Page 2 of Lyon of Scotland
Hannah Gordon! Dare glanced at her slim, bright form across the room. Yet he was puzzled that her father would want his daughter to work outside the home; it was certainly not the norm in a well-to-do family, especially in a household already busy with art commissions.
“She would probably learn the knack of heraldry art very quickly,” Dare said. “But at the moment, we do not need another painter.”
“Pity. I had hoped—you see, the lass wants to go to London. I want her to stay here. I thought perhaps heraldry work, given the upcoming coronation, might interest her.”
“Ah.” A widowed father wanting his daughter nearby made sense. “London?”
“She wants to stay with our Scottish cousins there. While she has her reasons, I do not necessarily agree. But I am not one to dictate harshly to my daughters.”
“I plan to visit London in the fall on heraldry business with England’s College of Arms to discuss plans for the coronation. If Miss Hannah is in London, I would be happy to call on her—on your behalf.” His heart thumped.
“I would consider it a favor and an honor, sir. She would be staying with her cousins, the Gordon-Huntlys, in Lincoln’s Inn Fields.”
“I will keep it in mind.” He was unlikely to forget the chance to see her again.
“Thank you. Ah, Lord Kintrie,” Gordon said then as a tall gentleman came through the crowd, relying on the assistance of a cane. “Have you met the new Lord Lyon? Sir, my son-in-law, Colin Stewart, Lord Kintrie.”
“Lord Lyon indeed! Good to meet you, sir.” Kintrie took Dare’s extended hand.
“Strathburn, if you will,” Dare said with a smile.
“Of course. Congratulations. I heard we had a new Lord Lyon. Your offices are in New Town off Princes Street, I believe?”
“Aye, in the Registry House.” Dare went on to chat with Kintrie about the Lyon Court and then Kintrie’s work as an engineer, helping Thomas Telford in building new roads through the Highlands. Soon Kintrie’s wife, Maisie Gordon, who Dare had seen walking with her sister Hannah earlier, came by to tell her husband that some of the gentlemen were looking for him, and Dare turned away with a smile.
He replied politely to a feather-bedecked matron who seemed convinced that Lord Lyon was a perfect match for a daughter newly hatched in the latest nest of debutantes, and extricated himself kindly on the excuse of looking for Sir Walter Scott, but the celebrated poet, button-holed wherever he went, was engaged in yet another animated conversation.
Then he saw Hannah Gordon watching him from across the room, her gaze calm and intriguing. She sent him a shy smile and turned to answer a question from a slender, fair-haired young gentleman beside her, who leaned very close. Seeing that, Dare tucked his brows together.
He could not look away for a moment; the girl glowed like a gentle candle flame in the noisy crowd. She was graceful, with a whimsical smile, though her sisters and other young women here were attractive too. Yet Hannah Gordon was like a burst of starlight in a dark sky.
He turned to set his glass on a table, and suddenly she was just at his elbow.
“Lord Strathburn,” she said. “Good evening.”
“Miss Gordon.” He inclined his head.
“No scones this evening? No strawberry jam?” She smiled, dimpled and adorable.
That reminded him of their first conversation three years ago at a gathering for high tea in this very house. That day, he had felt reluctant and not very sociable, distracted by some legal work to be completed later, as he had been a lawyer for the heraldry office at the time. He had also been troubled by his fiancée’s death from illness several months before, just before he returned to Scotland after duties with the Black Watch had interrupted his work for the heraldry office. He had picked up the work again rather quickly. But he had been feeling a bit lost in heart and head, and his usual aversion to social occasions had surfaced.
That day, three years back, Miss Gordon had merely asked if he preferred clotted cream, jam, or butter with his scones. Somehow, she had teased a smile from him with that simple, charming question. She had been lovely, golden, and kind, lingering to chat and revealing an admirable cleverness. He had fallen a little in love that afternoon.
Now he smiled, brought back to the moment. “A liberal bit of jam and butter, Miss Gordon. I am flattered you remembered.”
“Easy enough,” she said with a sweet laugh.
“Hannah,” said the young blond fellow, who came near and grabbed her hand in a somewhat possessive way. “Come! We need your artist’s eye. Whose portrait will you paint next? Who is the most beautiful here?”
“Why, Lord Lyon, of course,” she said with a giggle and a glance for Dare.
“Not me?” As the young man pulled on her arm, the girl gave an uncertain laugh.
With one step, Dare inserted his foot between theirs. “Sir,” he said. “Treat the lady with a bit more courtesy, if you please.” Hannah looked up at Dare in quick, silent plea as she tried to tug her hand away. The young man let go and frowned at Dare.
“Sir,” he said, “Miss Gordon is my fiancée.”
Stunned, Dare inclined his head. “Congratulations,” he said woodenly.
