The Laird Takes a Bride(12)

But having read the letter, she changed her mind. And she laughed, and clapped her hands with joy.

A marriage to the laird of Castle Tadgh would be a far better arrangement—quite a coup, in fact. Besides, she’d heard a few things about Alasdair Penhallow, and he did sound like fun. And she was quite partial to fun herself. Not for her the staid life of your average miss, always sitting around sewing samplers, or plucking dolefully at harps, or poring over dull books. No, she was cut from a very different sort of cloth. Which reminded her. She went with her light tread to the drawing-room, and announced:

“I’m going to Castle Tadgh. We need Miss Cowden to come in right away, and bring all her assistants, and plan to stay as long as necessary. I need a new wardrobe, and we haven’t much time.”

Her mother—seated across from Parson Tidwell, who had no doubt come on behalf of his tedious orphanage or his seemingly endless supply of poor people—at once lost her look of thinly disguised boredom and turned to Janet in astonishment. “You’re going to Castle Tadgh? Why?”

“So I can marry Alasdair Penhallow, of course.”

“The Penhallow? He’s offered for you?”

Janet Reid smiled. “No. But he will.”

Instantly her mother grasped the salient facts. “I’ll send a note to Miss Cowden right away,” she said, and with a nod to Parson Tidwell she rose, indicating that his presence was now, well, more than a little onerous.



Miss Wynda Ramsay’s home was in the Uplands, but she was not there to personally receive the letter. She was in Glasgow, where she was in her final weeks at Miss Eglinstone’s Finishing School for Young Ladies, at which esteemed establishment she had over the years received a superior education in all the necessary subjects including dancing, French, needlework, watercolors, music, penmanship, and use of the globes.

However, an express had swiftly been sent from home, and Wynda was to wait at Miss Eglinstone’s until her parents could arrive and sweep her directly off to Castle Tadgh. Wynda used the time very productively to graciously share the good news with her schoolfellows (was it her imagination, or did they seem to turn an unattractive shade of green?), as well as to consult her guidebook which described all the best estates, castles, and monuments in Great Britain.

Castle Tadgh, it turned out, figured importantly as one of the most magnificent dwellings in Scotland. It had been completely modernized by the present owner’s father, while still preserving the essential and historical qualities of its centuries-long existence. The grounds, said the guidebook, were extensive, with a breathtaking view of Ben Macdui, the towering mountain considered by many to be the area’s distinguishing geological feature.

Wynda pondered this, then tossed the guidebook aside and turned to her tall stack of London newspapers, magazines, and Court announcements. Alasdair Penhallow was related to the English Penhallows, which was far more interesting. And Mrs. Henrietta Penhallow, the celebrated matriarch of the family, had recently been occupying their palatial townhouse in Berkeley Square during the Season, where she had been seen at receptions at St. James’s Palace (hobnobbing with Royalty!), at Almack’s, balls, routs, assemblies, Venetian breakfasts, concerts, fashionable galleries, and everywhere else the haut ton went.

Who cared about fusty old castles when Society beckoned?

Surely, thought Wynda, the Scottish Penhallows would be invited to join their English relations on a long, long visit, and who would provide the requisite entrée into the most exclusive circles.

And surely she—with her beauty, her charm, her many accomplishments, her deep knowledge of both the Peerage and social etiquette —would shine as one of the most dazzling ornaments among the beau monde.

Her parents had stupidly believed she would be content to return home to Dumfries. That provincial backwater! Filled with nobodies!

But now, Wynda’s ambitions suddenly seemed within her grasp.

Marry Alasdair Penhallow, and then . . . London. Glittering, sophisticated London. It was waiting for her.



Sitting in the solarium with Mother and, unfortunately, Cousin Isobel, Fiona had just finished sewing a handsome little baby smock and was deciding whether to start on a new one, or to pick up her book, or to (reluctantly) help Cousin Isobel with a ludicrously tangled mass of yarn with which she was ineffectually wrestling, when Father came striding in, his muddy boots leaving a damp, malodorous trail behind him. In one hand he held an opened letter which he tossed at Fiona.

“You’re off to Castle Tadgh, girl,” he said.

“What? Why?” she demanded.

“Clan decree.”

Frowning, Fiona picked up the paper from the floor at her feet and scanned both sides. “This is addressed to me.”