His Convenient Highland Wedding. Janice Preston
She was, but it was a peculiar question. Boastful, almost. ‘Thank you, yes.’
‘Then we shall eat.’
Lachlan nodded to Renney, who pulled out a chair at one end of the vast table. Her nerves a-jangle, Flora sat and watched as Lachlan took a chair at the opposite end. All her carefully prepared ideas for conversation and for learning about her husband were for nothing. Unless they shouted at one another down the length of the table, there would be no conversation that evening.
* * *
Lachlan hadn’t reckoned on feeling quite so off-kilter in the presence of his new bride. She was a lady, born and bred. What did he know about ladies? About how to treat them? When Flora stepped inside the dining room, his mouth had dried and his heart, already racing, appeared to leap into his throat. His hand had trembled as he raised his wineglass to his lips and took in her beauty—her glorious hair, shimmering strands of copper and gold among the red; her long, elegant neck and the creamy smooth skin of her naked shoulders, framed by the wide neckline of her light blue-green gown. The urge to stroke her bare skin...to caress the slope of her exposed shoulders and to trace her delicate collarbone with his tongue...momentarily robbed him of his voice. He marvelled at her tiny waist and could not help wondering what she might look like unclothed.
Would he ever see her fully naked, or would a modest lady like her expect to remain covered in her nightgown and only make love under the cover of darkness?
Before he could gather his wits and greet her, Flora took the initiative, making him feel even more of an uncultured boor as he responded to her greeting and attempted a pleasantry—which had somehow transformed from the harmless question in his head to a clumsy brag upon his lips.
Impressed! Once the word was spoken, though, he could not unsay it.
He knew better than that, even though his life to date had been a million miles from this. After serving four years of his sentence in New South Wales he’d been granted his ticket of leave—which allowed him to work for himself as long as he didn’t leave the area—and he had worked tirelessly to not only build a fortune, but also to educate himself in a manner fitting a gentleman, driven by his determination to return to his homeland a successful man.
But what use was that when none of the nobles he had met so far would permit more than a nodding acquaintance? He knew damned well that Lord Aberwyld had only accepted his offer for Flora because he was desperate. And now the bride he had paid so handsomely for no doubt viewed him with the same contempt as the rest of her class. And she didn’t even know the worst of him yet. If she ever discovered the truth of his past, she would despise him even more just like any other decent woman would. Just like Jessica. When she had discovered he was an ex-convict she had made no secret of her disdain and had left him the very next day.
They sat, one at each end of the table for their first meal together as man and wife.
Lachlan finished his mock turtle soup, then picked at his roast venison even though it was delicious, as always, and he noticed that Flora appeared to have little appetite either. They could not even converse because he’d insisted on seating Flora at one end of the dining table—which would hold eighteen—while he sat at the other. He had learned that was the correct seating arrangement but, too late, he wondered if it only applied at formal dinners. Was he a fool, to make things even more awkward between them, or was this the norm for a lady of Flora’s class?
She was no doubt nervous of the night to come and, in recollecting that tonight was their wedding night and that his bride was not only a delicate lady but also a virgin, his nerves exploded. He had never thought twice about taking his pleasures before and had even learned a certain skilfulness in increasing his partner’s pleasure, but the thought of a man such as he—an ex-convict—taking such liberties with a lady, even though she was his wife, broke him out in a cold sweat.
He tried to quash his burgeoning nerves by draining his wineglass again. Drummond came forward to replenish his glass and Lachlan drank again before signalling to Renney to clear his plate away. At the far end of the table, Flora folded her napkin, placing it beside her plate. Dessert was served and Lachlan was pleased to see his bride partake of the stewed plums and custard with more enthusiasm.
Finally, the interminable meal was done. Lachlan pushed back his chair and waited as Drummond pulled back Flora’s chair.
‘We will take tea in the drawing room, Drummond.’
He still felt uncomfortable giving orders to servants, but it was important to keep up appearances if he ever hoped to be accepted. He was reconciled to being a master by knowing that without these jobs some, if not all, of his servants would be condemned to scratching a very poor living from the sea—a harsh career for anyone not raised to it—or working up to fourteen hours a day in a noisy, dirty factory in Glasgow.
He paced the length of the table until he reached Flora. Then, quite deliberately, rather than offer his arm, he reached for her hand. It felt dainty and fragile as ever and he felt the quiver of her nerves. He smiled down at her, noting her delicate blush as he folded his fingers around hers.
‘Come.’
In the drawing room the tea was soon served and while Flora poured a cup for each of them, Lachlan poured himself a whisky from a decanter set on a silver salver on a side table. He must, somehow, connect with his bride before they retired to bed.
‘I like your gown—the green suits your colouring.’ And the style accentuated her feminine curves. Desire stirred and blood powered through his veins.
Flora glanced down at herself. ‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘It is my best evening gown, made for me when I attended the Caledonian Rout last year.’
Lachlan knew the annual Rout was taking place now, in Edinburgh, with its races, concerts, balls and other amusements.
‘I fear most of my clothes will look outmoded compared to this one,’ Flora went on, a hint of apology in her tone, not meeting his eyes, ‘but I do have an afternoon dress for if we have visitors.’
He had only meant to compliment her, not remind her of the past. Her father’s debts were no different to those of many landowners in the Highlands, a fact that had first been brought home to Lachlan on his return to Scotland via the undercurrent of resentment and envy from the landed gentry when they had realised Lachlan’s wealth. It was not only his birth and upbringing that stood in the way of him being accepted.
He cast all thought of business from his mind to focus on his bride.
‘Would you care for a dram, Flora?’
He held up his glass and the amber liquid glowed as it swirled, the lead-cut crystal sparkling in the candlelight. Flora looked startled and Lachlan felt his cheeks redden. Had he committed a faux pas? Did fine ladies not drink spirits?
‘It is my own blend,’ he hurried on. ‘The whisky we make at the distillery near Ballinorchy, on the shores of Loch Carnmore. I thought you might like to sample it. After all, if you are to help me find patrons, it is fitting you should know the taste.’
Her eyes lit up. Happy that he had asked her? Maybe she was not offended. Perhaps this might be a success after all, if Flora was keen to help him promote Carnmore whisky. He poured a splash into a tumbler and handed it to her.
‘It will burn your throat at first,’ he warned, ‘but give it time. Allow the flavour to come through.’
She tilted the glass, her eyes on his. She drank. Swallowed. Blinked. Coughed, just a little. And, finally, she smiled. ‘It is nicer than the malt whisky my father drinks.’
‘He gave you whisky to drink?’
Her cheeks dimpled. ‘No. He disapproved of females drinking strong spirits. But that just made me want to try it all the more. I was sixteen years of age—it made my eyes water, and I coughed and spluttered so much my mother heard.’
‘And was she angry? Did she punish you?’
She stared down into her glass, which she held in both