Her Scottish Groom (24 page)

He just couldn’t—or didn’t want to—give her what she wanted most.

Meanwhile her mother regarded her with a furrowed brow. “That gown isn’t from your trousseau.”

Diantha groaned inwardly. She had selected the ensemble of bright blue sarcenet and taffeta because the color cheered her up. Trimmed with black lace instead of the predictable white or pink, it also helped her feel pretty and elegant.

“I purchased it from Monsieur Worth during our stay in Paris.” As things stood with Kieran, she could not bring herself to utter the word
honeymoon
.

Mama sniffed. “Blue is so insipid.”

“Monsieur Worth selected it for me.” Diantha’s bland comment spiked her mother’s guns until dinner was underway. Mrs. Quinn eventually rallied, however, and addressed Kieran over the entrees.

“Mr. Quinn and I were surprised, to say the least, when we arrived in London only to find you had left weeks before the Season ended.” She accepted a portion of the chicken offered to her, then peered at it suspiciously. “Er, what might this be?”

“Chicken stovie.” Diantha and MacAdam had included at least one traditional Scottish dish in each dinner menu. She took a bite of parsley-covered potato.

At her right, her father sampled some from his plate. “Very nice. I wouldn’t mind having this at home.”

“Mr. Quinn, it contains entire slices of onions.” Her mother ate a morsel of chicken after examining
it for any trace of the dreaded vegetable. Then she returned her attention to Kieran.

“I fear my digression interrupted you, dear Lord Rossburn. I suppose you have an explanation for leaving the gaieties of the Season before it ended.”

“No.” He regarded her with half-closed eyes. “Why would I need one?”

“We expected to spend at least part of the Season with our daughter during her first months as a peeress.”

Diantha’s hand clenched around her fork. Her parents had evidently not milked enough attention from the marriage they had engineered.

“After months of being away from my home, London held little interest for me.” Kieran drawled the words with every evidence of boredom.

Papa harrumphed. “And what about our daughter, sir? As her parents, we are entitled to her company when we want it.”

“Ah, but the law gave that privilege to me upon my marriage.”

Livid at being argued over like a parcel, Diantha confined most of her conversation for the rest of the evening to Barclay.

Her sense of ill-use lasted to the next day. The weather did not help, turning to a chill mist that veiled the distant hills. She ordered a fire built in the winter salon, a comfortable room lined with golden oak. Iona grumbled about lowered standards at Duncarie, but wasted no time availing herself of a seat near the fire. Granny had already settled into a wing chair opposite with an oldfashioned lapdesk.

Kieran entered shortly afterward. “Jarrard said
everyone had gathered here. A capital idea on such a
dreich
day.”

“If that means dismal, yes, I thought it would be cheerier to welcome people here.” Diantha did not look up from her needlepoint.

Her brothers, playing a listless game of backgammon in the corner, greeted him more enthusiastically.

“I say, old boy!” Thomas’s poor imitation of a British accent grated on her ears. “Rotten weather today, isn’t it? I hoped to go out for a day’s shooting. Maybe we’ll have better luck tomorrow.”

“Grouse season commences on August twelfth.” Kieran smiled, but his voice brooked no argument.

Thomas chuckled. “What’s a day or five early matter when you’re the landowner? It’s not as though anyone is going to turn you in.”

Barclay entered in time to hear both men. “Shooting before the twelfth is out of the question. It’s not done.” He sauntered over to the table at Diantha’s elbow and picked up a book. As he sat down across from her, he mouthed “my sympathies.” She bent farther over her canvas so no one would see her struggle not to laugh.

Kieran overrode her brother’s protest. “I fear the matter is closed.”

As Papa’s favorite, Tom normally got what he wanted after a minimum of teasing. She would have to watch his mood now, for he often lost his temper when balked.

Kieran frowned as his glance fell on Barclay in the chair nearest to Diantha. Changing course, he moved to sit down near her grandmother. “And who are you writing to, Mrs. Helford?”

“The Dowager Comtesse de Pontrevault.” She blotted her letter. “She’s invited me to winter with her in the south of France and sends you her love, Dina.”

Iona and Barclay’s jaws dropped. Diantha pushed her needle into the canvas. The day might not be as bad as she dreaded.

That day’s guests lived nearer than Aberdeen and arrived after luncheon. The maligned Cousin Francesca proved a particularly pleasant surprise. Instead of the middle-aged dragon conjured by Iona and Barclay, a woman of perhaps twenty-eight years swept into the hall on Kieran’s arm.

“Thank you so much for inviting me, Lady Ross-burn. Kieran has never snubbed me, but I did not know if you would be willing to have a mere colonel’s widow under your roof.” She accompanied the words with a dazzling smile.

Diantha liked her at once. “As the daughter of a mere ‘mister,’ I can hardly object.”

“You’re very kind.” She removed her mantle, bonnet, and gloves, handing them to Jarrard. She wore a neat poplin gown in the gray of half-mourning.

The butler bowed. “If I may say, it is a pleasure to see you again, Lady Francesca.”

“I am delighted to visit Duncarie again after so many years. But I prefer to be called Mrs. Urquhart.”

“Lady Francesca?” Diantha looked from her to Kieran.

“My father is the Earl of Turbury.” Her lips thinned. “He cast me off when I eloped with the man I loved and refused all contact with me even after my poor William was killed five years ago.”

“Iona and Barclay are doubtless having palpitations
at this moment.” Kieran chuckled. “However, my mother wishes to see you during your stay.”

“They have never found me sufficiently servile.” She and Diantha fell into step behind Kieran. “I do hope you stand up to them.”

While Iona made no secret of her disapproval, she did not cause any ugly scenes in front of the other guests.

Two days later, her glacial calm cracked as she hastily entered the drawing room. Several ladies had enjoyed a lively game of lawn tennis and now occupied themselves with gossip and fashion periodicals.

“Diantha, there is a tradesman in the front hall! And he is opening several crates that he insists are paintings and are nothing but blots! Send him about his business at once!”

“Splendid!” Diantha brushed past her and scurried to the main stairway as quickly as one could in a bustle and corset. She paused at the landing that overlooked the entry hall and grinned.

Sir Harry Emerson stood in the middle of a pile of wood and packing material. Two paintings leaned against the wall and two footmen lifted another out of the last crate under his supervision.

“Oy, careful! That’s canvas, not a piece of steel.”

“What an intriguing man.” To her surprise, Francesca stood at her side. She replied to Diantha’s raised eyebrows with a shrug. “You didn’t think I was going to stay for another of Iona’s lectures, did you?”

Diantha chuckled. “Come along then.” She descended the rest of the stairs. “Harry! You’re making a mess.”

“I expected you needed a diversion.” His easy smile widened to include her companion. “Besides, you brought reinforcements.”

“Francesca, please allow me to present Sir Harry Emerson, a dear, if untidy, friend of my family’s. Harry, Lady Francesca Urquhart.”

He bowed. “My pleasure, your ladyship.”

A flush spread across her new friend’s face, but she kept her composure. “Don’t let Diantha frighten you off with my title. Your accent tells me you are from Yorkshire, sir.”

Harry straightened, his face neutral. “Aye.”

“I grew up not far from Helmsley.” Francesca bestowed one of her wonderful smiles on him.

The industrialist gave her one in return that Diantha could only describe as foolish. “I’m from Hull myself.”

“Harry! I thought I heard your voice!” Her father emerged from the billiard room at the back of the house, looking genuinely pleased for the first time since his arrival.

Kieran followed him, a frown marring his face. “Emerson. I did not know Diantha invited you.”

She had prepared herself for this reaction. “I invited him for Papa’s sake.”

“Thankee, my girl.” Her father patted her shoulder in an awkward gesture of affection.

“What do you think?” Harry waved a hand at the paintings. “Dina commissioned me to purchase these before she left Paris.”

Papa peered at them. “Can’t tell what they’re supposed to be.”

“They do seem to have rather a lot of daubs.” Francesca tilted her head to one side.

Kieran came to Diantha’s side. She could smell the lavender and bay of his soap. “That’s what you asked him about at the Opera?” His eyes twinkled. “Dina?”

Her father harrumphed. “Silly pet name, Mrs. Quinn’s mother started calling her that in the nursery.”

“Hetty always swore the name suited her.” Harry cleared his throat. “My late wife.”

“It’s called impressionist painting. Step back here.” The words all but squeaked out as she led them nearly to the front door. At a distance the paintings resolved themselves into outdoor scenes that captured sunlight and shadow as it fell on buildings, meadows, and people.

“How clever.” Francesca sighed wistfully. “It’s been ages since I’ve been to a proper gallery.”

Kieran nodded. “We’ll have to find a place to hang them where they’ll show to best advantage. For now, we should put them in the study and let the rest of our guests take a look at them.”

“I am so gratified that you like them.” Her heart danced at his approval, though, of course, she did not dare throw her arms around his neck as she wished. “Of course, Harry deserves the credit for finding them.”

“Indeed.” Kieran held out his hand. “You’re quite the connoisseur, Emerson.”

“Self-taught, no more.” Despite the gruff words, the Yorkshireman failed to hide his pride.

Her guests occupied her time over the next days. Advised by Kieran’s mother, she had prepared activities for both sunny and inclement weather. Sunny days brought walks through the garden, and
sketching parties for the ladies. Kieran oversaw fishing excursions and practice shooting sessions for the men.

On rainy days and in the evenings, guests occupied themselves with cards, charades, or games like “Twenty Questions.” Others played the piano in the drawing room or sang.

The day before grouse shooting started featured a picnic near the estate’s fishing village. The community welcomed Mr. Quinn particularly, and he responded by becoming as human as Diantha had ever seen him. Under her mother’s horrified eyes, he and Harry examined the existing fleet of boats and bantered with their crews.

Mrs. Quinn pressed a scented handkerchief to her lips. “Everyone else is staring! I shall die of mortification!”

Diantha barely heard her, for she could not take her eyes off Kieran.

He spoke to nearly every man, calling them by name and asking after their families. The wind blew his dark waves of hair around his perfect profile as he spoke to one of the youngest fishermen.

They seemed to be arguing about something and she wondered what the trouble could be.

Iona bustled up, scowling. “Come away, it’s time to leave.”

Diantha’s brows snapped together. “I do beg your pardon, Aunt, but as hostess I believe that is my decision.”

Barclay, following his mother, attempted to placate both of them. “That was a bit abrupt of Mother, but indeed, there’s no need to linger. I daresay
Kieran can bring your father and Sir Harry along after they’ve finished with their new acquaintances.” He drew the final word out in a sarcastic manner that set her teeth on edge.

She dug in her heels at his condescension until she caught sight of the others aimlessly sitting and standing near the carriages. “Very well, Barclay.” She stretched her lips into a saccharine smile. “You may escort my mother.”

She took Iona’s arm, which she knew the other woman would detest. “Shall we go, Aunt?”

Several of their guests looked askance when Kieran arrived at the picnic site with Papa and Harry, but the three men ignored the stares.

After the meal, Kieran signaled the footmen. Grinning, they produced several long bags from under carriage seats. Their owners pulled out long clubs that ended in thick wood knobs or narrow iron blades. Alarmed, Diantha wondered if the Scots were about to engage in some sort of ritual combat, like fencing.

One of the friendlier Rossburn relatives rubbed his hands together. “Now for the entire point of the day! Did you bring the gutties, laddie?”

With a grin, her husband opened a box filled with small, pale spheres. “Hard to play golf without them.”

They offered to teach the game to those unfamiliar with it. Diantha declined, but her brothers tried their hands at it. To Diantha’s amazement, the Scots, male and female, spent the next hours whacking the balls into a series of holes among the heath that grew just beyond the seashore.

“That is the most absurd thing I have ever seen.” She addressed the remark to Mama as they sipped lemonade some distance away from the course.

“Lawn tennis is more enlivening. But I’m told that royalty patronizes some golf clubs. Perhaps you should take up the game.”

Iona sat nearby, watching Barclay play. “That would be most suitable. The dowager baroness never did take up the game.”

Which only demonstrated her mother-in-law’s good sense. Diantha kept the words to herself to preserve the rare accord between the two women.

Buoyed by an afternoon of fierce competition on the links, Kieran decided to look in on his mother. Poole beamed at him when she opened the door.

“Her ladyship will be pleased to see you, my lord. Will you be joining her for tea?”

“If your wife can spare you.” The dowager set aside the book she had been reading and held out a hand to him.