Read Online Lessons in Loving a Laird by Michelle Marcos - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Michelle Marcos
Ads: Link
overlord. She had been with him a few days ago when they stopped in to the pub for refreshments after overseeing the delivery of shovels, picks, and bone dust to drain Firley’s field. The pubkeeper himself bought a round of drinks for Conall and Shona, and within minutes, their table was littered with glasses from the rounds that men at the neighboring tables bought them in gratitude for either giving them employment or helping their neighbors. He laughed as he saw the collection of ales and whiskies upon their table.
“Let this serve as a warning to ye,” she’d told him. “This is what happens when ye become well liked in the village.” Conall was beginning to remind her of her father, who had been a much-admired man among his people.
The carriage rumbled up the southern approach to Ballencrieff House, its once derelict landscape now beginning to green with newly potted plants. The moistened ground gave off an earthy smell, offering the delightful promise of the coming harvest.
As the carriage came to a halt, Shona jumped off the perch, her loose hair floating down her back. She reached under the seat and took the box clanking with the sound of coin. “Farewell, Kieran. Farewell, Fergus. Send my love to your mother, now.”
“Good-bye, Shona,” answered Fergus, his deep baritone booming across the stable yard. “Will ye be needing me tomorrow then?”
“Aye. We’ll be doing the Stonekirk market in the morn. Come and collect me at six o’clock sharp.”
As she ran through the stable, she noticed several unfamiliar horses munching on hay. Two unhitched carriages crowded inside the coach house.
It appeared that Ballencrieff House was entertaining visitors.
H ER G RACE THE D UCHESS OF B ASINGHALL
Conall rubbed his thumb across the lettering on the calling card that Bannerman had just handed him. Like her letter, the duchess’s card was terse and snappish, and communicated in just six words a centuries-old arrogance that demanded to be knelt before.
He expelled a labored breath, and cast a meaningful glance at his brother. “They’ve arrived.”
Moments later, a footman announced the duchess and a second woman into the drawing room. Conall and Stewart rose in greeting.
The duchess herself was a beautiful woman, with striking Gallic features and a narrow waist. Dark hair was collected in curls at the crown of her head, revealing earrings of pearl that almost matched the paleness of her smooth skin. Her emerald dress draped handsomely down her lithe figure, and from the bodice shone a diamond and pearl brooch connected to a rope of pearls that encircled her high waist.
“Greetings, Your Grace,” Conall said, bowing before her. “I am Dr. Conall MacEwan of Ballencrieff. You are happily met. I hope your journey was not too unpleasant.”
“Quite uneventful, Ballencrieff. Please accept my gratitude for your gracious hospitality.”
It was not arrogance she wore, but eminence—as if a mist of regal distinction surrounded her at all times. The duchess waved to the woman beside her. “May I present my daughter, the Lady Violet.”
The other woman was a young doppelgänger of the duchess. Beautiful in face and form, with milky skin and shiny brown hair. Like her mother, she had wide, almond-shaped eyes that were distinctly alluring. Her dress, aptly enough, was a pale violet in color, and, although cut a bit low, set off her sylphid waist and high bosom to advantage.
Conall bowed. “Lady Violet, it is an honor to meet you.”
Lady Violet curtsied gracefully. “Dr. MacEwan.”
“You remember my brother, Stewart MacEwan,” he said, gesturing behind him.
Stewart effected a stylistic bow. “A great pleasure to see you both in good health.”
The look of pique upon the duchess’s face did not escape Conall’s notice.
“I’ve arranged for some refreshments. Won’t you please take your ease upon the settee?”
The ladies situated themselves next to one another, appearing like a couple of
“Let this serve as a warning to ye,” she’d told him. “This is what happens when ye become well liked in the village.” Conall was beginning to remind her of her father, who had been a much-admired man among his people.
The carriage rumbled up the southern approach to Ballencrieff House, its once derelict landscape now beginning to green with newly potted plants. The moistened ground gave off an earthy smell, offering the delightful promise of the coming harvest.
As the carriage came to a halt, Shona jumped off the perch, her loose hair floating down her back. She reached under the seat and took the box clanking with the sound of coin. “Farewell, Kieran. Farewell, Fergus. Send my love to your mother, now.”
“Good-bye, Shona,” answered Fergus, his deep baritone booming across the stable yard. “Will ye be needing me tomorrow then?”
“Aye. We’ll be doing the Stonekirk market in the morn. Come and collect me at six o’clock sharp.”
As she ran through the stable, she noticed several unfamiliar horses munching on hay. Two unhitched carriages crowded inside the coach house.
It appeared that Ballencrieff House was entertaining visitors.
H ER G RACE THE D UCHESS OF B ASINGHALL
Conall rubbed his thumb across the lettering on the calling card that Bannerman had just handed him. Like her letter, the duchess’s card was terse and snappish, and communicated in just six words a centuries-old arrogance that demanded to be knelt before.
He expelled a labored breath, and cast a meaningful glance at his brother. “They’ve arrived.”
Moments later, a footman announced the duchess and a second woman into the drawing room. Conall and Stewart rose in greeting.
The duchess herself was a beautiful woman, with striking Gallic features and a narrow waist. Dark hair was collected in curls at the crown of her head, revealing earrings of pearl that almost matched the paleness of her smooth skin. Her emerald dress draped handsomely down her lithe figure, and from the bodice shone a diamond and pearl brooch connected to a rope of pearls that encircled her high waist.
“Greetings, Your Grace,” Conall said, bowing before her. “I am Dr. Conall MacEwan of Ballencrieff. You are happily met. I hope your journey was not too unpleasant.”
“Quite uneventful, Ballencrieff. Please accept my gratitude for your gracious hospitality.”
It was not arrogance she wore, but eminence—as if a mist of regal distinction surrounded her at all times. The duchess waved to the woman beside her. “May I present my daughter, the Lady Violet.”
The other woman was a young doppelgänger of the duchess. Beautiful in face and form, with milky skin and shiny brown hair. Like her mother, she had wide, almond-shaped eyes that were distinctly alluring. Her dress, aptly enough, was a pale violet in color, and, although cut a bit low, set off her sylphid waist and high bosom to advantage.
Conall bowed. “Lady Violet, it is an honor to meet you.”
Lady Violet curtsied gracefully. “Dr. MacEwan.”
“You remember my brother, Stewart MacEwan,” he said, gesturing behind him.
Stewart effected a stylistic bow. “A great pleasure to see you both in good health.”
The look of pique upon the duchess’s face did not escape Conall’s notice.
“I’ve arranged for some refreshments. Won’t you please take your ease upon the settee?”
The ladies situated themselves next to one another, appearing like a couple of