Chapter 4 #3
His dark eyes seemed to look right through her giving her the impression that he had seen her blush and wished to see it again.
‘Ancestral lands in Scotland. New land in Virginia.’ For a fleeting moment, his gaze fixed on her hair and the sea-green strand woven through it.
From there it dropped to her eyes. ‘I would wish that Lochranza was in my ownership, but that is not so – more’s the pity. ’
The way he looked at her left her in no doubt that he was referring to her, not the village. It was difficult to know whether she should feel annoyed or flattered.
Gritting her teeth so she did not betray either emotion, she smiled sweetly.
What she said next was purposely seductive. ‘My impression is that Lochranza might be too wild, too independent, for a man that expects a swift and sure return from his properties.’
His bewitching smile was undiminished. ‘I am always willing to make exceptions for the beautiful, the soul-touching, the more intriguing…’
‘I have heard it said that beauty is only skin-deep. Perhaps Lochranza might turn out to be a disappointment to you.’
‘If that should happen, then I would dismantle this Lochranza, rebuilding in a way that better satisfies my purpose.’
Yes. He was speaking of her not the village, his voice, his expression and even the careless way he stood conveying this to her in no uncertain terms. He would rule her.
She would not be ruled and opened her mouth to say so, but…
‘Your lordship…’ A footman in green and gold livery bowed curtly before resuming his standard stance, head held high above his crisp white jabot, his wig powdered and curled in the style of the last century. Some traditions, she surmised, would go on forever.
Although his eyes still sparkled, his expression darkened. ‘Call me Ethan or Mr MacKinnon. I have no love for being separated by title from my fellow man.’
‘My apologies, sir, but his lordship requests that you attend him in the library.’
‘My lady of Lochranza…’ His lips brushed her fingers as his eyes gazed upwards to her face. ‘It’s been a delight to make your acquaintance. Please excuse me.’
She watched him go, a tall figure striding behind the footman, hands clasped behind his back, head held high.
Now the main competition for her attention was gone, the bachelors and officers regrouped, assailing her with invitations to dance, to take punch, a little sweetmeat perhaps?
She fended off their attentions. Lord Ethan MacKinnon, who preferred not to be titled, had unnerved her.
She told herself she was unaffected by his fierce good looks, the features of a man who had experienced life at sea and in far-flung places. There was always something different about a man like that. But that was not all that unnerved her.
‘Are you all right, me dear?’
The man asking after her welfare had been a close confidant of the prince regent, though the latter, with his eye on the future once his father the king was dead, had recently distanced himself. The man’s name was Asherman. Viscount Francis Asherman.
His smile was so wide, the ends of his mouth almost brushed his side whiskers. His eyes were of a chill blue and although he was broad in the shoulders, he was of thin build and of above average height. His hair was brushed forwards to fringe his forehead in the current fashion.
‘Quite well, thank you.’ Her smile was almost genuine.
Now here, she thought, is a pleasant enough man who throws his title – and his money – all over the place, most specifically in the gaming rooms of London and the racecourse at Newbury.
She beamed at him, her voice bubbling with laughter. ‘I hear you are engaged, Francis. Is that true?’
He flicked open a pince-nez, through which he proceeded to cast his gaze over the assembly before coming to rest on her face.
‘I’m afraid it was called off following a particularly boring weekend shoot. I did tell her I was not in the habit of shooting defenceless birds. Besides, stray feathers and blood spots are a devil to get laundered out of one’s best coat.’
His long fingers flicked at imagined blemishes on the lavender coat he was wearing.
‘So the engagement was called off because you refused to shoot a few partridges?’
Finely shaped nostrils contracted as Francis sniffed a little snuff from the back of his hand. ‘Not exactly. One of the stable boys beckoned me into the barn. That’s where my betrothed’s brother found me. There was hell to pay!’
Noticing she displayed no hint of either amusement or outrage, Francis asked her what was wrong.
‘Did you know I was named after a Scottish village?’
He shook his head and pulled a face. ‘I wouldn’t have known.’
‘Apparently there is such a place.’ She frowned. ‘It never occurred to me that I was named after a place.’
Francis shrugged. ‘Well, the royal family is named after the place they came from.’
‘Hanover. Yes. That’s true. But that’s royalty and Hanover is not their first name.’
‘Scotland can be very beautiful. I would think it must be a beautiful place and that’s why you were named after it, simply because you are beautiful.’
‘You’re very kind.’
Viscount Francis Asherwood had a flamboyant way of waving his hands and his kind words were reassuring.
‘Perhaps we should get married instead,’ he said to her. ‘I fully admit to being just a trifle effeminate, whereas you…’ He caught the look on her face. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean anything detrimental. You’re a wonderfully fearless woman. I would consider it a great honour to be your fiancé.’
Lochranza looked up at the pale-faced young man.
It struck her that he was prettier than some of the young ladies attending the ball.
And he was different, just as she was different – though not in the same way.
He delighted in the creature he was, the creature who could make a strong man wince – or colour up – depending on his inclinations.
Whereas Lochranza – it went beyond sexuality.
Women were expected to be wives and mothers, to be content with being a homemaker and to have no thoughts and opinions unless they supported those of her fiancé.
‘I really appreciate you asking, but I must decline.’
‘I meant it. Marriage – of a celibate kind, if you like – would suit both of us – for differing reasons.’
Lochranza slapped his chest with her fan.
‘My dear Francis, you are the sincerest man I know and I must admit your proposal is not without its merits. However, I must decline your generous offer. I do not see myself marrying for the foreseeable future. It must be very reassuring to know what you are and where you come from,’ she said slowly, a faraway look in her eyes.
‘It also helps to know where you’re going,’ Francis remarked.
‘My uncle must know of this Scottish village. If Ethan MacKinnon knew of it, then so must he.’
‘You could ask him.’
‘I will, though it’s never easy. Even if I get to see him face to face, he never answers a question without posing another one.’
Francis was still at her side, swaying in time with the music while his gaze swept over the likely young men, most of whom seemed to be dancing with rather plain young women. Pale women. Milkmaids in the great scheme of female beauty – not fiery temptresses like Lady Lochranza Kildare.
Francis asked, ‘Have you found this place on a map of Scotland?’
‘No. Only because I haven’t looked.’
‘Then perhaps that’s what you should do.’
* * *
Treading the same route to the library as that taken by Lord MacKinnon, Lochranza bumped into her governess and companion, Mrs Mackintosh, coming the other way.
She made the excuse she had forgotten her fan whilst hiding it behind her back.
‘Oh dearie, dearie me,’ tutted Mrs Mackintosh, her ringlets bouncing like bedsprings as she shook her head in consternation. ‘Now you get back downstairs. I’ll go and fetch your fan.’
Lochranza pretended to do exactly that, turning and taking a few swift footsteps whilst also transferring her fan around to the front of her body.
Once she was sure of being alone, she headed again for the library.
Instead of pushing open the door, she made her way to the room next door, a small antechamber which had once served as a private chapel to the lord of the manor.
Her uncle never used it and although it was locked, she had the key, the housekeeper having dropped it and Lochranza never having handed it back.
Slipping her shoes off at the threshold, she inserted the key, unlocked the door and swept into the room. With both hands, she removed an iconic representation of the Madonna and Child from the wall, placed it reverently and quietly on the ground, flattened her ear against the wall and listened.
Nothing at first. One had to be patient. In time, she would know as much, perhaps more, than anyone.