The Laird Takes a Bride(14)
Next to Mairi was Miss Janet Reid, whose emerald-green eyes shone and white teeth flashed. Attractive and vivacious, she seemed entirely at her ease, matching him glass for glass of wine, and exchanging endless jokes and banter across the table with Uncle Duff, who roared with laughter and sent speaking glances of approval to Alasdair.
To Duff’s left had been placed Miss Wynda Ramsay, clad in a daringly low-cut gown which flaunted a stupendous décolleté. She ignored Janet Reid’s spirited attempts to bring her into the conversation, saying, in a clear, carrying voice to her neighbor, “So vulgaire to parlay-voo sur la table! Il ne foo passie, don’t you agree, mein sherry Mademoiselle Douglass?”
Miss Fiona Douglass, the fourth candidate, seemed to jump at the sound of her surname, then turned to Wynda and said a little absently (in flawless French, unlike that of Wynda):
“Ce sont des circonstances extraordinaires, alors peut-être beaucoup plus doit être pardonné.”
These are extraordinary circumstances, so perhaps much must be forgiven. Alasdair repressed a sardonic snort of laughter as Wynda smiled and replied, with kindly condescension, “You speak French oossie! Trez bean! Quel bonheer!”
Janet Reid was less circumspect and did laugh heartily, although Wynda seemed oblivious as to the reason why. Alasdair directed his gaze again to Fiona Douglass. She was a striking woman—he supposed that could, at least, be said about her. She was unusually tall, and very slim, with thick straight hair of so pale a blonde that it seemed almost to have a silvery shimmer to it. Her eyes, big in her slender face and framed by long dark lashes, also defied simple classification, for they seemed to change color, much like a stormy sea or a sky roiled by strong winds. Just now they were a mysterious gray-blue, remote, aloof, as if she were—or rather wished herself to be—a thousand miles away.
She alone among the four gave the appearance of utter disinterest . . . in him? In the competition for his favor? Alasdair studied her curiously. She wasn’t his type at all. He preferred shorter, rounder lasses, with dark hair and laughing eyes, who were lively and sportive. Not ice maidens who looked at you, through you, like you didn’t even exist. That, he thought wryly, was an unusual experience for him.
Well, what did he care?
Fortunately, there were three other lasses who seemed to find him quite appealing.
Still, as he bent his head to courteously attend to a remark little Mairi was making, something about dancing and a ball (was she actually talking about glass slippers?), he wondered, just for a moment, exactly what it was that Miss Fiona Douglass was thinking about.
In her mind, Fiona was composing the letter she planned to write to Mother later that evening.
Today we arrived safely after six straight days of travel. I am deeply grateful I was riding Gealag as it spared me the necessity of talking to Cousin Isobel for much of the time. She was very distressed by the extravagance of our accommodations and insisted on, for her part, sleeping in less expensive bedchambers and so by the time we arrived at Castle Tadgh she was covered in fleas and the carriage is infested. I will look into remedying that as soon as possible. The carriage, I mean. Cousin Isobel is on her own.
The castle itself was a surprise. I’ve only seen a little of it, but apparently it has been extensively renovated. My rooms —yes, rooms—include a capacious dressing-room with its very own bathtub, with hot water cleverly conveyed into it by means of a cylinder and pipe. Cousin Isobel was scandalized when she saw it and declared I must take my baths in a tub before the fire, with hot water brought up by maids, as is customary, but there she is wrong (yet again). I am going to take a long, hot bath TONIGHT.
I’m very sorry to have missed your birthday, Mother, but I send you my felicitations and love. This stupid event here cannot, according to its own arcane rules, last beyond thirty-five days, but with luck I’ll be home before then and I will finish your gift as soon as possible. Please can you send Nairna the little smock I made? Also, I’m afraid that tooth of Osla Tod’s will have to be pulled—could you have Ranald Keddy out to do that? He will be gentle, I know.
By the way, at the inn in Dornoch I had a nice talk with a farmer (a very gentlemanly fellow, no matter what Cousin Isobel may urgently write you as she threatened) who suggested warm oat and burdock poultices for sheep suffering from rupturing blisters. Perhaps you could mention that to Father.
In this fashion Fiona passed the time agreeably enough, although as she was contemplating adding a border of crimson to the shawl she’d been knitting for Mother, and wondering if tomorrow she could start on a baby smock for Dallis, she became aware of a creeping sensation of being watched. She blinked, and realized that at her side was standing a thin, rather scrawny child of perhaps seven or eight years of age, whose pale blue eyes, with faint, almost transparent lashes, were fixed simultaneously upon herself and some other unknown object.