Текст книги "Mary Fran and Matthew"

Автор книги: Grace Burrowes

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Mary Fran and Matthew
MacGregor Trilogy – 1.5
by
Grace Burrowes

One

One glimpse of Lady Mary Frances MacGregor, and Matthew Daniels forgot all about the breathtaking Highland scenery and the misbegotten purpose for his visit to Aberdeenshire.

“For the duration of your stay, our house is your house,” Lady Mary Frances said. She strode along the corridor of her brother’s country home with purpose, not with the mincing, corseted gait of a London lady, and she had music in her voice. Her walk held music as well, in the rhythm and sway of her hips, in the rustle of her petticoats and the crisp tattoo of her boots on the polished wood floors.

Though what music had to do with anything, Matthew was at a loss to fathom. “The Spanish have a similar saying, my lady: mi casa es su casa.”

“My house is your house.” She either guessed or made the translation easily. “You’ve been to Spain, then?”

“In Her Majesty’s Army, one can travel a great deal.”

A shadow creased her brow, quickly banished and replaced by a smile. “And now you’ve traveled to our doorstep. This is your room, Mr. Daniels, though we’ve others if you’d prefer a different view.”

She preceded him into the room, leaving Matthew vaguely disconcerted. A proper young woman would not be alone with a gentleman in his private quarters, and Mary Frances MacGregor, being the daughter of an earl, was a lady even in the sense of having a courtesy title—though Matthew had never before met a ladywith hair that lustrous shade of dark red, or a figure so perfectly designed to thwart a man’s gentlemanly self-restraint.

“The view is quite acceptable.”

The view was magnificent, including, as it did, the backside of Lady Mary Frances as she bent to struggle with a window sash. She was a substantial woman, both tall and well formed, and Matthew suspected her arms would be trim with muscle, not the smooth, pale appendages a gentleman might see at a London garden party.

“Allow me.” He went to her side and jiggled the sash on its runners, hoisting the thing easily to allow in some fresh air.

“The maids will close it by teatime,” Lady Mary Frances said. “The nights can be brisk, even in high summer. Will you be needing a bath before the evening meal?”

She put the question casually—just a hostess inquiring after the welfare of a guest—but her gaze slid over him, a quick, assessing flick of green eyes bearing a hint of speculation. He might not fit in an old-fashioned bathing tub was what the gaze said, nothing more.

Nonetheless, he dearly wanted to get clean after long days of traveling. “If it wouldn’t be too much trouble?”

“No trouble at all. The bathing chamber is just down the hall to the left, the cistern is full, and the boilers have been going since noon.”

She peered into the empty wardrobe, passing close enough to Matthew that he caught a whiff of something female… Flowers. Not roses, which were probably the only flower he knew by scent, but… fresher than roses, less cloying.

“If you need anything to make your visit more enjoyable, Mr. Daniels, you have only to ask, and we’ll see to it. Highland hospitality isn’t just the stuff of legends.”

“My thanks.”

She frowned at the high four-poster and again walked past him, though this time she picked up the tartan draped across the foot of the bed. The daughter of an earl ought not to be fussing the blankets, but Matthew liked the sight of her, snapping out the red, white, and blue woolen blanket and giving it a good shake. Her attitude said that nothing, not dust, not visiting English, not a houseful of her oversized brothers, would daunt this woman.

Without thinking, Matthew picked up the two corners of the blanket that had drifted to the blue-and-red tartan rug.

“Will you be having other guests this summer?” He put the question to her as they stepped toward each other.

“Likely not.” She grasped the corners he’d picked up, their fingers brushing.

Matthew did not step back. Mary Frances MacGregor– LadyMary Frances MacGregor—had frecklesover the bridge of her nose. They were faint, even delicate, and they made her look younger. She could have powdered them into oblivion, but she hadn’t.

“Mr. Daniels?” She gave the blanket a tug.

Matthew moved back a single step. “You typically have only one set of guests each summer?” Whatever her scent, it wasn’t only floral, but also held something spicy, fresh like cedar, but not quite cedar.

“No, we usually have as many guests as the brief summers here permit, particularly once Her Majesty and His Royal Highness are ensconced next door. But if your sister becomes engaged to my brother, there will be other matters to see to, won’t there?”

This question, alluding to much and saying little, was accompanied by an expression that involved the corners of the lady’s lips turning up, and yet it wasn’t a smile.

“I suppose there will.” Things like settling a portion of the considerable Daniels’s wealth into the impoverished Balfour coffers. Things like preparing for the wedding of a lowly English baron’s daughter to a Scottish earl.

“We’ll gather in the parlor for drinks before the evening meal, Mr. Daniels. The parlor is directly beneath us, one floor down. Any footman can direct you.”

She was insulting him. Matthew took a moment to decipher this, and in the next moment, he realized the insult was not intentional. Some of the MacGregor’s “guests,” wealthy English wanting to boast of a visit to the Queen’s own piece of the Highlands, probably spent much of their stay too inebriated to navigate even the corridors of the earl’s country house.

“I’ll find my way, though at some point, I would also like to be shown where the rest of my family is housed.”

“Of course.” Another non-smile. She glanced around the room the way Matthew had seen generals look over the troops prior to a parade review, her lips flattening, her gaze seeking any detail out of order. “Until dinner, Mr. Daniels.”

She bobbed a curtsy and whirled away before Matthew could even offer her a proper bow.

***

“Miss MacGregor?”

Mary Fran’s insides clenched at the sound of Baron Altsax’s voice. She pasted a smile on her face and tried to push aside the need to check on the dining room, the kitchen, and the ladies’ guest rooms—and the need to locate Fiona.

The child tended to hide when a new batch of guests came to stay.

“Baron, what may I do for you?”

“I had a few questions, Miss MacGregor, if you wouldn’t mind?” He gestured to his bedroom, his smile suggesting he knew damned good and well the insult he did an earl’s daughter by referring to her as “Miss” anything. A double insult, in fact.

Mary Fran did not follow the leering old buffoon into his room. Altsax’s son, the soft-spoken Mr. Daniels, would reconnoiter before he started bothering the help—though big, blond, good-looking young men seldom needed to bother the help—not so with the skinny, pot-gutted old men. “I’m a bit behindhand, my lord. Was it something I could send a maid to tend to?”

The baron gestured toward the drinking pitcher on the escritoire, while Mary Fran lingered at the threshold. “This water is not chilled, I’ve yet to see a tea service, and prolonged travel by train can leave a man in need of something to wash the dust from his throat.”

He arched one supercilious eyebrow, as if it took some subtle instinct to divine when an Englishman was whining for his whisky.

“The maids will be along shortly with the tea service, my lord. You’ll find a decanter with some of our best libation on the nightstand, and I can send up some chilled water.” Because they at least had ice to spare in the Highlands.

“See that you do.”

Mary Fran tossed him a hint of a curtsy and left before he could make up more excuses to lure her into his room.

The paying guests were a source of much-needed coin, but the summers were too short, and the expenses of running Balfour too great for paying guests alone to reverse the MacGregor family fortunes. The benefit of this situation was that no coin was on hand to dower Mary Fran, should some fool—brother, guest, or distant relation—take a notion she was again in want of a husband.

“Mary Fran, for God’s sake, slow down.” She’d been so lost in thought she hadn’t realized her brother Ian had approached her from the top of the stairs. “Where are you churning off to in such high dudgeon? Con and Gil sent me to fetch you to the family parlor for a wee dram.”

Ian’s gaze was weary and concerned, the same as Con or Gil’s would have been, though Ian, as the oldest, was the weariest and the most concerned—also the one willing to marry Altsax’s featherbrained daughter just so Fiona might someday have a decent dowry.

“I have to check on the kitchens, Ian, and make sure that dim-witted Hetta McKinley didn’t forget the butter dishes again, and Eustace Miller has been lurking on the maids’ stairway so he can make calf eyes at—”

“Come, you.” Ian tucked her hand over his arm. “You deserve a few minutes with family more than the maids need to be protected from Eustace Miller’s calf eyes. Let the maids have some fun, and let yourself take five minutes to catch your breath. Go change into your finery and meet us in the family parlor. I’ll need your feminine perspective if I’m to coax Altsax’s daughter up the church aisle.”

Ian had typical MacGregor height and green eyes to go with dark hair and a handsome smile—none of which was worth a single groat. In Asher’s continued absence, Ian was also the laird, and well on his way to being officially recognized as the earl. While neither honor generated coin, the earldom allowed him the prospect of marrying an heiress with a title-hungry papa.

Mary Fran did not bustle off to change her dress for any of those reasons, or even because she needed to stay abreast of whatever her three brothers were thinking regarding Ian’s scheme to marry wealth.

She heeded her brother’s direction because she wanted that wee dram—wanted it far too much.

***

Matthew enjoyed a leisurely soak in a marble bathing chamber that boasted every modern convenience, then dressed and prepared to find his way down to the formal parlor. As he moved through the house, he noted the signs of good care: a faint odor of beeswax and lemon oil rising from the gleaming woodwork, sparkling clean windows, fresh flowers in each corridor, an absence of fingerprints on the walls and mirrors.

Lady Mary Frances, or her minions, took the care of Balfour House seriously. A swift drum of heels from around the next corner had Matthew stopping and cocking an ear. A man did not lose the habit of stealth simply because he was no longer billeted to a brewing war zone.

The hint of acrid cigar smoke warned Matthew that his father was in the vicinity.

“Miss MacGregor, perhaps you’d allow me to provide you an escort down to the parlor?” Altsax spoke in the unctuous tones of a man condescending to an inferior, though Lady Mary Frances was arguably the baron’s social superior.

Matthew eased far enough down the corridor to see that the lady was attired in a dinner gown of green-and-white plaid that did marvelous things for her eyes—and riveted the baron’s attention on her décolletage.

“That’s gracious of you, Baron.” Her smile was beautiful, though it did not reach her eyes. “I hope Mr. Daniels will escort your womenfolk?”

The baron winged his arm. “I’m sure Matthew or your own brothers will see to that duty.”

As the lady tucked her fingers around the baron’s elbow, Matthew’s gut began to churn. Altsax was never polite to anybody, much less to pretty young women, unless he was maneuvering toward his own ends.

“So why aren’t you married, Miss MacGregor?” Altsax stroked his fingers over her hand. “You’re comely enough, wellborn, and intended for better than spinsterhood as your brothers’ household drudge.”

The observation was Altsax’s version of flattery, no doubt. Matthew felt a familiar urge to scream, or find a fast horse and gallop straight back to the Crimea.

“Marriage seems to be the topic of the day, my lord.” While Matthew watched in a conveniently positioned mirror, Lady Mary Frances smiled back at her escort, revealing a number of strong white teeth. “You are blessed with two comely daughters. It’s a pity your baroness could not accompany them on this journey.”

As if Altsax would have allowed that. Matthew’s mother knew better than to come along when her husband had decreed it otherwise, and quite honestly, Matthew envied his mother her freedom from Altsax’s company.

“My wife and I have been married for thirty-some years, my dear. I hardly need to keep her underfoot at all times. Marriage is, after all, still a business undertaking among the better classes. I’m sure you’d agree.”

Altsax walked with her toward the sweeping main staircase, a monument to carved oak that suggested at some bygone point in the MacGregor family history, coin had been abundant.

Matthew had an instant’s premonition of the baron’s intent, a gut-clenching moment of knowing what was about to take place. The baron took his opportunity at the turn in the hallway where carpet gave way to gleaming bare floor. He made a show of catching his toe on the carpet and jostling his companion sideways with enough force that she fetched up against the wall.

This allowed Altsax to mash into her bodily, and his hand—like one of the big, hairy spiders common to the tropics—to land squarely on the lady’s generous, fashionably exposed bosom.

“I beg your pardon, Miss MacGregor.” Altsax made an effort to right himself which of course involved clumsily, almost roughly, groping the lady. Matthew was about to reveal himself to his disgrace of a father, when the baron flew across the hallway as if propelled out of a cannon.

“Baron, do forgive me!” Lady Mary Frances was standing upright and looking creditably dismayed. “I did not mean to step on your foot, I sincerely did not. Are you all right, my lord?”

Her strategy left Altsax trying to look dignified and innocent of his crimes while not putting much weight on one foot. “The fault is mine, Miss MacGregor. I beg your pardon most sincerely. Shall we join your family downstairs?”

“Of course.”

As they moved toward the stairs, Matthew noted that this time, Altsax did not offer the lady his arm.

First skirmish to Lady Mary Frances, though as Matthew waited for a silent moment at the top of the stairs, it occurred to him that rising to the lady’s defense would have been enjoyable.

Tricky, given that he’d be defending her from his own father, but enjoyable.

***

“A word with you, if you please, Lady Mary Frances.”

Mary Fran tore off a bite of scone and regarded Mr. Matthew Daniels where he stood next to her place at the breakfast table. The baron had taken a tray out to the terrace, there to read his newspaper as he let a perfectly lovely repast grow cold at his elbow, while Ian and Miss Augusta Merrick, the younger of the two chaperones, had disappeared to the library.

And now Mary Fran’s favorite meal of the day—sometimes her only decent meal of the day—was going to be disturbed by this serious gentleman waiting to assist her to her feet. No doubt Mr. Daniels’s shaving water had been too hot, or not hot enough. Perhaps he objected to the scent of heather on his linen, or he’d found a footman using the maids’ staircase.

Mary Fran folded a napkin around the last of her scone and put it in her pocket, then placed her hand in Daniels’s and let him assist her to her feet. Thank God her brothers weren’t on hand to see such a farce.

“In private.” The gentleman kept his eyes front as he appended that requirement, as if admitting such a thing made him queasy.

“Shall we walk in the garden, Mr. Daniels? Pace off some of our breakfast?”

“That will serve.” He tucked her hand around his arm, which had Mary Fran about grinding her teeth. They skirted the terrace and minced along until they were a good distance from the house, and still Mr. Daniels said nothing.

“Is there a point to this outing, Mr. Daniels? I don’t mean to be rude, but I’ve a household to run, and though you are our guest, my strolling about here among the flowers isn’t going to get the beds made up.”

He stopped walking and gazed down at her with a surprised expression. “You do that yourself?”

“I know how. I expect you do as well.”

Something flashed through his eyes, humor, possibly. He was one of few men outside her family Mary Fran had to look up to. She’d been an inch taller than Gordie, and she had treasured that inch every day of her so-called marriage.

“I do know how to make up a cot,” he said. “Public school imbues a man with all manner of esoteric skills. The military does as well. Shall we sit?”

He was determined on this privacy business, because he was gesturing to a bench that backed up against the tallest hedge in the garden. They’d be hidden from view on that bench.

Even if she were amenable, Mary Fran doubted Mr. Daniels was going to take liberties. Good Lord, if he was this serious about his dallying, then heaven help the ladies he sought to charm. Though as she took a seat, it struck her with a certainty that Matthew Daniels needn’t bother charming anybody. For all his English reserve in proper company, he’d plunder and pillage, devil take the hindmost, when he decided on an objective.

Former cavalry could be like that.

“You are smiling, my lady.”

And he was watching her mouth as he stood over her. Mary Fran let her smile blossom into a grin as she arranged her skirts. “I’m truant, sitting out here in the garden. I suppose it’s fair play, given that my brothers—save for Ian—are off gallivanting about with your sisters and your aunt.” And Lord knew what Ian was up to with the spinster cousin—probably prying secrets from the poor lady.

“About my womenfolk.” He took the place beside her without her permission, though she would not have objected. “I have sisters.”

He had two. The lovely Eugenia Daniels, whom Aunt Eulalie had spotted as a possible wealthy bride for Ian, and the younger, altogether likable Hester Daniels. Mary Fran held her peace, because Mr. Daniels was mentally pacing up to something, and he struck her as man who would not be hurried—she was familiar with the type.

“I have sisters whose happiness means a great deal to me,” he went on, leaning forward to prop his elbows on his thighs. “You have brothers.”

“My blessing and my curse,” she said, wondering whenhe’d get to his point.

“My sisters are dear to me.” He flicked a brooding glance at her over his shoulder. “As I’m sure you are dear to your brothers.”

“Their hot meals and clean sheets are dear to them.”

He sat up abruptly. “They would cheerfully die for you or kill for you. Not for the hot meals or the clean sheets, but for you.”

She regarded him for a quizzical moment, trying to fathom his intentions. Insight struck as she studied the square line of his jaw and the way sunlight found the red highlights in his blond hair. “They won’t kill your father while he’s a guest in our home. Rest easy on that point.”

“I cannot rest easy, as you say.” He hunched forward again, the fabric of his morning coat pulling taut across broad shoulders. “My father’s regard for women generally lacks a certain…”

“He’s a randy old jackass,” Mary Fran said. “I don’t hold it against him.”

Whatever comment the situation called for, it wasn’t that. No earl’s daughter, not even a Scottish earl’s daughter running a glorified guesthouse ought to be so plainspoken.

“I’m sorry,” she said, gaze on her lap. “I don’t mean to be disrespectful. Your da’s a guest in my home, and I’m responsible…”

“Hush.” His finger came to rest on her lips, and when she looked up at him, he was smiling at her. He dropped his finger, but the smile lingered, crinkling the corners of his eyes and putting a light in his gaze that was almost… gentle.

God in heaven.The man was abruptly, stunningly attractive. Mary Fran felt a heat spreading out from that spot on her mouth where his bare finger had touched her.

“My father isa randy old jackass, I was searching for those very words. He can offend without meaning to, and sometimes, I fear, when he does mean to.”

“He’s not the first titled man to show uncouth behavior toward women.” She linked her fingers in her lap lest she touch her lip as he had.

“No, but he’s my father. If he should come to a premature end, all the burdens of his title will fall upon me, and that, rather than filial devotion, makes me hope your brothers will not have to challenge him to pistols at dawn.”

The daft man was genuinely worried. “My brothers are Scottish, but they don’t lack sense. If Ian took to dueling with his guests, God Almighty could live next door, and the most baseborn coal nabob wouldn’t give a farthing to spend a day with us. Her Majesty has just about frowned dueling out of existence.”

Plain speaking wasn’t always inappropriate, and Mary Fran sensed Matthew Daniels could tolerate a few home truths.

“I fear, my lady, you underestimate your brothers’ devotion to you, and”—he held up a staying hand when she would have interrupted—“you underestimate the depths of my father’s more crass inclinations.”

Mary Fran studied him, studied the serious planes of his face, and noted a little scar along the left side of his jaw. “I can handle your father, Mr. Daniels. I won’t go running to my brothers in a fit of the weeps because he tries to take liberties.”

“Tries to take liberties again, don’t you mean?”

He had blue eyes—blue, blue eyes that regarded her with wry sternness.

“He’s too slow, Mr. Daniels. He can but try, and I shall thwart him.”

He peered at her, his lips thinning as he came to some conclusion. “Your brother had the opportunity to take my father very much to task the other evening for a verbal slight to you. Balfour instead suggested I see my sire to bed. I’d suspect the reputation of the Scots’ temper to be overrated, except I’ve seen Highland regiments in action.”

“Our tempers are simply as passionate as the rest of our emotions.”

As soon as the words were out of her mouth, she realized she’d spoken tooplainly. Ungenteelly, though that was probably not a proper word.

“I agree,” he said, rising and extending his hand to her. “Having fought alongside many a Scot, I can say their honor, their humor, their valor, and their tempers were all formidable. Still, I am asking you to apply to me rather than your family should my father’s bad manners become troublesome. I assure you, I’ll deal with him appropriately.”

She wouldn’t be applyingto anybody. If the baron overstepped again, he’d face consequences Mary Fran herself was perfectly capable of meting out. God had given each woman two knees for just such a purpose.

“I can agree to bring concerns regarding your father’s conduct to you, Mr. Daniels, before I mention them to my brothers.” She placed her hand in his and let him draw her to her feet.

And there they stood for a long, curious moment. His blue eyes bored into her as if he were trying to divine her thoughts.

“My name is Matthew,” he said, still holding her hand. “I would be obliged if, when we are not in company, you would do me the honor of using it.”

He was so grave about this invitation, Mary Fran had to conclude he was sincere. He would be honoredif she addressed him familiarly—there was no accounting for the English and their silly manners. She nodded, put her hand on his arm, and let him escort her back to the house in silence.

She did not invite him to address her as Mary Frances.

***

Maybe being born with red hair, slanting green eyes, a mouth that personified sin incarnate, and a body to match made a woman sad—for Mary Frances MacGregor was a sad woman.

Matthew drew this conclusion by watching her at meals, watching the way she presided over the table with smiles aplenty and little real joy. He drew further evidence of her sadness from the way her brothers treated her, verbally tiptoeing around her the way Matthew had learned to tiptoe around his wife when she was tired, fretful, or in anticipation of her courses.

And Mary Frances worried about her brothers. The anxiety was there in her eyes, in the way she watched them eat and kept their drinks topped up. To Matthew, it was obvious the MacGregor clan was not happy about having to trade their title for English coin, but the Scots as a race could not often afford the luxury of sentiment.

Because she was sad, and because he genuinely enjoyed dancing, when the middle brother, Gilgallon MacGregor, challenged Aunt Julia to a waltz—those were his words, he challengedher to a waltz after dinner—and Julia had laughingly accepted, Matthew joined the party adjourning to the ballroom.

“Who will play for us if I’m to show Gilgallon what a dance floor is for?” Julia asked the assemblage.

Before Genie could offer, and thus ensure she wouldn’t be dancing with Balfour, Matthew strode over to the big, square piano. “I will provide the music for the first set, on the condition that Lady Mary Frances turns the pages for me.”

Genie shot him a disgruntled look, but stood up with the youngest brother, Connor MacGregor, while Balfour led a blushing Hester onto the floor.

“What shall we play for them?” Matthew asked. “Three couples doesn’t quite make a set.”

“I believe my idiot brother demanded a waltz,” Lady Mary Frances muttered as she sorted through a number of music books stacked on the piano’s closed lid. “Take your pick.”

She shoved a volume of Chopin at him, which wasn’t quite ballroom material.

“I take it you don’t approve of dancing?” Matthew flipped through until he found the Waltz in C-sharp Minor and opened the cover shielding the keys.

“Dancing’s well enough,” the lady said. Her tone was anything but approving.

“Maestro, we’re growing moss over here!” Julia called, but she was smiling up at her partner in the manner of a younger, more carefree woman, and for that alone, Matthew would dust off his pianistic skills.

He launched into the little waltz, a lilting, sentimental confection full of wistful die-away ascending scales and a turning, sighing secondary melody.

“You play well, Mr. Daniels.”

Lady Mary Frances nearly whispered this compliment, and Matthew could feel her gaze on his hands. “That’s Matthew, if you please. I’ve always enjoyed music, but there wasn’t much call for it in the military.”

Out on the dance floor, by the soft evening light coming through the tall windows, three couples turned down the room in graceful synchrony. Beside Matthew, Lady Mary Frances was humming softly and swaying minutely to the triple meter. He finished off the exposition with another one of those tinkling ascending scales, which allowed him to lean far enough to the right that his shoulder pressed against the lady’s.

“Page, my lady.”

She flipped the page, and Matthew began the contrasting section, a more stately interlude requiring little concentration, which was fortunate. Lady Mary Frances had applied a different scent for the evening. That fresh, cedary base note was still present, but the overtones were more complicated. Complicated enough that Matthew could envision sniffing her neck to better parse her perfume.

“What scent are you wearing, my lady? It’s particularly appealing.”

“Just something I put together on an idle day.”

Matthew glanced over at her to find she was watching the dancers, her expression wistful. “You haven’t had an idle day since you put your hair up, and likely not many before then.”

“A rainy day, then. We have plenty of those. Your sisters are accomplished dancers.”

“As are your brothers.” For big men, they moved with a lithe grace made more apparent for their kilts. “You should take a turn, my lady.”

“No, I should not. I’ve things to see to, Mr. Daniels, but it is nice to watch my brothers enjoying themselves on the dance floor.”

“Page.”

She turned the page for him, and Matthew had to focus on the recapitulation of the first, delicate, sighing melody. The final ascending scale trickled nearly to the top of the keyboard, which meant Matthew was leaning into Lady Mary Frances at the conclusion of the piece.

And she was allowing it.

“Oh, well done, my boy, well done.” Altsax clapped in loud, slow movements. “I’d forgotten your fondness for music. Perhaps you’d oblige us with another waltz, that I might have the pleasure of dancing with Lady Mary Frances?”

“When did he slither into the room?” Lady Mary Frances muttered, resignation in her tone.

Matthew rose from the piano bench. “I’m afraid that won’t serve, your lordship. My compensation for providing music for the ladies is a waltz with my page turner. Perhaps Hester will oblige at the keyboard?”

Gilgallon turned a dazzling smile on Matthew’s younger sister. “And I’ll turn the pages for her.”

“My lady, may I have this dance?” Matthew extended his hand to Lady Mary Frances, who smiled up at him in a display of teeth and thinly banked forbearance.

“The honor would be mine, Mr. Daniels.”

He led her to the dance floor, arranged himself and his partner into waltz position, and felt a sigh of recognition as Hester turned her attention to Chopin’s Nocturne in E Minor. The piece was often overlooked, full of passion and sentiment, and it suited the woman in Matthew’s arms.

“I hate this piece.” Lady Mary Frances moved off with him, speaking through clenched teeth.

“You dance to it well enough.” This fulsome compliment—certainly among the most lame Matthew had ever offered a lady—had her scowling in addition to clenching her teeth.

“It’s too—”

“Don’t think of the music then. Tell me what it was like growing up in the Highlands.”

She tilted her head as Matthew drew her through the first turn. “It was cold and hungry, like this music. Never enough to eat, never enough peat to burn, and always there was longing…”

Her expression confirmed that she hadn’t meant to say that, which pleased Matthew inordinately. That he could dance Mary Frances MacGregor out of a little of her self-containment was a victory of sorts. “What else?”

“What else, what?”

“What else was it like, growing up in these mountains?”

He pulled her a trifle closer on the second turn, close enough that he could hear her whisper. “It was lonely, like this blasted tune.”