Chapter 19
A vision of uncommon beauty waited in the drawing room, spun of aqua silk and netted clouds, sparkling with silver and pearls.
As a steady stream of guests poured past Lady Strathlin, each person received her bright smile and the touch of her gloved hand in welcome.
Dougal approached behind Connor and Mary Faire, watching Meg as he came forward.
As he waited, he glanced around at elegant furnishings and crystal chandeliers shining with gaslight, at oil paintings by old masters, and marble and bronze statuary.
In a corner, musicians played violins and flutes, and through open doors in the hallway, he saw a long table draped in snowy linens and illumined by candlelight that gleamed on silver and over a variety of foods beautifully arranged on platters.
Everywhere he looked he saw luxury and privilege and the stamp of sophistication and graciousness. Nowhere did he see the Meg MacNeill he knew—yet she stood at the center of it all, impossibly beautiful in that tranquil, sparkling gown.
He ought to seethe in fury to see her as the baroness who had ruined him. He ought to reject her—he ought not to be here at all. Now, looking at her, within moments of greeting her himself, he knew why he had come, despite her betrayal.
He loved her. The simple strength of it, the warmth and certainty of it, flowed through him.
He loved her and could never stop. He did not know why, after all that had passed, he still burned for her.
Instead of feeling filled with joy and the discovery of love, he ached with the sadness of its loss.
Edging closer, he saw that her gown was the elusive shade of her eyes, the delicate blue-green of sunlight through water, the white veiling like the froth of a wave. She stopped his breath, stilled his heart, whirled him on the axis of his soul.
"Dr. and Mrs. Connor MacBain," the butler announced. "Mr. Dougal Robertson Stewart."
She looked up then, quickly, her eyes wide and startled, but that quickly melted into a smile as she greeted Connor and Mary Faire with murmurs and handclasps. Then Mary Faire glided past, and Dougal was a step away.
Meg tilted her head to smile at him tremulously, her eyes limpid and beseeching. If she meant to request his forgiveness, he had none to give her—not now, not yet, if ever.
She lifted her hand to his, and he took it, glove to glove, cool and cordial, and bowed; then he gazed at her.
He knew the sweetness of those lips, the creaminess of her skin.
He knew the silken feel of her hair. Now it was drawn back, scattered with pearls, revealing the perfect oval of her face, the slender line of her neck and shoulders.
Her slender collarbones rose with the catching of her breath.
A single black cord encircled her throat. Suspended on it was the aquamarine and gold pendant he had given her, its gold a spark of warmth in the serene perfection of her ensemble. Seeing it there, he narrowed his eyes.
He wondered why she wore the pendant, for it had little value. Surely she owned prettier jewels, although the little stone matched her gown and her eyes. Only he would know, only she, its meaning.
Then he understood. She felt what he did, that he was part of her and she was part of him, that their island paradise had existed for a little space in time. None of that would change, even if they were never together again.
He gave her a cool, polite smile, and felt torn asunder.
"Mr. Stewart," she said, "how very nice to see you again."
He looked at her keenly. He had expected to enact a new introduction, as if they had never met before, yet she greeted him like a friend.
"Lady Strathlin," he murmured. "Enchanted, madam."
She turned to an elderly lady and gentleman standing beside her. "Lord Provost of Edinburgh and Lady Lawrie—this is Mr. Stewart."
"Aye, we've met. Good evening, madam," Dougal said, taking the woman's gloved hand, then the Lord Provost's sure grip. "Sir. How do you do?"
"Mr. Stewart has been working near the Isle of Caransay, where I sometimes holiday," Meg said. "He will be modest about this, to be sure, but he is an exemplary hero."
"Really?" Lord Lawrie peered at him. "How is that?"
"During my last holiday in the Isles, I saw Mr. Stewart save the life of a small child who was drowning in the sea, and in the process, Mr. Stewart took on a fearsome shark," Meg explained. "It was the most courageous thing I have ever seen."
"Oh, Mr. Stewart, how amazing!" Lady Lawrie said.
"Madam, it was not so grand as Lady Strathlin implies," he said. "I merely kicked the shark and grabbed the boy."
"Oh, dear!" Lady Lawrie said, raising her fan and flapping it.
"You see how modest he is," Meg said, smiling.
Dougal glared at her quickly to ask with a stern look just what she intended with this conversation. He would rather the deed not be discussed. "Madam," he said in subtle warning.
Her touch was light on his arm as she guided him forward. "Lord Provost, I'm sure you can coax Mr. Stewart to give his account of it. Please excuse me, I must greet some guests."
She smiled up at Dougal with such brilliance that he felt bedazzled, and he very nearly forgave her. Very nearly. "Mr. Stewart, so wonderfully good of you to come tonight."
"Lady Strathlin," he said, as she turned to greet the couple behind him. As soon as he looked around, he was surrounded by several people eager to be introduced to him, anxious to hear the details of his encounter with the shark.
Swept from that group to another, he told the story twice in total, smiling as he refused, after that, to repeat it.
The tale spread and became embellished, whispered and rumored from one guest to another.
Dougal floated through the evening on smiles and congratulations and expressions of admiration.
He endured one introduction after another, and his hand was clasped, his shoulder slapped, his arm hugged so often that he ached.
He danced with one woman after another, so many that their names and faces and flower-bright gowns blurred as he swirled and dipped and escorted them.
He listened to gushing praise, smiled at shy or amorous glances, and turned down three coy invitations to stroll through the conservatory into the garden.
Late in the evening, he was introduced to Miss Jenny Lind, a slight and sweet woman.
As he danced with her, he conceded, one last time, to tell the story about the rescue of the little boy, only because she was the guest of honor and begged him gently and charmingly to tell her what everyone was buzzing so about, and because he liked her fine, honest, trusting blue eyes.
As the night went on, one acquaintance after another, both new and old, told him that he was admired by Lady Strathlin in particular.
She had made it clear to many that she thought him to be a courageous man of integrity; she thought his skills and abilities beyond measure and his work of great importance to the nation of Scotland.
And it came back to him, too, that she regretted any inconvenience to Mr. Stewart and his project through the overzealous efforts of her solicitors.
Graciously and quietly, he accepted apologies from businessmen who murmured that they had been misinformed about him and that they would indeed be interested in contributing funds to his lighthouse project, if he still had need of it.
He even, at one point, was approached by Sir Edward Hamilton, a gaunt and gruff gentleman, and Sir John Shaw, a portly fellow with a pair of eyeglasses set awry on his large nose.
Dougal had earlier noticed the men in an animated discussion with Lady Strathlin and her private secretary, a tall dark-haired young man named Guy Hamilton.
"Mr. Stewart," Sir Edward said, tapping him on the shoulder. Sir John stood beside him, clearing his throat repeatedly. "Might we have a word with you, sir?"
"Mr. Stewart, we may have misjudged you," Sir John said.
"Indeed?" Dougal murmured.
"While the lighthouse remains a matter of debate and negotiation and should not be discussed here," Sir Edward began, while Sir John harrumphed, "it might have been hasty of us... of our associates... to imply that you might be unprincipled."
"Mr. Stewart, we hope for peace between our parties," Sir John said. "Lady Strathlin desires it, as well."
Dougal shook their hands solemnly, wondering if the lady desired it for herself or for her advocates.
Not once, throughout that long, lively, and surprising evening, did he speak again to Lady Strathlin.
Not once did he dance with her or murmur to her or hold her in his arms and whirl her about the floor in time to the music.
Not once did he touch her or kiss her hand or have the chance to thank her.
Now and again, he caught her gaze across the room, those luminous eyes hauntingly somber in the midst of gaiety.
Once, as their glances touched, he gave her a subtle nod that he hoped she would interpret as his acknowledgement of gratitude.
She paused in her conversation with Miss Lind to angle her head in silent answer with majesty and grace.
His heart stirred and his longing for her grew intense, searing through him like a flame.
He turned away. While his appreciation was profound for the magic she had worked that evening, his pride was great. He loved her and could never doubt it, but he would not let it show.
* * *
Late in the evening, when most of the guests had gone, including Miss Jenny Lind and her husband, a soft-spoken Englishman, Meg turned to see a cluster of businessmen still surrounding Dougal Stewart, murmuring closely and privately, holding wineglasses that had been filled and drained repeatedly all evening.
Dougal himself stood listening, no glass in his hand.
He nodded intently, his hands shoved in his pockets and his coat draped back, one shoulder leaned against a doorframe, one polished boot crossed over the other.