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INES
Ines hadn’t been certain if she should accept the clothing Mrs. Freskin brought, but after her bath, she couldn’t force herself to put the dirty servant’s livery back on, so she pulled on the soft, brown wool dress and secured her hair in a long braid down her back. She wondered whose dress she wore. Though unembellished, the fabric was too fine for a servant. The stitching was precise and neat and the cut of the dress appealing. If only she had her bobbins and thread, she could have fashioned some lace for the sleeves and perhaps the collar to make it look pretty.
It was the first time she had missed her lacemaking in...well, perhaps ever. Since Catarina had taught her how to make lace five years ago, there had rarely been a day when Ines’s back and neck were not sore from bending over the pillow and working the bobbins. Her wrists ached constantly, and her eyesight had worsened when she tried to see at a distance.
Her room was small, but it had a window that looked out on the wild peaks of the Highlands in the distance. She admired it until she realized she was still damp and cold and wanted the fire. She hadn’t bothered with stockings or her tattered half boots and was sitting cross-legged before the fire when three loud raps startled her out of her thoughts. The door opened.
Without waiting for an invitation to enter, Lady Charlotte stepped inside and closed the door behind her. To Ines, the sound of the door shutting was like the clang of a dungeon door.
“My lady,” she said, rising from the floor and trying to curtsy.
“That’s not necessary, Miss Neves.” The woman’s green eyes traveled over her, pausing on Ines’s bare toes. “That dress was my daughter’s,” she said.
Ines looked down at the plain dress she’d been thinking of altering.
“She wore it when she was fourteen,” Lady Charlotte said. “Now the hem would brush her calves and the bodice would burst the seams. How old are you?”
“My family is fine-boned,” Ines said, avoiding the question of her age.
Lady Charlotte huffed. “You’re a wee thing, as the Scots would say. I’m amazed you survived the journey from London.”
Ines fisted her hands in the material of the skirts. “I am petite, not weak.”
Lady Charlotte lifted her brows dismissively then circled the room. It was a small room, only about a dozen steps across, so this did not take her long. “I see why he is attracted to you,” Lady Charlotte said.
“Who?” Ines asked, but she knew.
Lady Charlotte ignored the question. “I send a drab brown dress made for a child and you manage to look beautiful in it. In my younger days, I would have envied you.”
Ines took a step back.
“Yes, it’s true. I’m taller than many men and if I am not careful about the style of my hair and the colors I wear, I look hawkish and severe.”
That look would have suited her personality, Ines thought.
“But you—in your bare feet and braid—look pretty as a picture. Any man who saw you in this moment would want to seduce you. Did he seduce you?” she asked.
Ines couldn’t stop her jaw from dropping. How dare this woman?
Lady Charlotte waved a hand. “Do not pretend I offended your delicate sensibilities. What do you want? Money? Prestige for your shop?”
Ines knew when she was being called a whore. “You offend me, senhora,” Ines finally managed, her voice shaking with rage. “Please leave or I shall.”
“Did he tell you he would marry you?” Lady Charlotte asked. Though the question was asked casually, the woman’s eyes told a different story. She desperately wanted to know the answer.
“What does it matter?” Ines asked, sidestepping the question. “I am certain you would never allow him to marry a lacemaker.”
Lady Charlotte looked away. “Of course not.” The silence between them grew and then Lady Charlotte paced away from Ines. “So he has not asked for your hand in marriage?”
Ines had no intention of telling the woman that Duncan hadn’t asked anything of her. “If Duncan cares for me then that is between the two of us. You have no say in what I do.”
“Then you love my son.” Lady Charlotte turned and looked intently at Ines.
Ines tried to stand straight and stare down the other woman, but the mention of love made her want to crumple. It hurt to think of her feelings for Duncan. “He does not love me, so you need not worry. I will leave very soon, and you need never think of me again.”
Lady Charlotte nodded slowly. “Perhaps the colonel’s arrival will be the best thing for all of us.” She moved to the door and opened it. “Please wear your shoes to dinner.” She glided through the door and closed it after her.
Ines wanted to throw something at the door. She would have if she’d been holding anything. Wear her shoes to dinner. As though she did not know what was appropriate! She had been warned about Lady Charlotte. The woman was a dragon—a grumpy dragon who only looked for fault in others. If Ines had thought she might win the woman over, she saw the error in those thoughts now. But she would not give her the satisfaction of telling her that Duncan had not asked for her hand in marriage or told her he loved her.
Duncan had told Ines his mother would never accept her, but if he loved her, she did not think that would have been enough to keep him from her side. She did not want to believe he did not love her. The way he had touched her, kissed her, whispered her name. The way he had fought the reivers for her and the way he blamed himself for not keeping her safe. He loved her, but he was afraid to lose her. He might say he had no heart, but she saw otherwise. Something must have happened to injure it, to make him afraid to be hurt again. Given time and patience, Ines thought she might be able to help him mend his heart. She might be able to show him that she would never hurt him.
But she did not have time. Benedict would be here soon, and Lady Charlotte would do all she could to keep Duncan from her in the meantime. And perhaps that was for the best. If he would not fight for her, risk his heart and the wrath of his mother for her, then he was not worthy of her. Ines would not force him to love her. She’d almost been trapped in a marriage herself. She would never trap anyone else or allow herself to be trapped with a man who could not reciprocate her feelings.
And she definitely did not want to be trapped with a woman like Lady Charlotte.
Tears sprang to her eyes as she thought of the long journey back to London. Without Duncan. And then there would be the days and weeks and months of lacemaking and sympathetic looks from Catarina and long hours where Ines tried to hide her hurt. But she would survive. And even if she never found a man to sweep her off her feet or throw her over his shoulder, she would have the memories of this adventure to hold on to.
It would have to be enough.
Ines would have preferred to stay in her room all day and avoid Lady Charlotte, but she hadn’t eaten much at the noon meal and she was hungry. She ventured downstairs, hoping to be able to sneak into the kitchen or find a servant who would bring her tea and toast. Instead she heard her name as she tiptoed past the drawing room.
“Miss Neves,” Lady Charlotte said in her loud, unmistakable voice. “Join us, please.”
Ines paused just out of sight and blew out a breath. She was still not wearing shoes. She’d wanted to move quietly. And her hair was still plaited and hanging down her back. There was nothing for it now. Besides, Lady Charlotte already thought of her as a peasant. She threw back her shoulders and moved to the door of the drawing room.
“I do not wish to trouble you,” she said, her gaze finding Lady Charlotte near the fire. Unfortunately, it also found Duncan seated in a chair near his mother. He was looking at Ines, his amber gaze warm. She looked away before her body persuaded her head she should go to him. “I only wanted tea and toast. I will find a servant.”
“We have tea here,” Lady Charlotte said. “Come in.”
Ines let out a breath and moved into the room. There was a tea service beside Lady Charlotte. A tray had been set on the table, and it was filled with small sandwiches and cakes. Ines’s belly rumbled audibly.
“Sit there.” Lady Charlotte pointed to a couch on the other side of the table, across from the fire. Ines sat, trying not to look at Duncan. She glanced at him anyway, and he seemed to be trying very hard not to look at her.
“How do you take your tea?” the lady asked.
“Sweet,” Duncan said, “and with a splash of cream.”
Ines flicked her gaze at him. How had he known that? When had he heard her ask for tea and how had he remembered?
Lady Charlotte said nothing, prepared the tea, and handed it to her. Ines’s hands were shaking, and she set the tea on the table so she would not spill it. She eyed the tray with the sandwiches, and Lady Charlotte handed her a small plate. “Eat, little bird.”
“She may be small, but she can eat as much as Fortescue.”
“I do not,” Ines said, piling her plate with sandwiches. Of course, taking half the tray of food probably contradicted her words, but she didn’t care at this point. “Is it not rude to speak of a lady’s appetite?”
“It is,” Lady Charlotte said. She gave her son a long look. “You seem to know Miss Neves quite well.”
“Nae really,” he said.
Ines tried to swallow the bite of sandwich in her mouth, but it seemed to stick in her throat. How could he say he did not know her well?
“She tells me she is a lacemaker,” Lady Charlotte said as though Ines were not sitting right there.
“She is. Her lace is coveted in London. All the ladies are after it. We gifted a wee scrap of it in the lowlands and the farmer’s daughters were so pleased, the farmer gave us loan of his horses.”
“My mother taught me how to make lace,” Lady Charlotte said. Ines raised her gaze to the lady. She pointed to a table in the corner with a lace covering. “I made that.”
“Brussels lace,” Ines said, glancing at it. “Very nice.”
“Ines—Miss Neves makes Catarina lace,” Duncan said.
“I have never heard of that. Is it Portuguese?”
Ines should not have been surprised that word of Catarina lace had not spread as far as Scotland. And she should not have been pleased to know something of fashion that Lady Charlotte did not. “You are obviously familiar with Brussels and Chantilly lace?” she asked.
“Of course.”
“Catarina lace is more coveted.”
Lady Charlotte set her teacup on the saucer. “Doubtful.”
“It is. In another six months, we predict Catarina lace will surpass blonde lace in popularity, and even your English royalty wear blonde lace.”
“Ridiculous prediction.”
“All the ladies in London wear it,” Duncan said.
“Why is it called Catarina lace?” Lady Charlotte asked, seeming genuinely interested. But Ines would not lower her guard.
“Because my sister invented it. As you must know, Barcelona is where all of the best blond lace is made. My sister studied there with a master. She learned enough in six months to create her own lace. It was so in demand that she opened her own shop.”
“What makes the lace so special?” Duncan asked. “It’s verra pretty, but I dinnae see how it differs from other lace.”
Despite her wish to remain cool and remote, Ines could not help but warm to her topic. “Like blonde lace, there is a contrast between the patterns and the ground, sim?” She looked at Lady Charlotte to see if she was understood.
“Of course. But blonde lace is inferior,” Lady Charlotte said, lifting her haughty chin.
“Yes, because the pattern is not as perfect and regular. But Catarina not only created the new patterns, she designed a process to ensure the patterns were more regular than Chantilly or Lille lace.”
“I do not believe it,” Lady Charlotte said. And then to Ines’s surprise she rang a bell. “Show me.”
The woman Ines had seen earlier, and thought must be the housekeeper, entered. She wore a simple dress and a white cap with lace around the edges. She carried a pillow, a set of bobbins, and thread. She cleared the table before Ines and set the materials there. Ines lifted the bobbins. They were made from light wood and each had been painted with a different flower. She could identify lavender and roses and daffodils. Of course, there was the Scottish thistle. The varnish over the wood had preserved the painting and made the bobbins smooth to the touch. “These are lovely,” she said.
“Will those materials do?” Lady Charlotte asked.
Ines studied the cylindrical velvet pillow, suitable for making lace edging for small items like handkerchiefs. Then she lifted the thread. It was good thread, not as fine as she and Catarina liked to use, but it would do. “Sim.”
She lifted the materials and moved them to a card table near the window. The light would be better here, and she would not have to sit at an odd angle to work. Ines was surprised at how eager she was to work. Since she had arrived in London, she had not found as much pleasure as usual in making lace. It had seemed like a daily drudgery when there was a new city to be explored. But perhaps she had explored enough for the time being, because the prospect of sitting in this cozy room near the window with the lovely view and creating something beautiful appealed to her immensely.
She laid out her materials, arranged the pillow, threaded the bobbins, and then looked out the window, hoping for inspiration. She knew a dozen patterns she could easily recreate, but she wanted something uncommon. And what to make? Edging for a handkerchief or a cap? A lace doily?
“Well, she has threaded the bobbins well enough,” Lady Charlotte said to Duncan. “But now she sits and stares.”
Duncan didn’t respond to his mother, and Ines could feel his gaze on her. His amber eyes were very gold in the firelight, and she looked down to avoid meeting his gaze. She knew his mother was watching both of them, but she could not allow the dragon to make her nervous.
Ines studied her hands and her wrists, the plain sleeves of the drab gown. She could make lace to edge those sleeves, not lace that would hang down but lace to sew on the cuff and make them pretty.
Then she noticed the flowers again. She was in Scotland. Why not a pattern where she incorporated the thistle? Perhaps a pattern of lines reminiscent of the weavings of a plaid?
Almost without thinking, the bobbins in her hand began to move. Her progress was slow at first. Beginning was always the most difficult. She had to find a rhythm and that would not come until after she was sure of her design. She tried to ignore Duncan and Lady Charlotte, to concentrate on even movements that would create the fine lace her sister had become known for.
“She does know how to make lace,” Lady Charlotte said, as though the matter were ever in doubt.
“What are ye making, lass?” Duncan asked after a few minutes had passed and she was beginning to feel the rhythm.
“A decoration for the cuffs of this dress,” she said, not looking away from her work.
“Why that dress?” Lady Charlotte asked.
“Because this pattern is Scottish, and because this dress is special to you, não?”
“I would hardly allow you to wear it if it was precious,” she said with a huff. But Ines did not think the woman would have kept the dress all these years if it hadn’t meant something to her. Perhaps it simply reminded her of when her daughter had been young.
Lady Charlotte rose and moved closer, and Ines forced herself not to stiffen. Her hands seemed to move of their own volition now, and she did not want to think too much and make a mistake. Creating lace was simply a matter of the placement of the bobbins. This one crossed that one and then the rose crossed the lilacs and under the heather and all the way to the jasmine. Of course, her hands moved quickly, pulling the threads taut and shuffling the bobbins so quickly it was almost a blur. She felt the familiar ache in her shoulders, but it was only a small nuisance as the pattern beginning to emerge on the pillow pleased her.
Gradually, she became aware of Lady Charlotte standing over her. She had been standing there for some time, but Ines had been wrapped up in her work. She continued moving her hands but glanced up at Lady Charlotte. The woman’s eyes were as sharp as ever, but her mouth was lax and even parted slightly.
“I chose a thistle for the flower,” Ines said.
“I see that,” Lady Charlotte remarked. “It’s very clear. And that is supposed to be a plaid on the border?”
“Yes. Of course, I cannot use the clan colors.”
Lady Charlotte did not speak and another twenty minutes or so passed. Ines did not know how long it had taken, perhaps an hour, before she finished the first cuff, tied it off, moved it from the pillow and stretched her back before readying her materials for the second cuff.
Lady Charlotte’s hand covered Ines’s, and she looked up in surprise.
“Wait,” the lady said. She took the cuff Ines had made and lifted it, studying it in the light from the window. Then she brought it to Duncan and showed him. He had been watching Ines, but his gaze shifted to the lace, and he nodded appreciatively.
Lady Charlotte turned back to Ines. “I would not have believed this if I had not seen you create it with my own eyes. This is the finest lace I have ever seen.”
“I could do better,” Ines said. “The thread we usually work with is finer and thinner.”
Lady Charlotte looked at the scrap she held in her hands. Then she set it down and walked out of the room. Ines stared after her, confused. Since she appreciated the lace, Ines would make a gift of it. It was the least she could do to thank her for feeding and sheltering her while they waited for Draven to arrive.
“She dinnae want tae like ye, lass,” Duncan said.
Ines had not forgotten he was there. It would have been impossible to ever forget he was in a room with her. He was not a man one could ignore. Ines started the second cuff, her movements slow, as usual at this beginning stage. “I wanted very much to like her.”
“She’s nae an easy woman tae like. She scares most lasses. Christ, she scares grown men. But she doesnae scare ye.”
“She does not scare me. You forget I am a shopgirl.” She yanked the lace a bit too tight and had to maneuver the bobbins to compensate. “I serve the upper classes day in and day out. Most of the ladies are accustomed to being treated as though they are the only people in the world.”
To her surprise, Duncan laughed. The sound was warm and throaty, and her body seemed to heat in response to it. “That is a good way tae describe them.” He stood and started toward her. Ines wanted to keep her hands moving, but her fingers fumbled, and she dropped one of the bobbins.
Duncan stopped. “Do I distract ye?”
Distract was too mild a word. Ines bent to retrieve her bobbin then began to untangle the threads that had gone awry. But her fingers shook, and she seemed to make no progress. In frustration, she looked up at him. “What do you want, senhor? Two days ago, you would not speak to me. Now we are friends again?”
“We were never friends, lass.”
She nodded, her gaze on his. “I never wanted to be your friend.”
“And friendship is all I have tae give ye.”
She waved a hand. “Give it to someone else. Now leave me. I wish to finish my cuff and present it to your mother as thanks.”
He gave her an odd look, and she would have sworn there was a tinge of sadness in his gaze. But she looked away before she could be certain. And then he murmured that he would take his leave, and he was gone. Tears swam in her eyes, blurring the threads before her. But she swiped at them and willed them away, and went back to work
***
STRATFORD
Stratford saw the way Emmeline’s expression went from anguish to confusion. She’d told him she loved him, and he’d told her it was futile. He hadn’t told her he’d loved her back. There was little point in saying those words. He could not act on them, and they would only hurt them both more.
He wished he could tell her. This seemed the ideal setting, here on the grass in the shadow of the Highlands. Looking about, it seemed the whole world was laid before them and went on and on, an endless wave of green and brown and, above, blue. He would have liked to lay her down on the grass, spread out her hair, and kiss her. He would have liked to run his hand over her body and feel her soft skin under his fingertips again.
But this was good-bye. This was the end because Draven would be here in a day or so, and then Stratford and the colonel would escort Emmeline to her grandmother’s. Her mother could retrieve her from there. Emmeline would be safe, and that was what mattered.
“That’s the most ridiculous thing I have ever heard,” Emmeline said, shattering the lingering image of her naked on the soft grass. “How are you unworthy of me? If you do not want me, just say it. Don’t give me silly excuses.” She began to rise, but he caught her arm.
“It’s not an excuse. I am unworthy.”
She crossed her arms. “You are the son of a baron, and my father was not even titled. He was a gentleman, yes, but if rank and status are your gauge, then I am the one who is unworthy.”
“I am not the son of a baron,” he said.
Emmeline’s tight expression softened slightly. “What do you mean?”
But the way she’d said it—he knew she had heard the rumors. “Don’t pretend you do not know. You have heard and you are clever enough to put things together. I am not the baron’s son.”
“Are you certain?” she asked.
“Yes. My mother admitted it, and my father has always made sure I knew it.”
Her hands fell back to her sides. She reached for him, but he moved away. She swallowed and seemed to consider her words before finally speaking. “I often wondered if the rumors were true, and if that was why he treated you as he did.”
“I wondered as well and when I came of age, I hired an investigator to look into it.” He stared, unseeing, at the mountains towering in the distance. “The rumors are true.”
“Who is your father then?” she asked. He did not think many people would have come straight out and asked. But then this was Emmeline, and she almost always said what she was thinking.
“The Marquess of Wight.”
She shook her head. “But he—no one has seen him in more than twenty years. Everyone says he is—"
“Mad?
She pressed her lips together. “I was about to say eccentric.”
He gave her a rueful smile. “Now you want to be tactful? Say it like it is, Emmeline. I’m the bastard son of a madman. Your mother surely knows it. Half of Society knows it.”
“And why should they care? How many of them have by-blows walking around?” She put a hand on his arm. “I know that is not the point.”
“No, it’s not. Not only am I not legitimate, if I am anything like my father, I may go mad.”
She gave him a long look. “A little madness might be an improvement.”
He gave her a horrified look, and she squeezed his arm. “You will not go mad, Stratford. You are as sane as the day is long.”
“You can’t know that.”
She lifted her hand from his arm. “No, I can’t, but that is not the real issue, is it? The real issue is that you are illegitimate, and all of your life you’ve been made to feel less than.”
It was as though she had shot an arrow straight into his heart. Her words pierced him, and the pain bloomed, spreading throughout his body. He’d felt so much shame his entire life. He’d done all he could to hide the truth from everyone, even though he knew, every time he walked into a room, that some of the whispers were about him.
“That is why you went off to war, even though your uncle willed you that property, and you could have lived off the income. You had to prove yourself.”
He’d never thought of it that way, but it was true. He had felt the need to prove himself.
“Do you know the terror I felt, we all felt, when we learned you had joined Draven’s troop? By then Lord Jasper and the Duke of Mayne had joined—not that he was the duke yet—and we all knew it was little more than a suicide mission. And when you joined, no one could understand it. I couldn’t understand it. How could you have so little regard for your life?”
The hills in the distance became something of a blur as he stared at them, harder than ever. “Perhaps I valued my country above my life.”
“Or perhaps you felt so unworthy that you needed to do something extreme. Oh, Stratford.” She put her arms around him, but he could not seem to return her embrace. His limbs felt paralyzed. “You are not unworthy. You do not have to jump every time your parents say up.”
“I tried to make myself useful,” he said, though the words sounded thick and clogged in his throat.
“You tried to earn their love, and it’s not something you should have to earn.”
He could not do this. He could not sit here and allow her to dissect his entire life. Stratford rose. “We should go back.”
She rose as well. “Do you see now why I told you, over and over, that I did not want you to come after me? I do not want to be another way you try and prove yourself to your father and mother. I don’t want to be a path they can use to hurt you more. Because Stratford—they will never love you. Not like they love your brothers and sisters.”
He stared at her, knowing it was true. But he hadn’t come after her to prove himself to anyone. He’d come because he cared for her.
“Your mother makes me the angriest. She made the mistake of lying with Lord Wight years ago. Not you. You should not suffer for it.”
He knew the truth of those statements, but hearing someone else voice them brought up all the old pain. He felt the sting of tears prick behind his eyes. “I should go back now,” he said, his voice strangely devoid of emotion, when inside he churned with so many feelings, he could not possibly name them all. He started away and she moved in front of him, blocking his way.
“But I love you, Stratford. I think I have always loved you in some form or another. You can have the love you want, if you’ll just accept it from me.”
“And do you think I feel nothing for you?” he said, his heart pounding and his blood rushing so loudly he could hear it like a waterfall in his ears. “I love you, Emmeline. I always have, and that is why I will not marry you. Do you think I would saddle you with a husband whom no one respects? A man who doesn’t even respect himself?”
She took in an audible breath and stepped away from him. “That’s not true. You think no one can look past the circumstances of your birth? Your true friends do not care. Murray and Mayne and Colonel Draven and I’m sure all the rest of them. They have the utmost respect for you.”
He stared at her. She was right, but he couldn’t seem to let himself accept it. He could not believe himself worthy of it.
“I respect you too. I love you, but I’m beginning to agree that we should never marry.”
Stratford didn’t think he could be wounded again, and yet her words were a sword to his gut.
“If you really know me so little—if you really believe that the circumstances of your birth matter to me...well, then you do not know me at all. After all we have been through. After all the years when I have never once treated you as anything less than a friend and equal, if you really believe that I wouldn’t want you because your father was not married to your mother, then you are correct. You are not worthy of me.”
And with that final twist of the sword, she walked away.
Stratford let her go, though some part of him screamed to go after her. But he couldn’t. Because she was right. He’d thought her just like everyone else, when she, like he, had never fit in. Of all the people he knew, she was one of the few—outside of the Survivors—who knew him and saw him for who he really was.
And now he had lost her, and it had nothing to do with the Marquess of Wight or his mother or the goddamn baron.
This was all on his shoulders.