Page 7 of A Rogue in Twilight
“Struan?” Elspeth was surprised at the familiar name. “A Highland man? Struan House sits at the head of our glen.”
“He lives in Edinburgh, but inherited a viscountcy.” Lucie leaned toward her. “And he would be a fairytale prince if he wasn’t a scowler. Even John says so. Struan teaches at the university, and John says he is quite knowledgeable but rather somber. Still, he is a catch with a title and property and a very nice income, or so it is rumored. He does not attend many social events. It is surprising to find him here actually.”
“I am not fishing for a catch. I would be a spinster if it meant I could stay in the Highlands always.” Her grandfather wanted her to make a good marriage in the South, even though it went against her dreams. Her home and her heart were in the north.
“You, my dear, are not suited to spinsterhood,” Lucie said, hugging her arm. “And you will never find a good match if you stay in the Highlands weaving tartan and hardly ever coming to the city. A few years have passed since we made our debut together in Edinburgh, and you have hardly been here since. I’ve gone to many a party that you would have enjoyed attending, and I have had a few suitors. But no one pleases, quite. Oh, look, there is that truculent fellow Lord Struan now, standing with John.”
“A truculent prince,” Elspeth said, laughing as she turned. Then she stopped.
Cousin John, blond and handsome, near angelic in his black frock coat and white vest, stood with a tall dark gentleman—the same man who had brushed against her earlier and made her heart flutter madly. But her response had nothing to do with the gentleman, she told herself crossly. Just the close crowd, the August heat, and too few open windows to offset perfumes and odors.
She went forward tentatively beside Lucie. The man beside Cousin John was tall and healthy, with a classic, well-balanced profile, slightly arched nose, dark brows over long-lidded eyes. A sweep of thick, wavy brown hair gleamed with gold. But his jaw had a stern set and his expression was dour despite a striking masculine beauty.
But Elspeth was no romantic ninny. “He is indeed a scowler,” she told Lucie.
“But so handsome, quietly powerful. The frown rather suits him,” Lucie said.
“The room is full of handsome gentlemen, John included. But all of them seem able to smile,” Elspeth replied.
The strange feeling was returning. She felt lightheaded, even breathless, and felt as if a knowing was about to come over her.Either that, or the oppressive air in the room was too much. She flapped her painted paper-and-ivory fan frantically.
Lucie, despite the feathers in her blond hair and a flounced pale pink gown, was not the delicate porcelain doll she appeared to be. She pulled Elspeth forward through clusters of women so fast that shawls slipped from smooth shoulders, pearls and jewels flashed, and the hooped skirts peculiar to court dress swung gently as they passed.
“Ah, ladies,” John said as they approached. “Lord Struan, may I introduce my sister, Miss Lucie Graham, and our cousin, Miss Elspeth MacArthur of Kilcrennan.”
“Charmed,” Struan said, taking Lucie’s gloved hand first. He turned to Elspeth and she offered her gloved fingers and looked up.
For an instant, she felt as if she faced a warrior angel come to life. The man standing in a shaft of sunlight was simply compelling, his lean features classically shaped, his chestnut hair liberally threaded with gold. Under a slash of dark brows, lightly frowning, his eyes were summer blue, cool and reserved—under the scowl.
“Miss MacArthur.” His deep voice, a quiet comfort in the noisy room, contrasted his somber expression. “Kilcrennan? It sounds familiar.”
“Miss MacArthur’s grandfather, Donal MacArthur, owns Kilcrennan Weavers,” John supplied.
“I know the name, though I have not met the man. Excellent cloth. Sir, I would be delighted to include your cousin and your sister in my party while you look after your mother—that is, if the ladies do not mind,” Lord Struan added, inclining his head. “I hope Lady Graham feels better soon.”
“Thank you, Struan,” John said, and took polite leave of them.
“We appreciate it so much, Lord Struan,” Lucie said. “We are so excited to be here. King George is the first British monarch to visit Scotland since Charles the Second, they say,” she continued in an overly bright manner. “I wonder how long it will take before we can be admitted to the reception room.”
“Not long, Miss Graham,” Struan answered. “The crowd has gone forward an entire inch in the past hour.”
Elspeth smiled at that. “We have been waiting simply hours,” she said.
“Hours,” Lucie agreed, “first in that awful line of carriages—miles long, it was—and then these dreadful crowds in the palace rooms. It is taking so long, but soon we shall have our introductions and our kiss.”
“Kiss?” Elspeth glanced at Struan, could not help it, and saw the viscount watching her with those cool blue eyes.
“Every lady here receives a kiss of courtesy from the king,” Lucie said.
“Are we expected to swoon when that happens?” Elspeth said without thinking.
“Some might feel moved to do so, but I am sure you two can resist.” Struan looked amused as he offered an arm to each of them. Elspeth took his left arm, noticing that he carried a cane, as did many fashionable men, in his right hand, now hooked above his elbow. As they walked, she sensed he favored his left leg. Unlike many, he required the cane’s assistance. She frowned, wondering at the cause of it.
Suddenly she knew. As her hand lightly touched his arm, she saw in her mind an image of men running, falling, saw smoke drifting over a field as explosions sounded in the distance. She gasped, and it faded. “Oh—the war!”
Struan looked down. “Miss MacArthur? Pardon, I did not hear what you said.”
“Nothing,” she said, flushed with embarrassment. Lucie looked at her, puzzled, and Elspeth glanced away. Her city cousin knew little about her gift of Sight. Lucie had a good heart and a practical head and was skeptical about such things.
