Johanna Lindsay - The Heir

Unfortunately, Ophelia happened to notice that. ..

Ophelia was standing across the ballroom with three of her closest friends, well, two friends and one girl who secretly despised her, but was loath to leave the circle of her popularity. Each of the three was pretty in her own way, though not nearly as beautiful as Ophelia. Nor did any of the three outrank Ophelia in title. She was the only lady among them, her father being an earl, their fathers having less prestigious titles. But then Ophelia couldn't stand for any female in her circle to outrank or outshine her.

Ophelia was unaware of Mavis Newbolt's dislike. She might not care for some of Mavis's snide or catty remarks, but she would never attribute them to dislike. How could anyone dislike her, after all, as eminently popular as she was?

And she had known she would be. There had never been any doubt that she would reign supreme this Season and have her pick of every single eligible bachelor in town. She did have that pick. They all adored her. But to what purpose, when her parents had let the Marquis of Birmingdale woo them with his blasted title?

She hated old Neville Thackeray for thinking of her. Why did he have to pick her for his grandson, just because her mother had once lived near him and thus he felt he knew her personally? Why couldn't he have picked the dowdy Sabrina instead, who still lived near him? Of course, she knew why Sabrina hadn't been considered for the Birmingdale heir.

She knew the Lamberts' family history from her mother's account of it. Everyone from Yorkshire had likely heard the story at one time or another, though it was an old scandal and probably forgotten by most.

They were fools, her parents. Ophelia could have landed a dukedom. Beauty like hers didn't come along often. But they had settled for a mere marquis. She wouldn't, though. She was going to get out of marrying the Birmingdale heir. Good God, he wasn't even an Englishman—well, not a pure one anyway. But it was no wonder the marquis felt he had to do the bride-picking himself, in an age when arranged marriages were nearly unheard-of. The grandson had been raised by barbarians!

She shuddered at the thought. And if shaming him didn't work, and showing him that he'd never have anything from her except her utter contempt, then she would just have to think of some other way to be rid of him. But she'd have a new fiancé by the end of the Season, and one of her choosing. She didn't doubt that for a moment.

However, at that particular moment Ophelia was staring at her mother's young houseguest, and was briefly disconcerted seeing the gentlemen hovering near Sabrina, who should have been dancing attendance on her instead. But because there weren't any men within hearing distance just then, she was able to speak her mind without worrying about how it would reflect on her, and she was surprised enough by what she was seeing across the room to do so.

"Would you look at that," Ophelia said, directing the other girls' attention to Sabrina and the three men speaking with her. "What can she possibly be saying to them, to keep them so enthralled?"

"She's your houseguest, Ophelia," Edith Ward offered soothingly, recognizing the signs of jealousy in her friend, and adept at defusing it. All three girls, at one time or another, had been burned by Ophelia's unwarranted jealousy. "They no doubt just want to talk to her about you."

Ophelia began to look appeased until Mavis said in supposed innocence, "It looks to me like she's garnered a few admirers, but then I'm not surprised. She does have remarkably beautiful eyes."

"Those peculiar eyes of hers are hardly a saving grace, Mavis, when she's utterly drab otherwise," Ophelia replied tersely. But she immediately regretted her harsh tone, which might make her sound jealous, which she wasn't, of course.

So she added, with what she thought was a sincere sigh but came out sounding more like a huff, "I do pity her, though, poor girl."

"Why? Because she isn't pretty?"

"Not just that, but she comes from bad blood, you know. Oh, dear, I shouldn't have mentioned that. You are not to let that go any further. My mother would have a fit. Lady Hilary Lambert is her dear friend, after all."

Since they all knew that Ophelia was quite displeased with her mother at the moment, that last bit was redundant. Ophelia wouldn't mind at all if her mother had a fit. But then the admonishment not to repeat what they were hearing was just as redundant, since both the other two girls thrived on gossip, just as their mothers did, and they were sure to tell their mothers every single word they'd heard. Mavis deplored gossip herself, but in the ton you really did have to keep up with it.

"Bad?" Jane Sanderson asked avidly. "You don't mean the wrong side of the blanket?"

Ophelia appeared to give that some thought, but must have decided against that particular scandal because she said, "No, worse than that, actually."

"What can be worse—?"

"No, really, I've said too much already," Ophelia protested lightly.

"Ophelia!" Edith, the oldest of the four girls, exclaimed. "You can't leave us in suspense like that."

"Oh, all right," Ophelia complained, as if they were dragging the information out of her, when nothing would have stopped her at that point from telling all. "But this is only between us, and only because you are my best friends and I trust you not to repeat it."

She continued in a whisper. The two friends who were actually her friends had wide eyes by the time she finished the tale. Mavis, knowing Ophelia as she did, didn't know whether to believe her. But then she knew that Ophelia felt no qualms at all about lying, if she thought it might get her what she wanted. And apparently what she wanted at the moment was to completely ruin Sabrina Lambert's chance of finding a husband in London.

Two reputations blackened this evening, and both by the same woman. Mavis felt truly sorry for both people, their only fault that Ophelia didn't like them. The Birmingdale heir would undoubtedly weather the storm. He was merely being made a laughingstock by Ophelia's ridicule of him, so that her parents would be mortified enough to break off the engagement they had arranged. But with a title like his and the huge estate that came with it, he'd still easily find another bride.

Not so the Lambert girl. Bad blood was bad blood that might be passed along to heirs, and what gentleman would want to take that chance by marrying her? Which was really too bad.

Mavis had genuinely liked the girl. She was nice, a simple, innocent quality hard to encounter in London, and amusing besides, once she'd opened up. And Mavis felt partly responsible for turning Ophelia against her, by mentioning her remarkably pretty eyes.

Mavis shook her head mentally in disgust. She really was going to have to find a new group of companions. Being friends with Ophelia Reid was simply too detrimental to one's well-being. Spiteful, vain bitch. Mavis hoped, she really did, that Ophelia would have to marry the Birmingdale heir after all. Serve her right to have a husband whom she'd managed to get all of London to scorn.

It was not a night to be traveling abroad, was possibly the worst night of the year, with snow swirling in ever-thickening gusts, preventing visibility even with a lantern held aloft. And cold. Sir Henry Myron had never in his life experienced such bone-chilling cold.

The weather wouldn't have been so extreme in England. He would probably have thought nothing of a little snow. But so far north in the Scottish Highlands, he would have been hard-pressed not to freeze

even without the snow trying to help him toward that end. How anyone could live in such a harsh climate and like it was a wonder to Sir Henry, who had been tasked with coming here.

The worst part of the trail had been passed, a narrow path across a low mountain. Henry wouldn't have called it a mountain. It seemed more like a gigantic rock jutting out of the ground, bare of trees, grass, even dirt, just a big granite thing blocking the way that needed to be passed, and the only way to do so was to climb over it by foot or on horse.

He'd had to leave his carriage behind at a nearby kirk. But then he'd been warned by his guide that he would have to, and so had rented a mount for the last leg of the journey along its narrow trails.

They should have stayed the night at that kirk. The churchman there had offered them beds for the night. But they were so close to the end of the journey, just an hour away, that Henry had insisted on going on. Of course, it hadn't been snowing then. The snow had come from the other side of that huge rock, or rather, low mountain, blasting them with stinging flakes as soon as they topped the rise.

Henry was beginning to worry that they would both be lost and freeze to death, their bodies not found until the spring thaw. It was impossible to see even two feet in front of them, yet the guide continued on, as if he could still see the path, now covered in snow, as if he knew exactly where he was going. And so he did ...

The large stone manor house loomed out of the white-speckled darkness so suddenly, they were at the door before Sir Henry had even noticed they had reached their destination. The guide was pounding on that door. Henry barely heard it, the wind was shrieking so loudly. But the door opened and warmth gushed out, and they were both ushered straightaway to a large crackling fire.

Henry was numbed. After a short while, though, he began to thaw, and the shivering began just after that. A woman was fussing over them and tsking about the foolishness of being out in such a storm—at least he thought that was what she was saying. He wasn't quite sure, though, her Scots brogue was so thick. But she piled heavy woolen blankets over his shoulders, and wrapped his stiff fingers around a cup of hot whisky, staying to make sure he drank every drop of it, which he was glad to do.

A short while later, he began to think that he and his frozen toes might survive after all, a painful discovery as feeling began to return to those extremities, but welcome nonetheless. And he finally began to take closer note of his surroundings.

He was surprised. Henry wasn't sure what he had expected to find at the home of a rich Highland lord, and one so isolated as this one was— well, to be truthful, he had expected something medieval, an old, crumbling fortress perhaps, or merely a big farm. The MacTavishes were sheep farmers, after all, or so he'd been told.

But what he was seeing was something altogether different, not quite a manor house that he might have passed in the shires of England, yet surely in that design. Built all of stone—Scotland wasn't known for its abundance of lumber—it could have been furnished in the style and comfort of a manor house, yet what should have been a large drawing room looked like an old medieval hall instead.

The house was modern in design. The occupants weren't, apparently. It was as if whoever had built it had done so in protest, that he had been raised in one of the older-style castles and that was the feel he was most comfortable with and was going to adhere to.

Trestle tables, of all things, and wooden benches lined the floral-papered walls. He didn't doubt that

they were pulled out for dinner to accommodate the household all sitting down at once to eat, just as in days of old. The windows weren't covered with drapery, but with sheepskins still thick with fleece. He might allow the skins would keep out the cold better than any drapery could, but sheepskins? There wasn't a sofa or comfortable chair to be seen, just a few more unpadded benches near the fire. And hay on the floor.

When he noticed it he simply stared, then finally shook his head. He'd been right, after all. The MacTavish Highlanders did live medievally.

But there were no MacTavishes about, nor anyone else for that matter, though the hour was still early in the evening. The large Great Hall was empty, except for the woman who was returning now with two more cups of hot whisky But she wasn't alone, not this time. On her heels came a tall young man who stopped in the doorway to give Henry's guide a nod—they were apparently acquainted, but then the guide had said he'd been here before. The man then stared at Henry.

After having a good look at what should have been a modern drawing room but wasn't, Henry might have expected at that point to see people wearing bearskins, or rather, sheepskins, but no, the Scotsman was dressed in trousers and frock coat. He could have walked down a fashionable London street without gaining undue notice—except for his height perhaps, and the large body that went with a six-foot frame.