Page 27 of The Lyon and the Unicorn
“You only have to impress his aunt.Hehas to impress Mama Betty, and every suitor knows that a mother is a considerably more fearsome creature than an aunt.”
“I can always throw her in the river if she insults you,” Nathaniel added.
“What ifhedoesn’t like me?” Clara asked.
“Don’t be an ass, Clarry! Did you see the way he looked at you? I’ll wager he’d rather tuck into a slice ofyouthis afternoon than the fruitcake.”
“Stop it!” She giggled, though she couldn’t deny the pulse of pleasure at the notion of the huge Highlander devouring her.
“If he doesn’t like you, I’ll throwhiminto the river,” Nathaniel said.
“We both will,” Cornelius added. “Only the best of men is good enough for our sister. Don’t forget, he must win our approval as well as Mama Betty’s.”
Her stepbrothers were the kindest creatures in the world. Clara loved Mama and Papa Harcourt, but they were always so determined to ensure she behaved. With Corn and Nate she could be her true self. They never judged her wild behavior, or her frankness.
How she’d miss them when she had to leave!
But marriage was inevitable and with it, the surrender of her freedom and her person to another. It lingered in the back of her mind, a thick black cloud, moving ever closer until it swallowed her up. But perhaps in the huge Highlander she might find a flicker of hope that she could be accepted—if not loved—for who she was.
Clara stirred thetea, wincing as the spoon clinked against the porcelain. She’d already splashed tea on the tablecloth—twice—and dropped a sugar lump on the floor. And now she was in danger of tripping over the hem of her gown and sending the cake in the same direction as the sugar lump.
Why must she be so inept at these frivolous rituals?
Had Papa Harcourt’s brandy been on the table, she’d have slipped herself a measure or two to soften her fear, but knowing the way her fortunes were running today, she’d have dropped that as well, then the parlor would have reeked of liquor—just like the morning room last month after she’d helped herself to a measure of Mama’s port, then knocked the bottle over, spilling the ruby liquid onto Mama’s embroidery.
What must theythinkof her?
Clara placed a slice of cake onto a plate, then picked up the plate and the teacup. Mama Betty smiled in encouragement, but Papa Harcourt sat, body stiff, with his usual dignified attitude.
Her stepfather disapproved of her—but he loved her also, which made her yearn for his praise all the more. Mama was always telling Clara not to strive too hard for his approval, that it would come in time, and what mattered was that he loved her as his own daughter.
But the illegitimate daughter of a harlot and her pimper could never be a worthy daughter of a duke. Deep down, he could never love, or approve of, her.
The teacup rattled as she almost lost her balance, and the cake slid across the plate. She righted herself and sat next to her mother.
Mama placed a light hand on her arm. “You’re doing well,” she whispered.
Clara’s mother exchanged pleasantries with Mrs. Tuffington, while Papa Harcourt sipped his tea in silence. As tea progressed, Clara picked up her own fork and broke off a corner of her cake, then she looked up to see Mr. McTavish staring at her. He picked up his cake with his hands, took a huge bite, and winked.
Papa Harcourt glanced at him, the ghost of a smile on his lips.
“Are you enjoying the cake, Mr. McTavish?” he asked.
“Aye.” Their guest licked his lips and met Clara’s gaze. “I can’t imagine anything more delicious.”
“Good. Are you staying with your aunt and uncle for the whole of the summer?”
“I return home in less than a fortnight.”
“What do you think of Northumberland? It must be very different to the Highlands. It’s your homeland also, is it not, Mrs. Tuffington?”
“Aye, Yer Grace,” she replied.
“Are you Mr. McTavish’s aunt on his father’s side?”
“His mother Margaret was my sister,” she replied, casting a look of affection toward her nephew. “The poor lad lost her when he was wee, so I treated him as if he were my own—until my marriage, at least. We Scots place great value on family.”
“Aunt…” Mr. McTavish looked embarrassed.
