The Highlander Is All That (Untamed Highlanders #4)
Sabrina York
Chapter One
The door closed on Lords Twiggenberry and Blackworth, and Elizabeth St. Claire collapsed on the divan. “Thank heaven they’re gone,” she gusted. They’d stayed far too long for a morning call. Aside from that, Twiggenberry’s pungent pomade made her stomach churn.
“That is hardly polite,” Anne said with a sniff, primly taking a sip of her tea. Though to be fair, Anne was prim in all things.
“That Twiggenberry is an excellent prospect,” Aunt Esmeralda said with her eyes aglow. Her chins quivered with excitement. It was her fervent goal to get all of her nieces married into the highest echelons of the ton or die trying.
Elizabeth suppressed a shudder. Or perhaps she didn’t suppress it. Twiggenberry was, after all, shudder worthy. Especially when he nattered on about his mama and her “expectations” for his wife. “I’m sure he and Anne will make a fine match,” she said with a barely hidden smirk.
Four heads whipped around. “Are you daft?” Mary said. The youngest of the St. Claire four, she was barely out of leading strings. This would be her first season and she was over the moon for the coming events. “Twiggenberry only had eyes for you, Lizzie.”
Egads. What a horrible thought. He was hardly the kind of man she had dreamed of marrying. For one thing, like his name, he was tall and slender and had a sharply carved face with wooden expressions. She could only imagine, should he kiss her, she might come away with scratches. And then there was that stench. Her nostrils twitched at the memory. Or, perhaps, the lingering scent of him in the room. “I am certain he was staring at Anne,” she felt compelled to suggest.
“Only when Anne mentioned her fondness for books,” Victoria quipped.
Mary nodded. “And then, in horror.”
Victoria leaned in and whispered, sotto voce, “No doubt Mama would not approve of a wife who reads.”
“How vulgar,” Mary warbled in a tone far too like Lady Twiggenberry’s for comfort.
“Please do stop,” Anne said on a sigh. As the oldest she was somber and long-suffering, but with younger sisters like the irrepressible Elizabeth, Victoria, and Mary, she would be. Dealing with them was, she often said, like herding kittens in a henhouse.
“You do need to marry too,” Elizabeth reminded her. Their cousin—very far removed—the Duke of Caithness, upon whose generosity they were living, had insisted on it.
Anne came as close to putting out a lip as her nature would allow. “I am firmly on the shelf,” she said, and not for the first time. Elizabeth was sure she caught a hint of satisfaction in her tone. When their parents had died, the girls’ dreams of a season had died with them. It had not been until they’d been embraced by the duke that such opportunities had returned to them. Although Elizabeth suspected Anne had been relieved by the reprieve. Balls and soirees and manic husband hunting had never suited her. She was much more at home in a quiet library with her nose deep in a historical treatise or some scientific exploration.
Bluestocking was hardly a kind word, but Anne embodied and embraced it. She had no desire to marry and didn’t believe in love at all.
“No worries. We will find the right husbands for each of you,” Aunt Esmeralda averred and, as she was absorbed with the cake she was nibbling, she missed Anne’s grimace. “Soon the duke will arrive. He will wave his ducal wand and the suitors shall come out of the woodwork. How could they resist? Four beautiful sisters from a good family with healthy dowries thanks to a duke of the realm?”
“A Scottish duke,” Victoria reminded her. Lords of London were frequently unimpressed by anything in the least Scottish.
Esmeralda fluttered a dismissive hand. “He is still a duke. And he is an extraordinarily wealthy man. And a powerful force to be reckoned with. His influence will see you all to rights. Mark my words.”
Elizabeth nodded, but only to be polite. Since she’d learned of Lachlan Sinclair’s existence, she’d fantasized about the duke. He was handsome, titled, and wealthy beyond imagining. How wondrous would it be to meet such a man and have him fall irrevocably in love with her? But of course, the thing that most captivated her wasn’t his title or his wealth. It was the fact that he was a Scotsman.
She’d been fascinated with all things Scottish since she’d been a girl.
They’d traveled there once, long ago, before Mama and Papa had died, and Elizabeth had fallen in love. With the food, the scent in the air, the rawness of the landscape, the people . . . Everything had enraptured her.
Beyond that, her friend Catherine Ross, who’d been raised in the Highlands, fueled her imagination with tales of the brave young Scots lad who had saved her life—and kissed her. How romantic was it that Catherine and that boy—now a man—had just become engaged? Catherine was living with them at Sinclair House while the banns were being read, but this morning, she had claimed a megrim and was sleeping in.
Of course, Elizabeth knew the truth. It wasn’t a megrim. Catherine couldn’t stand Twiggenberry’s pomade either.
Fortunately for her, Catherine had found her man. And what a man he was. Duncan Mackay was tall, dark, and braw, the quintessential Scotsman from the top of his head to the tips of his toes. Not a hint of pomade to be found. It was hard not to be jealous, but Elizabeth loved Catherine and her friend deserved the best.