Page 4 of Claiming His Scottish Duchess
Just as the questions passed her lips, her eyes caught sight of a more promising prospect. She brought Catriona up to her feet.
Before she knew what was happening, her mother shoved her towards a bewildered-looking young lord who was ambling in their direction. He was a nice enough looking fellow, but he was dressed as a dandy with a vacant, nervous expression. Catriona could not be less interested in him, even if he was the richest man in all of London.
“Me darlin’, why, this is Lord Bellingford,” she explained. She lowered her voice to a whisper as she continued, “An excellent match. This could elevate us, Catriona. It could erase the… the stain of our origins.”
Catriona’s frustration threatened to surpass a simmer and reach full boil as she digested her mother’s words.
While some women yearned for a man’s touch and a home to manage, Catriona’s heart clung to something far less tangible—freedom, belonging, the right to remain wholly herself. She feared that if she married an English lord, he’d smooth the edges of her accent, polish her manners for drawing rooms, strip her of the wild, stubborn spirit shaped by the heathered hills of her homeland.
“I’m nae some wee stain ye can just scrub awa’, Maither,” she teased, emphasizing her Scottish accent for full effect.
“Just play the game, child,” her mother pressed as her voice became desperate. “And please do smile, Catriona! Ye look likeye’re about to wrestle a bear. And yer smile, why, do ye ken how much I adore it?” she cooed, attempting to flatter her.
“D’ye ken? I think I will play the game,” Catriona replied as she waved to Lady Whipple, much to her mother’s chagrin.
She walked toward Lady Whipple with a rapid pace, away from the would-be suitor as fast as her legs would carry her.
“You’ve never played Pall Mall, have you, Miss MacTavish?” Lady Whipple asked, her voice deceivingly warm to the untrained ear. “Such acomplexgame. Perhaps we should give you a demonstration before we begin?”
“I assure ye I am quite capable of strikin’ a wooden ball with a mallet,” Catriona replied steadily.
Then, Lord Bellingford sidled up next to her, an odd scent in his wake that reminded her of a musty attic. He was attractive in a boiled turnips sort of way—not the most appetizing part of a dinner, but palatable nonetheless. Yet, even with his mild manners, something about him repelled her. He had no zest.
“I am going to play too,” he announced blandly.
Of all the attendees of this picnic to take a liking to her, he was the one. She would have much rather been left to her own devices than attempt polite conversation. She could tell by his appearance that it would be like pulling teeth.
She caught sight of her mother, who was practically bursting out of her bustle with excitement, giving Catriona a look which told her to move closer to him.
She would take out her frustrations in the game. Soon, they would all know what a real Scottish lass was made of.
As the first ball was struck, it careened wildly off-course. It completely missed the iron hoop, rolling far into a small, wooded area where it was lost among the trees.
“I’ll fetch it,” Catriona offered brightly, seizing the opportunity to escape her captors.
Surely her mother could not have faulted her for being helpful.
“Wonder who the lass might find while poking around in there?” Lord Thistlewaite called loudly as he took a drag from his flask. “A stray baron to raise her up to acceptability?”
He wasn’t even bothering to conceal his drinking at this point, and yet she was the one who was uncouth? The hypocrisy of the gentle class made Catriona want to run off to Scotland and never look back.
Soon enough.
She focused on the feeling of her boots sinking into the wet grass as she walked deeper into the woods. The sounds of the game faded behind her as she let herself get lost for a moment.
Surely, they had a spare ball and would not miss her terribly.
She took a deep breath and let the smell of the wild around her calm her, the serenity of nature anchoring her to the ground. The quiet was a balm to her soul after being subjected to that picnic.
Suddenly, a soft, choked sob struck Catriona in the pit of her stomach. She wasn’t alone. And someone was in pain.
Surely that can’t be a wee child.
Her hand instinctively went to the small pistol hidden in her dress’s pocket. Most ladies did not carry pistols, especially not those who circulated in high society—but then again, Catriona was most certainly not “most ladies”, as all the ton continually reminded her.
Indeed, her most prized possession left to her by her father was that very pistol. A reminder of the fact that she was there and he was gone, and that she had been unable to save him.
She would never make that mistake again.
