Chapter Three
She was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen.
Her hair was as fair as the moon, and her eyes were the sort of silvery grey he had only heard of in folktales where fairies danced around toadstools and put spells on unwary travelers.
Now the fire had stopped smoking, Callum had nothing to occupy him to help recover his wits—the sight of her had scattered them to the four winds—so he was glad when she had ordered her servant to bring tea.
“My name is Penelope Armstrong,” she said, holding out a delicate hand.
Callum took it and gave it a squeeze. She winced so he let it go.
“Please be seated,” she said, gesturing at a chair, and sat herself down on the delicate looking settee.
He did as he was told, a little too enthusiastically, and the chair groaned under his weight. She was watching him but he wasn’t sure what she wanted, so he waited. People usually told him what they wanted eventually, and it saved him guessing or filling the silence with unnecessary chatter.
“Perhaps you should tell me why you are here, my lord?” she said at last.
Callum thought it was obvious but told her anyway. “My aunt suggested I come to you. She gave me the time and the place and here I am.”
Miss Armstrong nodded and waited, and then said, “And the reason you are here, my lord?”
Memories of that fateful evening at the Yeos’ made him want to kick something, but instead, he glared.
“Evidently I am not fit for polite society, or that is what I have been told. The invitations have dried up. I am supposed to be in London to . . .” He stopped.
Was it polite to mention wanting a noble wife?
Callum liked to say what he thought, and second guessing himself was proving difficult.
His aunt had sighed and cast her eyes up when he told her what happened with the boar.
But she didn’t agree that he should return home to Bonnyrigg immediately, as Callum had hopefully suggested.
She seemed to think that lessons were in order.
Callum resisted. He wasn’t about to turn himself into a dandy.
If he found a wife, then she would have to take him as he was.
Aunt Jennie had retorted that she would write to his parents and tell them he was being ungrateful and stubborn, and only then did he agree to the appointment with Penelope Armstrong.
Miss Armstrong was watching him curiously. “Tell me, my lord, why do you want invitations? What has brought you to London during the Season?”
Frustrated, he ran his hands through his hair and straightened in his chair. “I need a wife. A wife who can impress our noble neighbors. I’ve come south to find one.”
She blinked those remarkable eyes at him.
“I see. If you want to attract such a wife, then you will need to court her. Woo her. You have arrived in the capital just as the Season is getting into full swing, and there are a great many young women making their coming-outs. They will want a man who is polite and courteous, who will make them feel special. I am not sure you are that man.”
Was that an insult? “I can be polite and courteous,” he argued.
“You are intimidating,” she said firmly. Before he could argue further, she added, “Let me be frank, my lord. I think you are a man who prefers plain speaking, as I do. I find it saves time.”
Relieved, he agreed. “Honesty is important to me.”
“Very well then. The young women making their debuts are innocent virgins, and even if they are not, they will be playing that role. It is likely that when they meet you, they will be overwhelmed by your . . . manliness.”
His manliness? He raised his eyebrows, surprised and not displeased. “What is wrong with that? Is my ‘manliness’ a problem?”
“Not for some ladies. A widow, for instance, might welcome a gentleman who exudes masculinity. There are many widows of noble gentlemen, and having been wed once already, they may not be as particular when it comes to your lack of social skills. Although some widows are very particular.”
He thought a moment. “Can I be frank now, Miss Armstrong? It doesn’t matter to me who I marry. I have no preference as long as she is happy to come and live at Bonnyrigg with me.”
She looked doubtful. “Well, we’ll get to that. For now, you need to receive invitations, otherwise how will you enter polite society and find your wife?”
“That is why I am here,” he said a trifle impatiently.
“Yes, you need my help, my lord.”
“Enough with the ‘my lords’,” he burst out, raising his voice. “I am Callum MacKenzie, and that was my name until I turned 14, so you can call me Callum or MacKenzie, either will do.”
She gave him one of her inscrutable looks. “I see. Your aunt said you are in line for a dukedom.”
“Did she? Well, my father is hale and hearty, so I won’t be a duke for a good while yet. Is that a problem?”
She shook her head. “No, of course not.”
“So my title is not a problem?”
“It is an advantage. The problem is you do not know how to behave in society, and although the society hostesses will turn a blind eye to many things in order to get a marquess through their doors, they will not put up with bad manners.”
Callum was beginning to wish Penelope Armstrong were not quite so frank. But she was not yet finished.
“And there is more to it than your lack of manners, I’m afraid. Your appearance needs work too, my . . . MacKenzie. How long will you be staying in London before you must return to Bonnyrigg?”
“I prefer not to stay too long,” he said. “I find it . . .”
At that moment the maid arrived with the tea tray. She was older than her mistress, rather tall and thin, with hair the color of a hay bale. She gave him a wicked little smile that made Callum wonder if she had been eavesdropping at the door just before she entered.
“Thank you, Selina,” Miss Armstrong said calmly. “Leave us now, if you please.”
Obediently, the maid bobbed a curtsy and left. Penelope began to pour tea, asking how he preferred it, and setting his cup and saucer down closer to his chair. There was cake, too, but Callum thought it looked like some strange English concoction and refused her offer of a piece.
“The first thing you must learn is that people don’t really care what you think.
You may be desperate to return to Scotland, but if you tell people that, they will find you boorish.
” She stopped, realizing her misstep in referencing a certain boar, and changed the word to, “Ill-mannered. When they ask you how you are enjoying London, tell them you are enjoying it very much. Wax lyrically about the sights and how much you prefer it to where you came from.”
“So if I am not to appear boorish or ill-mannered, I should lie,” Callum said sarcastically.
“Yes, if you want to put it like that. Lying will make you more friends and get you more invitations.”
“My aunt is holding a ball in three weeks,” he said, aware he sounded as if that was the worst thing he could imagine.
“Three weeks!” Her voice was a little shrill.
She took a breath and relaxed the hands clutched in her lap.
“Well, I suppose if you work hard . . .” Her eyes narrowed as they ran over him, and suddenly Callum felt very self-conscious.
Angus had tried to tell him he looked like a rag bag, but he had ignored him.
As long as he was comfortable in his attire, what did it matter what anyone else thought?
But he realized now that it did matter. To Penelope Armstrong, it mattered very much.
He picked up the delicate cup in his fist and took a gulp of his tea, trying not to notice her eyes watching his every move.
Dear God, was this what it was going to be like for the next three weeks?
Was his every word and move going to be judged and found wanting?
He longed to go home, to stand in the forests around Bonnyrigg, and breathe in the clean air and listen to the sounds of birds and animals, while the wind stirred through the branches.
But he had been sent south on a mission, and he must try his very best to succeed.
“Three weeks will be long enough,” he assured her. “I am a fast learner.”
She took a sip of her tea and let his words pass without comment.
“We should fix on a fee,” she said, and set down her cup with a gentle clink before she named a price that made his eyes water.
But he held his nerve. His Aunt Jennie had said she had heard from several of her friends who were acquainted with people who had used such services, and that Penelope Armstrong was the best, and to get the best one must pay.
It would be worth it if in two months he was heading home with a wife.
“Are we agreed?” She was watching him again, those pixie eyes seeming to see right through him. Disconcerting, but also mesmerizing.
Callum smiled. He had been told he had a very nice smile.
She blinked.
“We are agreed,” he said and rose and held out his hand.
She rose, too, and her hand vanished within his much larger grip. This time he did not squeeze. “I will see you tomorrow morning at ten,” she said, in a no-nonsense voice that made him feel strangely squirmy inside. “Be prepared to stay for the entire day.”
“Do you think a day will be enough then?”
She laughed. “I do not. Goodbye, my . . . MacKenzie.”
He bowed and left the room. Outside, the maid showed him to the door, her gaze sliding over him in a curious manner. She leaned in just as he turned to leave.
“Don’t you worry,” she said, “Miss Armstrong will have you pulled into line in no time at all. And people have short memories. There will be another scandal to take the place of yours.” She stopped, aware that she might have overstepped the mark.
“Thank you,” Callum said with amusement. Then, curiously, “Is Miss Armstrong married?”
Selina’s eyes widened. “I think you will find the answer to that is in her title. Miss.”
“Is she engaged then?”
“No, she is not. She is single and has no plans to change her state.”
“Hmm.” He nodded, deep in thought, and as he stepped outside, he heard the door close behind him.
The beautiful Penelope Armstrong was not married nor about to be, and he wondered why not.
She should have suitors lining up for miles.
If he could find a wife like her, he would consider himself a very lucky man.
But then he remembered her watchful gaze, as if she had found him wanting.
Could he gain her approval? Could he change the way those remarkable eyes lingered on him?
For some reason, Miss Armstrong’s good opinion now seemed far more important to him than that of the English lords and ladies he had come to impress.
Deep in thought, Callum set off back to his aunt’s house in Mayfair.