“Is she going to be all right?” Catherine’s voice floated to Elizabeth from afar.

“Is she dying?” Ah. Mary was there as well.

Someone dabbed a cool cloth to her forehead. It was heavenly.

“Elizabeth. Dear. Can you hear me?” Presumably that was Catherine, patting her hand.

“Mmm.”

“Oh, her lashes are flickering. She’s not dead.” Why did Mary seem . . . disappointed?

“Did she really retch in front of Twiggenberry?” Victoria asked.

“On him.” For once, Anne sounded amused.

“It was the pomade,” Elizabeth said, but it came out garbled and it was unlikely they understood. No matter. It hadn’t been the pomade, although that hadn’t helped. It had been the prospect. The horrifying prospect of waking up every morning for the rest of her natural life to see that face, to suffer those wormlike lips on hers . . . to have to learn to stomach that smell.

“She said something.”

Well, hell. Hamish was here too. How mortifying. She groaned and covered her face with her arm, but somehow that didn’t make him go away.

“Perhaps she needs some tea?” Oh, Esmeralda and her tea.

“Perhaps she needs a nip of something stronger.” Hamish had the right of it. She was not one to imbibe in spirits, but a little oblivion about now would be wonderful.

“We are not giving her whisky,” Esmeralda barked. “That will only come back up.”

“You don’t suppose she’s ill, do you?” Mary again.

Oh, she was.

“She had kippers at nuncheon,” Anne said. “Perhaps they were bad?”

“I had kippers too.” Victoria sniffed. “You don’t see me vomiting on earls.”

Esmeralda tsked. “Language, please.”

“Vomit is a word.”

“It is a vulgar word.”

“Do you suppose she’s too ill to go shopping this afternoon?” Mary asked in a maudlin tone.

Victoria sniffed. “No one is ever too ill for shopping.”

“Do you suppose she’s too ill to attend the ball tonight?” Anne sounded far too hopeful. “Perhaps I should stay home with her.”

“You are going to the ball, young lady. It is high time you found a husband.”

“Masquerades are singularly unhelpful in finding husbands on account of the fact that the men in question are in disguise.”

“Nevertheless. You are going.”

Elizabeth steeled herself and forced open a lid. Six faces peered down at her, but only one captured her attention. He looked so concerned, it made her heart leap.

She’d just thrown up on a lord and swooned, two things she rarely, if ever, did. Of course he was concerned. It couldn’t be anything else. Could it?

Foolish girl.

Maybe he was right. She was a fanciful child.

She sucked in a deep breath and murmured, “I’m fine. I’m going to the ball.”

Esmeralda loomed closer. “Are you sure, gel? There is much to do.”

“And shopping,” Mary put in.

Elizabeth forced a smile. “I feel better already.” She pushed herself into a sitting position. “See? I’m fine.”

She was.

Twiggenberry was nowhere to be seen.

She glanced around at her sisters, her aunt, her friend, and her . . . whatever and smiled. “I could use some privacy, though.”

“Oh yes. Of course.” They all nodded and filed out. Though she noticed Hamish glanced back more than once.

“Not you.” She grabbed her aunt’s hand, which precipitated the elegant arch of a brow.

Esmeralda set her palm on Elizabeth’s forehead to check her temperature. She didn’t speak until the door had closed. “Well?”

Ye Gods. How to say this. “Please don’t tell anyone.”

“What?” Her aunt actually blanched.

“Don’t tell anyone he proposed. Please.”

“But this is fabulous news.”

“It is not.”

Her aunt’s gaze narrowed. “Never say there is someone else.”

There was, in a manner of speaking, but since he didn’t return her feelings, she shook her head. “He’s just . . .”

“What? An earl. A rich, rich earl? From an excellent family? A tremendous prospect? The catch of the season?”

“I don’t want him.” It was as simple as that.

One would think she’d just announced she was marrying a footman, based on Esmeralda’s expression. Her aunt said nothing, save some assorted sputtering. After a minute or two, she collected herself enough to say. “You don’t want him?”

“No.”

“How can you not want him?”

There was no response to that, so Elizabeth shrugged.

Her aunt sighed and sat back, staring at the ceiling. “I shall never understand the gels of your generation. In my day, we were happy with a proposal from an earl. We were delighted to join our families for the purpose of strengthening the dynasties. There was no I don’t want him nonsense. In fact, my father never even asked. He betrothed me to Van Cleve when I was in the nursery. I never had a choice. Never wanted one.”

“Were you happy with Van Cleve?”

“That is beside the point.”

“Is it? Would you have chosen differently if you’d had the chance?”

Esmeralda’s expression became decidedly persimmony. She stood and made her way to the table by the window, the one that held assorted decanters of brown liquids. She poured two glasses and returned, handing one to Elizabeth.

“Sip it.”

She did, and a flame scorched her throat. She wheezed and coughed and then took another sip because it felt good.

As for Esmeralda, she tossed hers back in one gulp.

“I was, indeed, not happy with Van Cleve. He was a pompous, profligate popinjay. He humiliated me numerous times in front of my friends . . . and occasionally with my friends. But he was wealthy and he had a property in Scotland.”

Elizabeth sent her a curious glance. “A property in Scotland?”

She chuckled. “He thought he was punishing me, exiling me, but he had no idea who I was. I loved Scotland.” Her eyes glinted, faraway and dreamy. “I am certain he had no idea, until the day he died, that Roger was not his son.” Elizabeth’s eyes went wide and she glanced at her glass. What was this drink that it made a pillar of propriety spill her proverbial guts after one glass?

“Are you shocked?”

“A little.”

Esmeralda chuckled. “So was Van Cleve, when I told him.”

“You told him?”

“On his deathbed, as he wheezed his last. Was that cruel, do you think?”

“I really couldn’t say.”

“Well, it was a petty revenge, but I did enjoy it.”

“Aunt Esmeralda . . . why are you telling me this?”

“Because, my darling. You need to know that you do have options.”

“What if Twiggenberry does not exile me to Scotland?”

“There’s always Wales.”

“You are advocating I marry a man I do not love, and having affaires?”

“It is one option.”

“And what would you have chosen, if you’d had the freedom to? Would it have been Van Cleve?”

Her aunt sighed. “No. In all honesty, it would have been Rupert.”

“Roger’s father, I take it?”

“A tall, brawny, foul-mouthed Scot who could fuck like a—” Her cheeks went pink. “Oh dear. I shouldn’t have said that.”

Elizabeth smiled. “Young ears.”

“Quite right.” She sighed and patted Elizabeth’s hand. “I will put Twiggenberry off. Tell him you need some time. We will keep this proposal between us for the moment, but you, my gel, need to find another suitor. I do warn you. The earl will not like being rejected.”

“He will understand.”

“My dear, I was married to an earl. My father was an earl and my brother following him. I can promise you, they never understand when things do not go their way. Let us proceed with delicacy, yes? Come now. We must prepare for tonight.”

Elizabeth nodded. And then she tossed back the rest of her drink.

She was going to need it.

* * *

“Do you have a moment?” Ranald stilled as Anne’s voice wafted to him as he sat in the study, composing a letter to his daughter.

He looked up with a friendly smile that cost him. Though her animosity towards him had waned—they were definitely friendly—somehow, that simply wasn’t enough. He wanted more.

But he knew better than to press her. This was still so fragile, any pressure might shatter what they had. So, as hard as it was to remain warm but distant, he did it.

“Of course.” He set his pen aside. “What is it?”

She took a seat on the other side of the desk and he joined her there because he wanted to be closer. Her perfume rose to him as he sat.

“I’m worried.”

“Are you?” Was it friendly to touch her hand? Probably. “About what?”

She did not pull away. “It’s Elizabeth.”

“Ah, yes. How is she feeling?”

“Better, I imagine. But it’s not that. It’s . . . something else.”

Ranald cocked his head to the side and waited for her to elaborate. To his chagrin, she rose and began pacing the room. “I don’t know how to explain it. There’s just something . . . different about her.”

“Different, how?”

“I don’t know. She seems . . . sad.”

“Have you spoken to her?”

“I’ve tried. But how do you ask a question when you don’t even know what you want to know?”

“That is a conundrum. Maybe she is just overset by the excitement of the season.”

Anne nodded. “Perhaps. This is a stressful time for all of us. The events. The suitors. The changes that are coming . . .”

“Aye. It is.”

She whirled and poleaxed him with the despair in her eyes.

“Anne?” He knew her well enough to feel her pain. “What is really bothering you?”

“Things are changing so fast.”

“Aye.”

“When my sisters marry, they may move away. We won’t be close anymore. What if we never see one another again?”

The tears in her eyes devastated him. He stood and opened his arms. To his shock and delight, she came to him and wrapped herself around him. “You will. You all love one another. You will find a way to visit.”

“Will we?”

“It’s what families do.” He rubbed her back and she sighed into his chest. It was wonderful, holding her, but he knew it was a precious thing and he refused to ruin it. Though he wanted to kiss her, and he wanted to very badly, he did not.

After a minute or two, she pulled back and dabbed at her tears. “I’m sorry, blubbering all over you like that.”

“I am happy to be blubbered on,” he said with a smile and was pleased when she smiled back. “It’s what friends are for.”

She caught his gaze and held it for a long while. “Is it? Then I am very glad to have your friendship, Ranald Gunn.”

Words escaped him, but he was able, at great cost, to murmur, “And I am glad to have yours, Anne St. Claire.”

“So,” she said in a suddenly chirpy tone that he suspected was total affectation. “What serious business did I interrupt?”

“Ah. Important business indeed. I was writing to Catriona to inform her that climbing on the stable roof is not advisable.”

Anne’s eyes widened and her mouth dropped open. “She was climbing on the stable roof?”

“Nae. But she wanted to. She wrote to me complaining that Susana would not allow it.”

“That seems wise of Susana.”

“Susana is verra wise. Although, to be fair, the stable climbing was probably Isobel’s idea.”

“Isobel?”

“Susana’s daughter.”

“Ah. The other hellion.”

“Indeed. In addition to complaining about the climbing constraints, Catriona has also asked me if she may have her own sword because—apparently—Isobel has one.”

Anne laughed out loud. “Perhaps Susana is not so wise after all.”

“It is Scotland. Things are different there.”

“I can only imagine. Do you regularly give five-year-old children weapons?”

He had to laugh. “I told you Catriona needs a mother.”

“Indeed she does.”

“Would you like to see her?”

Her eyes brightened. “I would love to.”

Ranald pulled out the miniature he had of his daughter and handed it over.

“Oh.” Anne’s features softened. Her eyes warmed and her lips parted. “She is precious.”

“Aye. She is.”

“Is her hair really that red?”

He smiled. “Aye.” He took back the portrait and studied it for a moment. “She has her mother’s hair,” he said through the lump in his throat.

“You really should not wait long. Every girl needs a mother’s love.”

“Aye. But I doona want to marry just for Catriona. Is that selfish of me? To want love?”

Anne’s expression tightened. “Love is a fantasy.”

He swallowed. “Is it?”

“I don’t know anyone who is truly in love.”

“I was in love with Glenna. We loved each other deeply. It was a beautiful thing. When you’ve had that, you doona want to settle for anything less.”

Something reminiscent of pain and longing filled her eyes. “Don’t you?”

“Nae, my lass. You do no’.” He leaned in and kissed her, gently, on the forehead. “How I hope you can experience such love. How I hope it will prove you wrong.”

* * *

Anne stared at Ranald, her heart pounding in her chest. His expression was so raw, so sincere, it hurt her to look at it.

He wanted her to know love.

She nearly laughed because on the one hand, she knew love was a foolish dream, but on the other hand, she ached for it. She ached to feel what he’d felt for Glenna, that lucky, lucky woman. She ached to be held and stroked and revered, as he had held her earlier.

She laid awake at night wanting it, yet afraid of it and rejecting it all at the same time.

It was illogical for her to want it with him.

It was insanity.

For one thing, he was a feckless Scot, and her mind told her a relationship with a man like that would end in heartbreak.

Her heart disagreed. Deep in her soul, she knew him, this man, her friend. She knew he was not feckless in the least. He would not betray her or mock her or toss her aside if she gave him her affection.

On the other hand, he was a Scot. His home was miles away. Any lasting relationship with him would take her away from her family, probably forever, which she could not abide.

How ironic was it that she’d finally found a man she wanted to be with, but would have to give up everything she loved to make it happen?

No. She could not.

So she took his hands in hers and squeezed. She fixed a friendly look on her face and smiled. “I am so glad to have you as my friend,” she repeated, and then she quickly quit the room before she did something utterly foolish.

Like kiss him.