Page 50 of The Scot is Hers
No doubt the smug chit had volunteered to do that with malicious intent.
“What do ye want, Lady Mary?” Giselle didn’t bother to hide her animosity.
“To watch the entertainments, of course, and get a prelude to the explosion about to come.” She sauntered up the stairs to where Giselle was and threaded her arm through hers.
“No need, Lady Mary,” Jaime said, rounding a corner from beneath the stairs. “Considering I’ve overheard what ye said, best that ye go to your chamber before I tell your mother I saw ye lip-locked with a footman.”
“What?” Lady Mary gasped, her eyes bulging at the obvious lie.
“She would,” Giselle said with a nod, and for once, given Lady Mary’s continued shock, she seemed to be able to hide the truth from her features. “And everyone will believe her because she’s a duchess, but also because I will agree and say how shocked I was.” Her hand fluttered to her chest. “Oh, my, it was all so verra distressing.”
“Ye are both horrible. I hope ye rot.” Lady Mary shoved away from Giselle, making her teeter a little on her feet, and then stomped away.
Giselle righted herself with an irritated sigh. “I do hope that is the last time I see her,” she murmured.
Jaime laughed and said sarcastically, “She’s so darling though, I can no’ understand why ye would no’ want to spend more time with her.”
Giselle grinned. “Ye’re mad.”
“Aye, but no’ as mad as those in the parlor.” Jaime sucked in a breath through her teeth.
The sense of the word went both ways—mad as in angry, and mad as in lunatic. “I do no’ want to go in there.”
“I do no’ blame ye.” Jaime gave her arm a little squeeze. “Steel yourself.”
Giselle inhaled deeply and then nodded. “Let’s go.”
Together they descended the stairs, with Giselle feeling very much as if she were approaching her execution. Through the doors into the parlor they went, and the shouting abruptly stopped as Lord and Lady Bothwell swiveled to face them, and Sir Joshua Keith, who’d been facing the door, didn’t move an inch.
Her mother gaped at her, taking in the fine gown she wore, the simple style of her hair. Giselle wasn’t certain if her mother looked more surprised to see that she was indeed alive or that she’d gone against her mother’s express wishes on how to style herself.
“My lord, my lady.” Giselle gave a slight curtsy to her parents, not bothering to spare a glance at Joshua who looked murderous, even if he was dressed to be dashing and fashionable.
“What is this we’ve heard that ye agreed to marry Lord Errol when ye were already betrothed to wed Sir Joshua Keith?” Her father wasted no time in setting loose his storm of disappointment.
Giselle reached for some form of calm within herself. Alec detached himself from the group of angry newcomers and edged closer as her mother shot forward, hovering so close that Giselle started to sweat.
“Do no’ go near her,” Keith hissed to Alec who was closing the distance between them.
Giselle snapped her head toward the man. “Ye forget yourself, Sir Joshua, and in whose home ye stand.”
There was a brief flash of surprise in Sir Joshua’s gaze that she would have spoken to him with such authority, but he quickly veiled it with a sneer in her direction. “And ye forget yourself, my lady, for it is no’ your place to speak to me that way.”
“Tell Lord Errol that ye were mistaken in agreeing to marry him,” her father demanded. “We can be done with this whole mess and return to Boddam Castle for your actual wedding.”
Giselle glanced around the room, glad to see that they were the only ones here.
“I can no’ do that, Father,” Giselle said. Her voice was soft but firm. “I am no’ going to marry Sir Joshua. I told ye that on our journey from Edinburgh, as well as before we left. I’ve had another offer and accepted. I need no’ point out that I am of an age to do so.”
Her father bristled, no doubt wanting to throttle her. “If ye wed him, there will be no dowry. I will cut ye out.”
Her mother gasped at the promise and fidgeted on her feet as if she didn’t know where to stand—with her husband and his ugly words or her daughter who deserved protection.
The sense of betrayal at her father’s proclamation, at his conviction and forcefulness, tore at Giselle’s insides. Rather than see her happily wed, her father wished to pay another man, whom she despised, to take her off his hands. It made no sense.
“Lord Errol is a good man,” Giselle said, lifting her chin and straightening her shoulders. No matter what they said, she was not going to back down. “Why would ye wish ill on me?”
“Oh, dear,” her mother started. “Your father does no’ wish ye ill—”
