Page 3 of Claiming His Scottish Duchess
Catriona politely suppressed a sigh as she nodded in acknowledgment, considering Lady Whipple’s offer.
Her gaze swept over the picnic blanket she sat on. She took in the gaudy hats, delicate finger sandwiches, teas, and of course, the requisite stream of vapid chatter one is plagued with in high society. As much as she wanted to be rid of her boredom, she was not in the mood for sport.
“Indeed, I’m sure it is, m’lady. But I didnae wanna disturb your game,” she said, her Scottish accent thick and rolling—a stark contrast to the clipped, more precise tones of the English gentry.
Catriona refused to mask it. She wouldn’t suppress her identity for anyone, let alone the hoity-toity company she’d been subjected to that afternoon—and all the company she’d been subjected to ever since she and her mother had travelled to London to visit friends.
“Such a…robustaccent,” Lady Thistlewaite drawled as she daintily took a sip from her teacup.
She pursed her lips together as she raked her eyes over Catriona’s simple gown: elegant enough with a striking verdant color, if perhaps a few seasons old.
“So…intriguing,” she continued, though Catriona would have done anything for her to stop. “Intriguing, or uncouth?” she asked as she covered her mouth with one of her daintily gloved hands.
Lord Thistlewaite chuckled back to her. His eyes glinted with malicious amusement in the mid-afternoon sun.
While he was always a bit ill-mannered from what Catriona had observed, he clearly had been in his cups that afternoon.
“One can hardly tell the difference, can they, my love?” he asked Lady Thistlewaite rhetorically as he downed the last of his cup, licking his lips expectantly.
Surely, he has put somethin’ special in his tea to make the company more palatable. I might forgive his remarks if he was kind enough to share with the rest of us poor saps.
Catriona weighed her options for a response to the Thistlewaite’s cruel observations of her character. For her mother’s sake, she resolved not to give in to their games… and yet being her father’s daughter, she could not let it go unchecked either.
She forced a polite smile. “Me apologies if myrobustnessoffends yer delicate sensibilities. ‘Twas nae me intention.”
With all the money in the world, why cannae they be respectful?What’s polite about polite society?
“Oh, it’s not offensive, my dear!” Lady Whipple interjected quickly, smiling in an effort to diffuse the fire she herself had stoked. “No need to be prickly—it’s just a bit of fun on a beautiful afternoon!”
Lady Thistlewaite fanned herself, also seeking to regain her polite façade. “You’re just, so very…Scottish,” she finally settled on. “But it’s refreshing to have such unique company amongst us. Take it as a compliment, my dear.”
Behind her back, Catriona continued to hear the whispers. They were at a volume that was soft, but purposefully loud enough for her benefit.
“Too wild,” one woman whispered to the others in a circle not far from her own on a nearby blanket.
“No proper English gentleman would tolerate such…spiritedness. You know what they say about Scottish women. Something in their blood, such wild creatures are incapable of fidelity,” another snickered. “And did you see how wide those hips were—why, they’re as wide as the Thames!”
She couldn’t decipher who had made that comment, try as she might to isolate the tones.
She knew she was curvy. Those who were kind said she had child-bearing hips, and those who were not had said far worse. She liked to refer to herself as pleasantly plump and cared not for the company of men, which isn’t to say she didn’t yearn for it from time to time. Especially as her mother reminded her it was her life’s purpose to get married and have children.
Catriona wished she were surrounded by actual children, and not adults who acted like them. She enjoyed the company of little ones, as they didn’t make unsavory comments about her body, and focused on things that mattered, like happiness and joy.
She loved her body, her Scottishness, and had a healthy self-image. Her father always told her that if she didn’t look like her, she wouldn’tbeher.
“Imagine her at a ball! One shudders to think of the dancing they do in the Highlands. She’d stomp right through the ballroom like a wild mare!”
If the remarks were this bad when spoken, imagine if she could hear the things they could not say? She would have feigned a headache if she knew that she was to be the afternoon’s entertainment.
Unfortunately, her mother would have seen right through that.
“Catriona!” Her mother’s voice cut through the crowd as she came to join her on the blanket. “Do not sit there like a stone!” the Dowager Viscountess of Craigleith went on. “Lady Whipple invited ye to play Pall Mall, and play ye will. It is an opportunity,” she said through a tight smile. She always had a talent to ruffle Catriona’s feathers, but this request was too much. “Dinnae let pride get the best of ye.”
“Mother, must I?” Catriona protested, her voice a low plea.
While I may have Scottish sensibilities, at least I ken how to actually whisper.
“Must ye?” Her mother whispered back in shock. “Do ye havenae understanding of how these things work, lass?”
