Harry had not kissed her once on their journey back to his house, not even when she had leaned close to him on the skiff. He had pressed his lips to her temple when she had asked him how long he thought it would take for her mother to reach them from Edinburgh, but after that, he had not touched her but to hold her hand. She wished he had, for his mouth was the most beautiful piece of distraction she had ever beheld, and she might have used a bit of distracting.
She had no idea how much distraction she needed until she returned to the duchess’s house in time for tea and found her mother waiting for her.
Mary Elizabeth stood, with her braid bound to the nape of her neck like a farrier’s daughter, her pink gown wrinkled and smelling of salt from her afternoon at sea. She wondered to herself idly why she had never acquired the sense to change her clothes when coming in from outdoors. Her mother had tried to make her learn that small lesson for years, since she was a child. The lesson had not taken, not even among the fancy Lowlanders in Edinburgh. It did not take now, among the English elite in the duchess’s parlor.
There was one bit of blessing, however. The Englishwomen who had come hunting Harry were not in evidence as Mary Elizabeth faced her mother down. They were off on the terrace, being entertained by some young cousin of Harry’s, a bright, young girl who seemed at ease among them. Mary Elizabeth supposed that was as it should be, since the girl was among her own people. She remembered what that ease was like, when she had been home among her own in Glenderrin.
She wished herself there now, as her mother took in her dishabille, from the top of her braid with its escaping curls, to the toes of her muddy boots. Mary Elizabeth felt Harry shift at her back, before he stepped forward and sketched a decent ducal bow.
“My lady of Glenderrin, welcome to Claremont.”
Mary Elizabeth watched as her mother smiled at Harry, the warmth of her eyes betraying little of the simmering anger that waited just beneath that smile’s surface. Harry was a smart man, though, for he was not taken in by it. After he kissed her mother’s hand, he returned to Mary Elizabeth’s side, as if to stand between her and whatever storm her mother’s anger might unleash upon her.
Mary Elizabeth loved him well, and never so well as in that moment. But this confrontation had been a long time in coming, and he could not shield her from it, nor from its aftermath, no matter how many coronets he offered her.
It was his mother who spoke. “Harry, be a dear and leave us alone for a bit. The ladies have a bit of catching up to do. They have not seen each other since March.”
Harry touched Mary’s hand once, low down and close to her side. He did this swiftly, in an effort not to be seen, but both the ladies present saw him do it, for they had eagle eyes. Harry did not notice this, however, for his eyes stayed on Mary Elizabeth’s face. She wanted to kiss him, there, in front of both their mothers, and toss a bit of defiance in both their faces: her mother’s, for breaking her heart, and his, for helping her to do it.
But Harry had nothing to do with this fight and, truly, his mother did not either. So Mary Elizabeth did not kiss him but smiled at him instead. “I will see you at dinner,” she said.
“I will escort you in.”
He left her there, much against his own will, it seemed. He bowed once more to her mother and nodded to his own, and left, the door shushing closed behind him as Billings pulled it to.
Mary Elizabeth crossed the room to the tea tray and poured herself a cup. She added sugar and a bit of milk, pleased to see that her hand did not shake. Though all she wanted to do was cast the tea in her mother’s face, she took a sip of it instead, before lifting a sugar biscuit and placing it neatly on the saucer beside it.
She sat down in one corner of the sitting area, with her back to the French doors and the beauty of the day beyond. Mary Elizabeth ate the biscuit, every crumb, though she tasted none of it, the mass of it turning to sand in her mouth. She swallowed it down and finished her tea. All the while, her mother stood still, staring at her.
“I see that with all the money I sent for your upkeep in London, none of it went for a decent gown.”
The first shot over the bow went wide, as her mother had meant it to. Her ladyship was simply warming up, as Mary Elizabeth well knew. Getting her range, as a gunner might say.
The duchess shifted on her settee and cleared her throat. “For God’s sake, Anna, sit down. How can a woman take a second cup of tea with you looming about like Athena watching over a battlefield?”
Mary Elizabeth’s mother smiled again, this time with more genuine warmth. She did sit and even accepted the cup that the duchess refilled for her, though she did not drink from it. Mary Elizabeth set her own cup aside and fingered her dagger beneath her gown, though against her mother, she was unarmed, as always.
“The duke seems quite attached to you,” her mother said. “I had been given to understand that he has not yet offered for you. Since taking you out alone without a chaperone this afternoon, has that situation changed?”
Mary Elizabeth did not think of what her answer should be. She did not plot or plan, for plotting and planning was not part of her nature. She was an honest girl and an open one, though that honesty had never been appreciated by her mother, nor was anything else about her for that matter. Mary Elizabeth felt the sting of that truth in her heart, as she always did, but this time, it was followed by the salve of another truth. Harry cared for her and would no matter what her mother said or did. And the love of Harry Percy, duke or no, was no small thing.
“Harry has offered for me,” Mary Elizabeth said.
Her mother’s shoulders relaxed, but only a little, as she sipped a bit of her tea. She did not have long to recline against the cushions of her stiff settee, however, for Mary Elizabeth went on.
“He has asked me, but I have not answered him.”
Her mother’s eyes fastened on her again, and the august lady set her teacup down. Mary took in the beauty of her mother’s face and wondered if that was where her own beauty had come from. Her mother seemed more hard planes and angles than Mary had ever been, in spite of all her exercise and knife throwing. Mary Elizabeth tried to remember a time when she and her mother had not had their men as a buffer between them. Even that last dark day in Edinburgh, Alex and Robbie had been there. And now they were alone, sitting with a stranger, with only a tea cart between them.
Her mother’s coiffure was perfect, as it always was, her curls smoothed into obedience, caught up at the nape of her neck in a French chignon. Her blue eyes were as brilliant as polished sapphires, in spite of the anger that lurked in them now. Her jaw was too genteel to be clenched, but it did hold a line of tension—tension that Mary Elizabeth had put there.
For the millionth time in her life, Mary Elizabeth wished that her mother had a different daughter, one who wore muslin and danced prettily, who ate dainty cakes and never walked out with a gentleman, much less rode to hounds, hunting deer. But, as her old nurse was fond of saying, if wishes were horses, all men would ride.
Mary Elizabeth loved her mother, but she knew with unwavering certainty that she was herself, and no other. She never could, nor ever would, be any mincing, quiet, obedient girl. There was some freedom in this, as she sat and looked at her mother, and let her hopes for reconciliation go.
“I’ll go dress for dinner, then,” Mary Elizabeth said, making her curtsy to the duchess, who sat in silence, for once without one blessed thing to say.
Her mother rose when she did, and the blue of her eyes pierced Mary Elizabeth, cutting her to the heart, as it always did. Mary did not waver, but faced her down, certain for once that she was in the right. Or if not, if she was in the wrong yet again, there was nothing to be done for it.
“You will give him your answer tonight,” her mother said.
Mary Elizabeth squinted at her, as if a narrowed gaze might change the view. It did not. Her mother was as beautiful as she ever was, and as remote as a distant mountain that Mary would never climb.
“I’ll answer him when it suits me, Mother.”
She curtsied once more to the duchess and walked out before her mother could say anything else. She almost expected her mother to follow her, to rail at her, even though they were in public, even though the fancy English were close by on the terrace to hear. But of course, her mother did not. Mary Elizabeth stepped out into the hall alone, only to find Billings there, ready to close the door to the duchess’s sitting room behind her.
Mary Elizabeth looked around the hall, hoping for some reason she could not fathom that Harry might be there, waiting for her, though of course, he was not. He loved her, but he was a duke with a houseful of guests, and had better things to do than loiter in a hall, waiting for the likes of her.
Mary Elizabeth took herself upstairs to change her gown, and to have a bath, that she might soak away her depression in one of the many ducal bathing rooms.
* * *
Harry loitered about in the hallway, ignoring Billings’s inquiring gaze, trying desperately to hear what was being said in the sitting room beyond the stout oak door. He was just thinking of walking out along the terrace and trying to listen from the glass doors, or perhaps at one of the windows, when his only friend, Clive, appeared from abovestairs, sliding on one hip down the last three feet of the polished banister, landing like a cat on booted feet, swaggering as he winked at Billings’s disapproving stare.
“And what is this I find? The great Duke of Northumberland standing about like a footman in his own hall? Harry, come and give a man a hug, and a drink, for the love of God.”
Before Harry could answer him or hit him, Clive Owain, son of a small baronet from Wales, hugged him tight and then let him go. They had met as schoolboys at Harrow, and had been fast friends ever since. Harry had watched Clive’s back among the evildoing sons of the elite, and Clive had watched Harry’s whenever they went down to London for a bender. Harry was never much of one for benders of any kind, but Clive had always managed to get him to unbend, if only a little.
Harry smiled at his friend and thought how lovely it was that he would not have to send for him to stand up as his best man. Where such a nonsensical thought had come from when Mary Elizabeth had not yet consented to be his, Harry was not sure. But he had it none the same, and the joyous sense of well-being that went with it.
“Billings here tried to make me come in by the servants’ entrance, but with the house filled to the rafters with Scots, it seems a mere Welshman goes barely noticed.”
Billings did not glower, but his face became impassive, the closest to a glower he ever gave. Harry thanked Billings and took his friend by the arm, dragging him along the corridor to the library before his mother heard that he was about. Not that anything slipped past the duchess, not even the arrival of Harry’s only undesirable connection.
Harry closed the door behind them once they were safely tucked away in his library. He poured Clive a whisky, neat, and watched as his friend smiled appreciatively as he drank it and poured himself another. Harry sprawled on the only comfortable sofa, thinking of how he had made love to Mary on it only the night before and when he might get her back onto that sofa, with a good deal fewer clothes, once they were engaged.
“I see you finally got some decent whisky in,” Clive said, sipping his second glass as he sat down across from Harry in an armchair.
“You have the Scots to thank for that,” Harry answered.
Clive raised his glass to them in a silent salute. “I will thank them when we meet. Over dinner, perhaps?”
“There will be at least two Scots present for the meal, I believe.”
Harry heard his own voice stiffening in what Mary Elizabeth would have called “fancy ducal fashion,” and Clive laughed out loud at his prim tone, as no one else living would ever do save for Mary herself.
“So who is she?” Clive asked.
“I beg your pardon?”
Clive smiled but this time did not laugh at him. “The girl you’re in love with.”
“How do you know I’m in love with anyone?”
“Because I’m in love myself, and I know what it looks like. Who is she?”
“She’s one of the Scots.”
“God help you, man. A Scot?”
Harry found himself smiling as he caressed the back of his comfortable sofa with one hand. “A Highlander.”
“And that is a different breed, then?”
“Quite.”
Clive downed the last of his whisky but did not get up to pour himself another. “Well, if she brought decent drink into your house, I’m inclined to like her.”
“And what of your lady? This is the first I’ve heard of it.”
Clive set his heavy crystal glass down on a side table and leaned back into his armchair, spreading his long legs out before him. He smiled a bit like a Cheshire cat, and Harry realized that for once, he was not going to get this particular story out of him. “Romance is a tedious business to all save those most directly concerned. Let us just say, for now, that it is a tale for another day.”
Harry opened his mouth to needle his friend further, but something about the set of Clive’s gaze made him change his mind. “All right. I’ll leave you be, for now. Just don’t cause a scandal in the middle of my house party.”
Clive sent him a wicked smile. “But, Harry, isn’t that what house parties are for?”