“Gavin—Mr. Campbell—is a friend…and neighbor,” Fiona added quickly. “Their land borders ours in Scotland.”
Lorelei frowned slightly, remembering Anne’s uncle was a friend of the duke’s. He’d probably side with him in the land dispute, if it ever got settled.
“Ummm,” Anne answered noncommittally. “What about the other one? Lady Bentley said he was quite dashing.”
Fiona turned pink. “Captain Taylor?”
Lorelei managed to hide a smile. Erik Taylor had been extremely attentive to Fiona at the ball, much to Gavin’s consternation. If she hadn’t been so preoccupied with her own misery, she might have found it amusing that neither one of them gave Fiona a chance to catch her breath.
“Is he a king’s man?” Anne asked. “He must know someone if he got an invitation to the Bentley ball.”
Fiona shook her head. “I doona ken who he knows, but he owns several ships.”
“He most likely does business with a number of the aristocracy,” Lorelei said. “He has a standing invitation to Almack’s, so one of them must have sponsored him.”
“It would be good to know who that person is,” Louisa said, “especially if he is serious about you.”
“We certainly know who Gavin Campbell is.” Anne paused. “I would consider him quite the catch.”
Fiona’s eyes narrowed imperceptibly. “I will keep that in mind.”
“Not that we want to find husbands in our first Season,” Lorelei said before the conversation grew heated. “We just want to enjoy ourselves.”
Or, at least, that is what she had thought she wanted. Somehow, everything had gone totally wrong. Her eyes started to burn with unshed tears and she used all her willpower—and every bit of etiquette training she’d ever had—to force them away. Somehow, she managed to plaster a smile on her face.
“Would you tell us about Venice, Anne?”
That seemed to deflect wherever the conversation may have been going as her cousin began to regale them with her adventures. Lorelei nodded and murmured at appropriate intervals, although her mind was on an adventure she would never be taking.
The one with Alasdair.
…
If only he could just pack his bags and go back to Scotland. A vote to resolve the disputed land near Strae Castle wasn’t taking place any time soon, now that the Colonies were in open rebellion. Alasdair sighed. Going home wasn’t an option, since he couldn’t afford to alienate the Duke of Oakley.
Which was why he was at White’s this evening. Melissa’s father had invited him to dine there, although it had felt more like a summons. Evidently, the duke wanted to introduce him to the upper echelons of thetonto ensure he would be accepted in their ranks even though he was a Scot with no blue blood. He all but snorted as he looked around at the nearly dozen men at the table. They were not prominent figures in Parliament, although they all had titles. Instead, they were the husbands of the ladies who controlled the social calendars of the Season. Although Mount Stuart had reminded him that their votes would still count, he knew the real reason they were all here was to ensure that Lady Melissa continued to get invited to all the right balls and parties after they were married.
After they were married.
He quickly took a sip of wine to hide his grimace and wished that it were whisky. For a moment he considered acting like a boor and draining the glass, just to make a point that maybe they should think twice about invitations. But, other than a few seconds of gratification—much like a willful child shoving food off his plate—he would earn only contempt from Oakley. The whole reason he was here was to avoid that. Alasdair put the glass down.
“I say.” One of the older men turned to him. “Have you decided where to purchase a town house?”
A town house? He hadn’t given the matter any thought at all. He certainly didn’t want to spend Clan MacGregor money on one. “I am nae sure.”
“Well, you will want to stay in Mayfair or Belgravia,” another said.
“Or St. James possibly,” a third one added. “Westwood lives there, after all.”
Alasdair mentally struck St. James off the list. The last thing he needed was to be in the same neighborhood as the marquess…and possibly Lorelei. He’d arrived late for the ball, since Melissa had wanted to make a grand entrance, but it hadn’t taken long to hear about Westwood’s gallant rescue of Lorelei from the steps. And, if that had been all it had amounted to, Alasdair would have thought Westwood was simply sparing Lorelei embarrassment. He might even have commended him for it. She didn’t need to be held in disdain for the disaster that had happened at Vauxhall. But, as the evening wore on, it had become clear to Alasdair—and probably everyone else in attendance—that the marquess’s intentions were serious. Westwood hadn’t left her side all night, and he was pretty sure Lorelei had made a point of ignoring Alasdair as well. She seemed to have eyes only for Westwood. London’s bookies were likely already giving odds on when a betrothal would be announced.
He might have to marry Melissa, but the last thing he wanted was to see Lorelei as the marquess’s bride.
“But no farther than that,” the duke was saying. “Melissa will want to live near her friends.”
“Friends” in London Society was a relative term, considering how much thetonloved to gossip and whose noses could scent out scandals better than hunting hounds could a fox. “I really have nae had time to think on it.”
“I am sure my daughter will find something.” He gave Alasdair a look. “She will need to approve the purchase.”
