Lucy Muir (2 page)

Miss Atwood’s announcement created all the feelings of envy in her friends’ breasts she could have wished, although they strove not to let it show and give her the satisfaction. A real Scottish lord to stay in Olivia’s house for the remainder of the Season! True, the Season only had another three weeks, but even a day with a real Scottish lord in residence would have been something to envy. Why did such a wonderful thing happen to a person like Olivia Atwood? Why not to one of them?

“It is odd he did not come earlier in the Season. Two or three weeks will not give him much time to select a bride,” Phoebe commented, thinking to herself it was even odder that Lord Atwood had confided all the personal information in the earl’s letter to his daughter. She rather suspected Olivia might have secretly reviewed the correspondence.

“He wrote that he did not feel he could leave his responsibilities for a longer period of time,” Olivia explained. “Apparently he has no close relations to take over his duties while he is away from his castle.”

Phoebe and Celeste were silent, not knowing what they could say that would not increase the look of smug satisfaction on Olivia’s face.

Olivia, satisfied that her news had had the desired effect on her friends, rose. “I must go, I am expected at Lady Tresham’s, but I wished to share my news with my dearest friends first. We shall be holding a ball to introduce Lord Murray to Society, and of course you will both receive invitations.”

She went to Celeste and placed a light kiss on her cheek, repeating her action with Phoebe. After a quick look into the glass above the fireplace to ascertain whether her bonnet needed adjusting, Olivia glided to the door, where she paused and turned back.

“Miss Hartwell, you should avoid wearing yellow, it makes your hair look redder. Have you done as I advised and tried lemon juice on your freckles? I hear it is much more effective than cucumber. And Miss Laurence, you should not wear green. It emphasizes the odd colour of your eyes.”

Without waiting for an answer, she swept from the room with a condescending nod worthy of a princess.

“Ohhh! How I detest her,” Celeste stormed, jumping up from the settee as Olivia vanished. She glided across the room mimicking Olivia’s walk, and fingered her throat, with a supercilious look on her face.

“Did you notice my new gown, and my expensive new garnet pendant? I know it is a little extravagant for day wear, but I wished you, my dear friends, to see it and be envious. Papa, who is a baron as you know, bought it with his money. Good money, you understand, because he did not earn it but inherited it.”

Phoebe laughed in spite of herself at Celeste’s antics. Sometimes it was difficult for her to remember she was four years the elder when in Celeste’s company.

“She
was
rather obvious,” Phoebe agreed, “but she was also successful, for I must confess I am envious of the Atwood’s prospective house guest.”

Celeste gave a final twirl and sank back down on the settee. “It is
so
unfair,” she proclaimed. “Her mother was already planning to take her to Lake Katrine this summer, and now she is to have a real Scottish lord staying in her home.”

“It is quite obvious Olivia plans to be the one to marry him,” Phoebe remarked. “If she does it will be the Match of the Season. Perhaps it is already arranged, since her father and Lord Murray’s father were friends. Although I doubt it, for she could not have refrained from telling us, had it been so. I hope someone else will snatch him away beneath her very nose,” she finished uncharitably.

Celeste’s changeable green eyes turned as brilliant as emeralds at Phoebe’s words. “That is just the thing!” she exclaimed excitedly. “One of us must win him from her. I could not bear Olivia to be the one to marry a real Highland lord and crow over us the rest of her life. I should go into a decline and die,” she proclaimed melodramatically.

“It would not be good ton to steal away Olivia’s betrothed,” Phoebe objected, ignoring Celeste’s latter comments.

“She is not betrothed yet. If Lord Murray is coming to London to seek a wife, why, every unmarried girl is a possibility. It would not be wrong for us to try to attract his notice.”

“But to intentionally pursue a gentleman—it does not seem the thing to do.”

Phoebe knew her protest sounded half-hearted. She
would
like to see Olivia get her comeuppance. Some of Olivia’s unkind remarks about her red hair, freckles and advancing age had found their mark over the past two Seasons, much as she tried not to let them hurt. Nor had she been the only girl so insulted. Olivia’s sharp and spiteful tongue had wagged endlessly about Miss Markham’s spots, Lady Ainsworth’s plumpness, and Lady Winslow’s unfortunate resemblance to a horse.

“What is a Season but a time for us to meet gentlemen whom we and our parents look upon as prospective marriage partners?” Celeste argued. “Lord Murray is no exception.”

“I suppose that is true,” Phoebe admitted. She was becoming very tempted to agree to Celeste’s plan, but should she encourage Celeste in one of her starts? Phoebe knew her mother and Mrs. Laurence relied upon her to be a steadying influence on her flighty young friend.

“Olivia will have a great advantage, with Lord Murray living in her house,” Phoebe warned, knowing that Celeste did not take defeat well.

“Perhaps not,” Celeste said, adding with a rare flash of insight, “for if Lord Murray lives in the same house Olivia must show her true colours sooner or later. Please, let us try.”

Phoebe was silent a moment. After all, what would be the harm? She and Celeste would not be the only ones vying for Lord Murray’s favour. With the current rage for all things Scottish, every woman in Town was likely to be pursuing him.

“Very well, let us try,” she capitulated.

Celeste ran to her friend and hugged her. “We shall succeed, you will see,” she promised and promptly began to dance about the drawing room floor in her excitement.

Chapter Two

The news of the Highland lord to be staying at the Atwoods’ soon spread throughout Society. Olivia was the envy of all the unmarried girls, and many of the married women as well. Despite the fact that the ball the Atwoods planned to introduce Lord Murray to the ton was to be held in the first week of June, it promised to be the crush of the Season. Everyone who received one of the coveted invitations planned to attend.

The week before Lord Murray’s arrival, Olivia called daily at the Hartwells’ or Laurences’, depending on where she found Phoebe and Celeste. She filled their ears with encomiums on Lord Murray— his castle, his lands, his lineage. Nowhere, it seemed, was there to be found a Highland lord who so exemplified the qualities of both Malcolm Graeme and Rhoderik Dhu, the heroes of
Lady of the Lake.

The two friends listened grudgingly to Olivia’s outpourings. They disliked encouraging her, yet they wished to gain as much information as possible about Lord Murray. Still, it was very hard to suffer Olivia’s consequential airs, and Celeste’s patience, never the best, was severely strained.

“She will be calling him ‘Robert’ next, and sending the announcements of their betrothal to the
Gazette
even before he arrives,” Celeste said darkly as Olivia left one morning after a call that had been particularly trying.

“Yes, it is enough to sour anyone’s temper to listen to her prattle on about
her
Scottish lord,” Phoebe said, venting her feelings by giving her embroidery silk a vicious tug. “One could almost hope Lord Murray would turn out to be knock-kneed, balding and fat as bacon.”

“No,” Celeste contradicted, “the more well favoured he is, the more mortifying it will be to Olivia when one of us wins his affections instead of her. I think Lord Murray will be ‘Of stature tall, and slender frame.’”

Phoebe laughed. “I believe you view yourself as Mr. Scott’s Ellen with your black hair and fair complexion,” she said perceptively. A delicate colour rising in Celeste’s cheeks told Phoebe she had hit the mark, but she forebore to tease her friend further.

“We shall find out soon enough what Lord Murray’s appearance is like,” she reminded her friend. “Olivia said he is to arrive this Thursday, and the ball is to be Friday.”

“Oh,” Celeste cried, her attention diverted. “We must decide what we are to wear to the ball. It is of the highest importance, for it will be the first time Lord Murray sees us. Let us go through your gowns at this moment. You must allow me to choose what you will wear.”

Phoebe assented, dropping her embroidery into the work-basket, and they ran upstairs to her chamber. Celeste went straight to the Sheraton-style wardrobe and began tossing out gowns, oblivious to the dismayed looks of Phoebe’s maid, Sara. Celeste held various gowns up to Phoebe and studied their effects critically.

“Ivory for you, I think, Phoebe,” she finally pronounced, after narrowing her choice to ivory and white. “White calls a little too much attention to your red hair and freckles. Ivory softens them.”

Phoebe took the gown Celeste had selected and held it before her again, looking at her reflection in the cheval glass. She had to agree with her young friend’s choice. The rich ivory silk almost made her hair appear auburn. Celeste might be flighty in some ways, but she had a natural flair for knowing what colours and styles were flattering to one.

Celeste picked up a green gown and stood beside Phoebe, viewing herself in the glass. As she regarded their side-by-side reflections, Phoebe was struck with a sudden thought.

“Have you ever noticed how similar our figures are?” she asked her friend. “What if,” she said slowly, an idea forming in her mind as she spoke, “we were to dress alike? Not exactly alike—the same colours would not be flattering to us both. But in the same style? With our different colouring, do you not think it would be very striking?”

Celeste looked at Phoebe in admiration and a little surprise. “I wonder I did not think of that myself. It is the very thing. Of course, you must cut your hair if we are to look truly alike.”

Phoebe began to wish she had never voiced her inspiration. Celeste had long been trying to convince Phoebe to have her hair cropped in the currently modish short curls, but Phoebe had consistently refused. She felt that to have her red hair in riotous curls about her face in the manner of Celeste’s would only call that much more attention to its vivid hue.

Celeste saw the stubborn set of Phoebe’s lips. “If our hair is not done in the same style the picture will lose most of its effect. We must be dressed as identically as possible—the same style of gown, same slippers, fans, gloves and hair. You know I have the right of it,” she coaxed.

Phoebe studied their reflections in the glass once again. She and Celeste were of the same height and same slight build. If they dressed alike it was true the effect would be much greater if their hair styles were the same, too.

“If we are to prevent Olivia from marrying Lord Murray we must be willing to make sacrifices,” Celeste wheedled.

Phoebe turned abruptly away from the glass and tossed the ivory gown she still held onto a chair. “You may summon your hairdresser,” she said to Celeste in the tone of one telling someone to summon an executioner.

Celeste clapped her hands. “You will not regret it, I promise you,” she said to Phoebe. “I shall return home and make arrangements at once,” added, knowing she must act quickly, before Phoebe should change her mind.

* * * *

Robert Murray, recently arrived at the Atwoods’ town house, briefly checked his image in the square-framed glass above the dressing table. The brown superfine coat fit tightly and smoothly across his broad shoulders, the short cut in the front revealing a striped marcella waistcoat. His fine linen shirt had been immaculately laundered and pressed, and his cravat was simply but perfectly tied, its pristine whiteness contrasting strongly with his black hair. Altogether he felt his appearance would not shame his hosts, although he suspected the current fashions would be more flattering to men of slighter build.

He gave a nod to the valet to indicate his approval. The valet was borrowed from his host since his own had flatly refused to leave Perthshire and go south among the “Sassenachs.” Lord Atwood had appeared surprised at his guest’s explanation for arriving without a valet, but he had made no comment, only offering the services of his own valet while Lord Murray was at his home. The baron had probably wondered why he had not dismissed his valet for such impertinence, Lord Murray reflected. The English did not understand the fierce independence of the Scots, an independence that was not lessened by employment as a servant.

“If that will be all, my lord?” the valet enquired, picking up the single discarded cravat.

“Yes, thank you, Sinclair,” Lord Murray said in dismissal. He glanced at the small mahogany bracket clock as the valet left the room. He still had a full hour before he need join his hosts in the main drawing room. His glance alighted on the bottle of excellent claret Lord Atwood had sent up, and he decided to have a bit to steady his nerves for the ordeal before him. For he very much feared the ball
would
be an ordeal, he thought as he poured himself a glass and relaxed into a comfortable armchair. He had imagined, back in Perthshire, that he would come to London, attend a few modest entertainments, select a lady of the proper background, make an offer and return to Scotland, almost unnoticed by Society in general. That, after all, was what his uncle had done thirty years ago when he had gone to London to find a bride. Indeed, his uncle Malcolm was the one who had suggested Robert seek a wife in London when he had decided that at eight-and-twenty years of age it was high time he married. His uncle had also warned him that some of the English might not be overly cordial—that many would look upon a Scotsman from the Highlands as a barbarian.

But Lord Murray had found the situation to be quite otherwise. Upon his arrival yesterday he had been informed by his host that the ball his wife planned for the next night to introduce the earl to Society promised to be the event of the Season, thanks to his being a Scotsman. The immense popularity of Mr. Scott’s poem,
Lady of the Lake,
had made all things Scottish quite the rage, Lord At-wood had informed his guest, a twinkle in his eyes. He would have his pick of all the unmarried ladies in London for a wife, he was assured.