? The smudges under her eyes were thanks to the poor sleep over the last week, and she knew she hadn’t been eating well either. All of that could explain how sunken she looked…and felt.
When she lifted her hand to brush her fingertips across her cheek, Tiffany barely felt it. She barely felt anything these days.
This is who you are.
This lass in the mirror was who she’d become, and Tiffany was surprised she didn’t hate it. Yes, her mother had berated her, offering her all sorts of beauty fixes, but Tiffany had refused. She didn’t want her hair to return to its old luster, or her eyes to sparkle with—
Actually, she wouldn’t mind seeing her eyes sparkling again, but whereas looking in the mirror once caused her to sparkle with vain pride, Tiffany wanted her eyes to sparkle with love.
Sighing, she turned her face away.
Love?
Impossible.
“Staring at your beauty again, sister?” Bonnie’s tone was teasing, but when Tiffany looked back to see the reflection of her sister standing in the doorway, she saw concern in her eyes.
And when Bonnie stepped into the room, her expression fell even further. “You are not, are you?” she whispered, moving to stand behind where Tiffany sat and placing her hands on her shoulders. “You are still mourning.”
It had taken some time, because Tiffany kept breaking down, but over the last week, she’d told Bonnie everything which had transpired on her ill-fated mission to York. Everything, including how she’d met “Laird Gaberlunzie,” the way he’d made her feel, and even the kiss.
Days later, even with a broken heart, she was still thinking of that kiss.
She reached up to pat her sister’s hand and tried to smile. “I am still feeling guilty.”
“About what you said?” Scoffing, Bonnie pulled at her shoulders until Tiffany twisted around in her seat. “I have told you before that, yes, you should apologize for your words about the heir, but what Lysander did in revenge was—”
“Not that.” Tiffany shook her head and dropped her gaze to her lap, where she watched her fingers pluck idly at the fabric of her gray gown.
In the last week, she just couldn’t seem to bring herself to wear her bright colors.
Perhaps it was part of her new goal: to worry less about herself and more about others.
“I know I received what I deserved, thanks to what I said.” She shook her head.
“But I am sorry I was not able to fetch the—that manuscript for you. Knowing Athena, she would cover you in gold for the chance to own that piece of Oliphant history. I was so certain you’d be able to use that money to buy Mr. Grimm’s publishing house! ”
Bonnie scoffed again as she sank to a crouch in front of Tiffany and took her hands.
“It is not your fault, Tiffany. A piece like that, no matter how scandalous—or perhaps because of it—is worth more than the pin money we have. If Athena would pay that much for it, then Ferguson could sell it directly to her.” Bonnie squeezed her hands until Tiffany looked up, then smiled softly.
“I am beyond grateful you were willing to undergo such an adventure just to help me, and I am so, so sorry I could not stop Mother from barging in here and learning you were gone.”
Tiffany’s smile was a little watery when she squeezed Bonnie’s hands in return. “No apology is necessary. It was likely an ill-thought-out plan in the first place.”
“Perhaps.” Bonnie’s smile grew. “But it was selfless and special, and I love you all the more for it.”
“I love you too,” whispered Tiffany, just as a call from down the hall had them both turning in the direction of the door.
“Girls!” screeched their mother again, as she skidded to a stop in their doorway. “Tiffany! What in the world are ye wearing?”
Glancing down at herself, Tiffany shrugged. “My gray gown, Mother.”
“Well, it is hideous. You are hideous in it. You are pale and washed out, and what is that—a bun? You wrapped your hair in a bun and thought that would be acceptable?”
She tsked as she stepped into the room, but Bonnie—her jaw set stubbornly, and her hair also wrapped in a simple bun of course—stood and placed herself in front of Tiffany.
“I think she looks lovely, Mother.”
“That is because you do not have a fashionable bone in your body,” the baroness said dismissively, peering around her at Tiffany. “My darling Tiffany does, but this—this?” She clucked her tongue. “I cannot believe I am saying this, but it will have to do. He insisted he would not be kept waiting.”
“It?” blurted Bonnie indignantly at the same moment Tiffany whispered, “Him?”
True to form, Mother ignored Bonnie and flapped her hand impatiently at Tiffany. “Him, lass, him! The Viscount Blah-blah-blah is downstairs, insisting on seeing you.”
Lysander? Lysander was here?
Mother, of course, knew nothing about Lysander being the man who’d accompanied her to York, disguised or not. She was likely ecstatic about a viscount calling. In fact, the older woman clasped her hands together and sighed happily.
“My efforts have finally paid off, dear Tiffany. It is clear the viscount did not hear any rumors about your idiotic disappearance, or he would not still be willing to court you!”
The sisters exchanged a glance.
“Perhaps he is not here to court her,” Bonnie suggested quietly.
“Do not be stupid, of course he is,” snapped Mother. “He is insisting on being allowed to see her, and that sounds very much like a man about to make a declaration, does it not?”
Aye, a declaration of some sort.
Had he returned to humiliate her further? To declare to the world what kind of woman she really was? To start rumors about where she’d been and what she’d done last week?
From the expression in Bonnie’s eyes, her sister was worried about the same thing.
Well, one thing was for certain, this would be Tiffany’s chance to offer the apology she should’ve offered all those weeks ago.
With a deep breath, she stood and smoothed her palms over her skirts.
There was a part of her, the old part, which wished she’d had the chance now to change into a more flattering gown, or at least to create an elaborate hairstyle.
But the new Tiffany acknowledged Lysander had already seen her at her worst, so looking her best wasn’t going to help at all.
Bonnie’s hand found hers, and Tiffany twined her fingers through her sister’s, grateful for the support. “Lead on then,” she whispered, and did her best to hold her head high as they descended to the family’s parlor.
But when she stepped into the room, her steps faltered. Only Bonnie’s hand in hers, like a lifeline, kept her from backing out when Lysander turned from where he was standing in front of the cold fireplace, his hands clasped behind his back.
He smiled at her, just once, and Tiffany felt her heart leap.
Hungrily, her gaze caressed him, noting how much more like himself he looked now that he’d shaved his beard. His hazel eyes looked more brown than green today, and his hair was combed immaculately. He wore a blue jacket over a subtly patterned waistcoat, and below that…
Tiffany’s lips tugged wryly at the sight of Lysander’s knees. He was wearing the Oliphant plaid, fashioned into a much more formal kilt than the one he’d worn on their journey.
“Miss Tiffany, Miss Bonnie,” he offered calmly, his expression serious once more, as he bowed correctly, despite the informal address.
“Milord,” murmured Bonnie in acknowledgement, before glancing at Tiffany, who was too overwhelmed to do more than nod.
Mother, of course, took command. “Welcome, welcome, Viscount Blah-blah-blah! How lovely to have you here!”
Stiffly, Lysander turned to her. “Blabloblal, Madam. My estate is Blabloblal. I am Lysander Albert McAdam Gregor Oliphant, Viscount Blabloblal.”
Oh. His name really was Albert and Adam?
The long-ago teasing made Tiffany’s heart a little lighter, although her stomach still churned in nervousness.
Mother tittered a laugh at what she must’ve considered an irrelevant detail and waved her hand dismissively.
“Of course, my dear viscount! You know how difficult it is to recall titles and such, when I would much rather call you son.” Her gaze turned calculating.
“I shall call for tea immediately, and we can have a nice, long visit—”
“Nay.” Lysander didn’t even soften his rudeness with one of his charming grins. Instead, he held up his hand to Mother, palm-out. “I have nae need for tea, and what I am here to say, I will say only to yer daughter.”
Tiffany’s heart began to pound faster. He wanted to speak to her alone?
Because what he had to say was so bad…or good?
Her mother was flustered but recovered quickly. “Oh, Lord Blob-low-ball, your wit is so amusing! Insinuating I would allow something so unproper as my unwed daughter to be alone with you—no matter how upstanding and proper I am certain you—”
“Then her sister may stay as a chaperone,” Lysander interrupted again. “But ye, madam, will remove yerself from this parlor.”
This was the viscount, used to command and control, and so different from the easy-going traveler on the train to York, even if he had admitted to being grumpy because she’d taken charge.
But Tiffany hadn’t minded; she didn’t need to be in control all the time, although it had been freeing to share command.
Mother gasped in outrage, one hand pressed to her chest as she hesitated, obviously torn between taking offense and giving into Lysander’s demands because, well…viscount.
Eventually, the whole leaving-Tiffany-alone-with-a-viscount-might-result-in-her-becoming-a-viscountess thing won over propriety, and Mother sniffed, “Well, I never,” even as she stepped toward the door.