The Highlander's Yuletide Love (2 page)

A touch of
amusement crept into his sleepy eyes. “I see I shall have to take my tales of
kelpies and banshees elsewhere then.”

Sophy gave a
gurgle of laughter despite her annoyance. “I may be a lowlander, but you must
definitely find a more gullible female to impose upon than me.” She turned
toward him and their eyes met and, though she relished the opportunity to give
this confident gentleman a bit of a set down, she realized she had not managed
to chase away the pull of his personal magnetism.

After a moment
he looked away and gave her a careless reply. The conversation turned to the
doings of the Season, and particularly of the Exencours’ and Colonel Stirling’s
mutual acquaintance, while Sophy listened in silence. After a few minutes
Isobel held her hand out to the colonel with a cheerful smile.

“We must not
keep you any longer,” she said. “But do call upon us at Strancaster House. Francis
will be very pleased to see you again.”

“I am always
happy to see Lord Exencour, and his charming wife as well,” said the colonel. He
turned to Sophy, and nodded. “It was a pleasure to meet you, Lady Sophia.”

Sophy inclined
her head coldly, not failing to note that this caused the colonel’s lips to
twitch slightly. She watched, annoyed, as he bowed politely while the barouche
pulled away.

 “How charming
to encounter Colonel Stirling,” said Isobel. “It must be several years since I
have seen him.”

“Are you well
acquainted with him?” Sophy inquired.

“Francis is, as
they were in the Peninsula and at Waterloo together. They are great friends. I
have met him a number of times, and find him to be utterly charming. I suppose
I need not tell you that I am not the only woman to find him so.”

“I thought him
rather rude, if the truth be told,” said Sophy.

Isobel turned to
her, surprised. “Did you? Oh, I suppose he was rather teasing to you, but I
would hardly call him rude. But then, he is not much used to devoting himself
to very young girls. No doubt he is out of practice in conversing with one.”

“I am not a very
young girl! I am one-and-twenty!” protested Sophy.

“It’s true, you
are not fresh out of the schoolroom, but to a gentleman such as Colonel
Stirling, you must seem a mere child. He spent years on the Peninsula and then was
wounded at Waterloo. When he recovered, he went to India to take part in the
campaign against the Marathas. He stayed on a year or two after, and I understand
he made quite a fortune. He has vast experience, but you must forgive him if he
does not remember how to speak to a young lady.”

“That all sounds
very interesting, but I fail to see how it excuses his rudeness,” said Sophy. Even
to her own ears her voice sounded pettish.

Isobel looked at
her closely. “You are too accustomed to all the London gentlemen, who fall at
your feet when you smile at them,” she teased. “But you need not be concerned
with Colonel Stirling. I doubt you will meet him again. Before the war he cut
quite a dash, but since he was wounded he has had little use for Society. Francis
does not speak of it much, but I gather he prefers the company of his horses
and dogs to that of people, of late.”

“Perhaps that is
why his manners are so rough,” murmured Sophy.

“Rough! I’ve
seldom met a better spoken man. And so handsome, too. I can’t imagine what has
given you such an instant dislike of him.” Isobel shook her head at the
stubborn look on Sophy’s face. “Don’t look daggers at me, child! We need not
discuss Colonel Stirling any longer, as he will doubtless return to Spaethness
soon.”

They continued
around the park, pausing to talk with a few ladies and gentlemen, but none of
the conversations interested Sophy. She found her thoughts wandering to Colonel
Stirling’s dark hair, powerful body, and oddly expressive eyes. A painting
began to form itself in her head, and she firmly squelched the thought. It was
as ridiculous a notion to wish to paint him as it was that he might be willing to
sit for her. So lost in thought was she, that she barely realized they had
pulled up outside her father’s house in Charles Street.

“Sophy?”

She started, and
colored when she found Isobel’s curious gaze on her. “Oh! I’m sorry! I was
thinking about—about a painting.”

Isobel patted
her hand. “I thought it might be something like that. I’ve attempted no fewer
than three times to begin a conversation with you.”

“You must think
me dreadful,” said Sophy.

“No, just that
you have been given something to think about,” countered Isobel. At Sophy’s
curious look, she smiled. “The painting, of course,” she said.

“Oh—yes.” Sophy
hugged Isobel and climbed down the stairs that the footman had lowered for her.
“Shall I see you soon?”

“I will come
talk to Harriet tomorrow,” promised Isobel.

“Thank you!” Sophy
ran up the steps to the house, determined to banish all thoughts of Colonel
Stirling.

That night at
dinner, Sophy was unexpectedly quiet. They dined
en famille
, and talk
turned to their journey to Scotland in a few weeks. Her brother, Douglas, was
eager to spend his summer angling, and a lively discussion rose between him and
his father as to the exact spot in the river where one was most likely to catch
brown trout. Harriet watched them indulgently, before reminding Douglas he
needed to learn something of the responsibilities of the estate now that he was
older, and his summer could not be all riding and fishing. He laughingly
protested, and agreed eventually that before he returned to Cambridge in the
autumn, he would learn from the bailiff how the accounts were kept. A small
silence fell, as Sophy toyed idly with her food.

“Papa, what do
you know of Colonel Stirling?” she asked.

Her father
regarded her from under his bushy brows. “Stirling?” he repeated.

“Colonel
Stirling. He was in the army; he served in the Peninsula and in India. He is a
friend of Lord Exencour’s. Isobel says his father is the Laird of Spaethness in
Argyll.”

 “It’s an old
family, and respectable,” replied Glencairn. “Iain Stirling must be very old
now. His eldest son was taken by the fever a year or more ago, and the younger
son is now the heir. What was his name? Something outlandish. Ranulf, I
believe. I don’t know him myself; I heard he was wounded in the war, and keeps
to himself.”

Douglas looked
up from his plate. “Ranulf Stirling?” he demanded.

Glencairn turned
to him in surprise. “I believe I said that.”

 “The famous
whip?”

“I would hardly
know. Back in my day we didn’t indulge in the nonsense young men do today, with
their driving clubs and outlandish races and contests.”

Douglas flushed.
“I saw him once in the park, with such a splendid team hitched to his phaeton. Perfectly
matched, a bang-up set of blood and bone. They say he drives to an inch and has
the finest horseflesh in Britain.”

Glencairn
snorted. “It seems Colonel Stirling has nothing better to do than worry about
his horses.”

“No, not at all,”
continued Douglas, clearly afflicted with a case of hero-worship. “He was
famous as the most complete sportsman. He was a bruising rider to the hounds
and a crack shot before his regiment was sent to Spain. I’m told he served
honorably and was a great favorite of the Duke’s.”

“That is first
thing you’ve said that interests me,” snapped his father. “Horses and shooting
indeed.”

“I don’t recall
meeting him at Almack’s,” ventured Sophy.

“As though a
fellow like Ranulf Stirling would go to Almack’s,” scoffed Douglas. “He has no
interest in such things. He’s a regular out and outer! Even before he went to
Spain he was more likely to be found at Angelo’s or the Daffy Club than some
stuffy place like Almack’s. I’ve heard that since he returned he’s taken up
boxing and can be found at Gentleman Jackson’s when he’s in London.” It was
clear from his tone that he intended this description to be complimentary.

 “You seem to
know a great deal about Colonel Stirling,” observed Harriet.

Douglas flushed.
“I’ve heard stories. I’d very much like to meet him!”

“He seemed
rather rude to me,” murmured Sophy.

Harriet turned
to look at her. “Did you meet Colonel Stirling somewhere?”

Sophy stared down
at her plate. “Isobel and I drove through the park on our way home this
afternoon, and she introduced him to me. We spoke for a few minutes. That is
all there is to it.”

“If dear Isobel
knows him, I’m sure—” began Harriet, but Douglas interrupted her.

“You met Ranulf
Stirling?” he demanded.

Sophy blinked. “I
believe I just said so.”

“By Jove, you
have all the luck! Meeting Stirling, and you don’t even know who he is. They
say he was wounded at Waterloo, saving our guns from the French. What did he
look like?”

“He looked like
a pleasant gentleman,” said Sophy vaguely. “I didn’t see evidence of a wound.”

“Pleasant!”
scoffed Douglas. “He’s not often in London, they say. I’d give something to see
his horses.”

“Perhaps we
should invite him to dinner,” murmured Harriet, eyeing Sophy curiously.

Glencairn
glowered at her. “I’ll not have some Pink of the Ton looking down his nose at
us. We’ll do very well without him and his nonsense. Prizefighters indeed!”

“They say he
doesn’t do the pretty with Society,” interjected Douglas knowingly. “I’ve heard
he cuts quite a dash with the more sophisticated ladies, but he’s not one to
waste his time with girls like Sophy.” He cast his sister a disparaging glance.

Glencairn paused
with his fork halfway to his mouth and glared at his son. “I’ll not have such
talk in front of your sister and stepmother,” he said firmly. “I think we have
had enough discussion of Colonel Stirling and what ‘they’ say about him.”

Douglas colored,
and Glencairn turned his gaze on Sophy. “This fellow seems like a bounder,
friend of Exencour’s or no. If you encounter him again, you will not do more
than nod, my girl. I’ll not have the whole world gossiping about you. There’s
already enough of that, what with your painting and not finding yourself a
husband yet.”

“Oh, dear, you mustn’t
say that,” interjected Harriet. “Sophy’s behavior is all that is proper, I’m
sure. She would never encourage Colonel Stirling.”

“Encourage him! As
though he has time for a chit like her. I’ve heard that Lady Elwin—” Douglas
broke off as his father made a strangled noise.

“I doubt we have
much to worry about,” said Harriet placidly. “Colonel Stirling doesn’t sound
like the sort of gentleman who would be interested in our little family.” She
picked up her fork and nodded at them all. “Let us speak of other things.”

The next
afternoon Harriet sat in the drawing room, intent on her stitchery. She didn’t
notice when her husband fixed her with a firm glare, but continued to work. After
a few moments, he cleared his throat.

“I would think
you would be a great deal more concerned about Sophy.”

“Hmmm?” Harriet
looked up. “Did you say something, Euan?”

The Earl of
Glencairn snorted. “Indeed I did. I wonder that you are so blithe about her
situation.”

“What situation
is that?” asked Harriet, a worried look coming over her face. “Has she fallen
into another scrape?”

“Another scrape?
No, my dear, it is the same one she is always in. It is nearly the end of the
Season, and she is not yet engaged.”

“Oh.” Harriet
sighed and put her embroidery down on the little table at her elbow, giving her
husband her full attention. “That.”

“That indeed.” The
earl leaned back in his chair and regarded her, his bright blue eyes sharp
under his white eyebrows.

“It is not as
though she is not much admired,” Harriet offered. “The young men all seem to be
positively foolish over her. Indeed, she might have married any number of
gentlemen these past three seasons.”

“Might is the
essence of the problem.” Glencairn frowned. “Four completely acceptable men
have asked my permission to pay their addresses to her since she came out, and
I suspect several of her beaux have proposed without my knowledge, and she will
have none of them. The girl might be Viscountess Rackheath today, or Lady
Macclesfield, or even Lady Sophia Fadmoor. Instead she is still Lady Sophia
Learmouth.”

“She didn’t wish
to marry any of those gentlemen,” said Harriet practically.

“Why not, that
is what I would like to know.” The earl glared at her. “Fadmoor is one of the
richest men in England, and Rackheath is renowned for his appearance and
address. What precisely is it that the girl wants?”

“She wishes to
be in love, I suppose.”

“Love!” Glencairn
made a dismissive gesture.

Harriet raised
her eyebrows. “What do you have against love? We married for love, Euan, and
very happy it makes us both. You also loved Sophy’s mother dearly, God rest her
soul. I think it would be very odd of Sophy not to wish for the same joy you
have found twice.”

“Then why does
she not fall in love with Macclesfield, or Fadmoor?”

“It is not quite
that easy, you know.” Harriet took his hand in hers. “After all, you did not
marry for the first time until you were forty, and you were a widower for years
before we found one another. Why are you determined that Sophy must marry now?”

“Soon, no matter
how lovely she is, she will be ‘on the shelf’,” her husband pointed out. “I’ll
not have my daughter spoken of with pity and called an ape leader.”

The Countess
gave him a little smile. “I was a spinster when you married me, and Sophy’s
life will be very pleasant, whether she weds or not. She has the money her
mother left her, and a home for as long as she chooses at Glencairn. I hope you
do not mean to make her miserable for not marrying.”

“Of course not,”
protested the earl. “But it seems wrong that she should waste her youth and
beauty with nonsense like painting, when she could be married and raising her
children, having the same joy that we share.”

Harriet patted
his hand. “It will come to her eventually. Dear Isobel did not marry Francis
until she was six-and-twenty, and you know how happy they are together. And
Sophy is a very talented painter. You cannot deny it.”

“Much good it
does her. It’s all very well for her to dabble in it—all women should know how
to paint a watercolor—but I’ll not have her making a profession of it like
Madame Lebrun. It’s not respectable.”

Harriet
hesitated. “Perhaps you and I have underestimated her devotion to painting,”
she said slowly. “Isobel came to visit me this morning, and said she believes
that Sophy has not merely a true talent, but a real passion for it.”

“I have a great
deal of respect for your cousin, but I’ll not have her stuffing Sophy’s head
full of nonsense,” said Glencairn. “Lady Exencour led her eventual husband on a
pretty dance indeed, but they are married now and seem to be very happy,
despite her unladylike pursuits. If Sophy were to find a husband who wished to
put up with her artistic pretensions, I would be very happy for her, but I’ll
not have her throwing away her youth on some fanciful notion.”

“Perhaps she
will meet someone she can love next Season,” said Harriet tentatively.

The earl snorted
again. “She’s met every eligible man in England. She’ll have none of them.”

“We must hope
that someone from Scotland will suit her fancy, then.” Harriet picked up her
embroidery again and smiled at her husband. “I know you are very proud of her. She
is a beautiful, thoughtful, and talented young woman. You must be content with
that.”

Sophy stood in
the hall, her ear pressed to the door of the sitting room. Her bright blue eyes
sparkled with laughter, and she pushed impatiently at a glossy brown ringlet
that had slipped over her shoulder. She held her breath, the better to hear.

“Are you
eavesdropping on Papa and Mama again?”

Sophy gave a
squeak of surprise and turned to see Douglas observing her with amusement. He
was only seventeen, but already he towered over her. She looked up at him, her
face the picture of innocence.

“Of course I
wasn’t,” she said.

“Liar.” He
grinned. “What are they talking about?”

“Me, of course.”

“Of course. Which
suitor did you turn away now?”

Sophy dimpled. “No
one this week.”

“Be careful,
sister dear. You’ll earn a reputation as a flirt, and you might never marry.”

 “Would that be
so terrible?”

Douglas gaped at
her. “Surely you wish to marry. All women do.”

“Why should I? Oh,
if the right man came along it might be rather lovely,” she admitted wistfully,
“but I’ve yet to meet a man I would care to talk to every day of my life.”

“But what will
you do?” Douglas gazed at her, perplexed.

Sophy laughed. “Do?
Whatever I choose. Do you mean to marry by the time you turn one and twenty?”

“Of course I
don’t! I’m a man.”

“A man!” Sophy
scoffed. “You are a boy. But if you don’t intend to marry early, why should I
marry someone simply because he is rich, personable, or handsome? “

“You are very
spoiled,” said Douglas. “Papa has been far too indulgent of you.”

“Spoiled? I like
that! Papa and Harriet dote on every word you say. I am the one that they
importune endlessly about marriage, and behaving properly, and being polite to
my suitors, in whom I have no interest.”

“They all fall
in love with you far too quickly. You need a fellow who doesn’t dance to your
tune.”

Sophy considered
his words. “It would at least be intriguing. But that is neither here nor
there. If I meet a man who interests me, I will be very happy. But in three
Seasons in London, I’ve met only handsome fools, kindly bores, and conceited
noblemen.”

“You value
yourself very highly.”

“Why shouldn’t
I?” she said defiantly. “I’m Glencairn’s daughter, I am quick witted, have my
own fortune, and I’d be a fool not to know that I’m considered a beauty. Of
what should I be ashamed?”

Douglas shook
his head. “You know what pride goes before, do you not?”

Sophia sighed. “You
would not wish a fall on me, would you, brother dear?”

“Of course not. But
I would wish for you a more generous spirit. The broken hearts underfoot are
becoming a hazard.”

“Then find me
someone who cares about more than horses, hunting, and how many capes are on
his greatcoat,” said Sophia.

“You ask a great
deal. Those are the things all gentlemen care about.”

“Pooh.” Sophy
snapped her fingers. “I give you that for your gentlemen.”

As she did so,
the door of the drawing room opened, and Harriet appeared. She made a sound of
distress.

“Sophy, dear,
that gesture is so vulgar,” she protested mildly. “Have you been listening at
the door again?”

“No,” said Sophy
guiltily.

“Of course she
has,” said Douglas. “I took her red-handed.”

Harriet looked
from one to the other. “You children will be the death of me. Yet you are
hardly children anymore. Sophy, eavesdropping is not what a young lady does. And
Douglas, you should not tease your sister.”

Douglas and
Sophy looked at each other guiltily. Harriet sighed. “One would hardly know you
are seventeen and twenty-one,” she remonstrated. “Sophy, your father and I wish
to speak with you.”

“But I promised
to ride in the park with Lucy Coburn,” she protested.

“Miss Coburn can
wait.” Harriet held the door open, and Sophy reluctantly entered the drawing
room.

“Good afternoon,
Papa,” she said, smiling at her father brightly.

“Hmmmph.” Glencairn
glared at her for a moment from under his bushy brows, but then his gaze
softened. It was impossible for him to be annoyed with Sophy for long. Not only
was she beautiful, her appealing manner, and her obvious affection for her
father and stepmother, made him give in to her every whim. “Good afternoon, my
dear,” he concluded.

“What did you
wish to talk to me about?” she asked, seating herself in a flurry of muslin and
lace.

“You may very
well guess, as you were listening at the door,” said Harriet, trying to be
stern. She sat down next to Glencairn and the two of them surveyed Sophy, who
tilted her head and smiled disarmingly.

“I suppose it must
be about Lord Rackheath,” Sophy admitted.

“Rackheath, and
Fadmoor, and Macclesfield and—dash it, what was the name of that fellow who
haunted the place this past April?” demanded Glencairn.

“Mr. Arterbury?”
ventured Harriet vaguely. “Mr. Arrington?”

“Mr. Arthurson,”
supplied Sophy.

“There, you see?
There are so many of them about I cannot remember their names. And what I want
to know is why none of them are good enough for you.” Glencairn attempted to
look stern.

Sophy gestured
aimlessly. “They are all of them good enough, I suppose. It is just that—that I
don’t wish to marry any of them.”

Glencairn
snorted, but Harriet looked at Sophy sympathetically. “What do you wish to do,
my dear, if you do not mean to wed?”

“I don’t mean to
not
wed,” protested Sophy in a rather convoluted way. “I simply don’t wish
to marry any of the men I have yet met.”

“You’ve met
every eligible man in the kingdom,” her father pointed out.

“I don’t mean to
be disobliging, truly, Papa.” Sophy bit her lip.

Glencairn’s gaze
softened. “I know, my dear. But what is the point of coming to London every
Season if you refuse every fellow who offers for you?”

“It is not I who
insists on coming to London every year,” countered Sophy with a touch of humor.
“You and mama bring me here, hoping I will find someone who suits me. I am very
happy at Glencairn and see no reason to leave it only so I can dance or ride in
the park, and talk to men who do not interest me.”

“What would you
do at Glencairn all year?” asked the earl. “You’ll not meet a husband there.”

Sophy folded her
hands in her lap and gave her father a nervous glance. She looked at Harriet,
and saw sympathy in her eyes. “I thought I might paint,” she said tentatively.

“Paint!” Glencairn
shook his head. “We were just speaking of that. I’ll not have it, Sophy. I
begin to regret the day your stepmother encouraged you to pick up a brush. It’s
no occupation for a woman!”

“Please, Papa,”
said Sophy. “There are women who paint; the Countess of Sutherland is very
gifted, and Lady Gordon is a pupil of Mr. Turner’s.”

“I’ll not have
it,” the earl repeated. “If you will not marry one of your suitors this year,
we shall return next spring and see if you like any of them better.”

A stubborn look
came over Sophy’s charming face. Harriet watched her apprehensively. She knew
that her stepdaughter, while very good-natured, had a will at least as strong
as her father’s. Some, she thought, might call the pair of them obstinate.

“But Sophy, if
you stay at Glencairn and paint—” Harriet hesitated for a moment before
continuing, “—you cannot possibly mean to do that for the rest of your life.”

Sophy wrinkled
her nose. “I think perhaps I do.” She looked up to find her father’s startled
gaze on her. “Please understand, Papa. I’m not truly happy when I have to go
days without touching my brushes, and I cannot go anywhere, not even to a ball,
without thinking of how I might paint the candlelight, or render the colors of
the ladies’ dresses. I wake up early and sneak out of the house to paint in the
park, you know.”