Page 11 of Claiming His Scottish Duchess
Lady Marchant had insisted on this expensive, exclusive establishment for the day’s diversion, where naturally Catriona felt distinctly out of place from the moment she crossed the threshold. She would have much preferred the terrace at Lady Marchant’s estate, where she and her mother had been staying for some weeks now.
More than that, she would have much desired a respite with her favorite cousin, Isobel. But she was likely holed up with Adrian at Somerset Hall, savoring the early days of marriage.
They had been married for a bit now, and her mother often tried to guess when they would announce the arrival of their firstborn. Yet as much as Catriona missed her favorite cousin, she could not deny that Lady Marchant was a generous woman for taking them on. No matter how snooty and conniving Catriona found her.
It seemed these qualities were unavoidable in polite society, making her continue to question the true meaning of the word “polite”.
Why can I nae catch a break? It seems it’s me life’s woe to suffer through these pointless afternoons to please Maither.
A group of ladies at a nearby table began to whisper and giggle, their eyes fixed on her, as if she were clearly the punchline of some joke. She recognized instantly the insufferable Lady Abigail, her hair piled on top of her head like a bale of hay. The two had crossed paths a few times since they began staying with Lady Marchant, each encounter more painful than the last.
“She’s justso Scottish,” she said to her friends, as if that explained everything they would need to know about her personage. “No sense of style, propriety, or decorum.”
“She does look a bit wild, doesn’t she?” A friend of hers asked rhetorically, as they began laughing again.
Initially, Catriona had stuck out her chin and grinned as she’d considered the French delicacies listed on the pastry menu in front of her. Nothing put a smile on her face quite like sweets.
But now…
“Come again, Miss?” The waiter asked in clarification, flustered by her pronunciation. He stumbled over to her seat to get nearer to her position at the table.
Catriona patiently pointed again, and he nodded.
“Ah, yes, the mille-feuille, excellent choice,” he confirmed sweetly with a sharp wink.
The ladies at the nearby table had stopped giggling, replaced by hearty laughter that echoed through the tearoom.
Catriona glared at them in protest, but her mother subtly kicked her under the table. She knew the kick well; it was a caution to keep her sharp tongue caged and to act like a proper lady.
“It’s just a joke. Behave, Catriona,” her mother whispered as she endeavored to tune out their conversation.
Yet the harder she tried, it seemed the louder they became. The sounds of their shrill, vapid laughs went straight up her spine.
Her mind drifted to the girl in Hyde Park, her tiny body trembling as she was faced with a threat no child should have to.
She could still feel the coolness of the pistol through her thin gloves as she pointed it at the smug thug, the yellow in his teeth like kernels of corn.
She shivered as she took in the disgusting image. It was then she realized she was clenching the pistol in the secret pocket of her dress, underneath her shawl. She removed her hand before anyone would notice what she was doing.
Then, the girl’s guardian flashed into her mind. She could still feel his intensity, his anger, his undeniable handsomeness.
The thought of him made her shiver, even more than the thug. She could not put her finger on it, whether it was fear or something far more dangerous.
Catriona had always possessed a fiery spirit, which her father said had been there since the moment she came out of the womb as a bairn. She was a woman of her own mind and ways.
Yet, he had been so imposing, almost scary. What confused her all the more was that something about his dominance drew her in, like a moth to a flame.
She was inexperienced in the art of love, but not due to disinterest exactly. There was just so much more she had tofocus on, without the opportunity to explore the pleasures of men.
She felt a not-unpleasant tug between her legs as she imagined him unleashing his intensity on her, in what manner she could not begin to fathom.
The thought of it made her heart beat at a maddening pace, as she tried to make sense of what she felt. She shook herself from the distraction as she took a long sip of hot, soothing tea.
“Oh, Lord Hargrave!” Lady Marchant exclaimed, a delicate fan fluttering in her hand as she beckoned a lean, golden-haired man to their table. “What a delightful apparition! One might think you materialize from thin air, you’re so adept at finding us.”
She arched a perfectly sculpted eyebrow at him, a playful glint in her eyes. For a woman of almost seventy and many years a widow, she had all the charm and flirtation of a woman more than half her age.
“Or perhaps you’ve been following us? I wouldn’t put it past you!” She added.
