Her Highland Protector. Ann Lethbridge

widened. He lowered his gaze to his plate as if he was trying to hide his reaction. But there was no mistaking it. He had been surprised by this announcement. If one of the most influential Scottish Dukes had called for a meeting, would the under-secretary not know about it?

      ‘When?’ she asked, unable to prevent the question from tripping from her tongue and trying to soften it into a more civil enquiry by adding, ‘When do you leave?’

      Carrick waved his fork. ‘Tomorrow. By ship for Edinburgh and then on to London.’

      London? The largest marriage mart in the world. An abundance of wealthy gentlemen ripe for the plucking like low-hanging fruit. Surely one of them would be suitable? He didn’t have to be clever or handsome. He just had to be willing to spend his blunt on Braemuir in exchange for a title. ‘Why don’t Mrs Preston and I come with you?’

      ‘Not possible, I am afraid,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘This is business. I will have no time for assemblies and balls. I plan to return home as quickly as I may, I assure you.’

      Her hand clenched around her knife as she fought to control her disappointment. ‘You agreed that it was necessary that I have a Season this year.’

      The pained look on Carrick’s face said she’d disturbed his digestion. He put down the grape he had been about to eat. ‘I promised you would have an opportunity to find a husband. And so you shall.’ His jaw thrust forwards and Mrs Preston sent Jenna a look of alarm. Mr Gilvry looked as if he wished the floor would open and swallow him up. Clearly she was pushing too hard.

      She took a deep breath. Forced her rising anger down. ‘Oh,’ she said lightly. ‘You are postponing. Now I understand. We will go to Edinburgh for the end of the Season, upon your return.’

      It wasn’t exactly what he had said, but it might be one way to pin him down. He twisted and turned like an eel in a net whenever she tried to get a straight answer.

      Having sent her shot across his bow, now might be the wise time to retreat. ‘Are you finished, Mrs Preston? If so, then perhaps we should leave the gentlemen to their port and adjourn to the drawing room for tea, where I hope we shall see them in a short while?’ She cast both men an inviting smile.

      Mrs Preston fussed with her shawl. ‘Indeed. Indeed.’

      Carrick grunted and half-rose to his feet.

      Mr Gilvry stood and helped Mrs Preston from her chair. More pouring on the charm. Trying to impress his lordship, she presumed.

      She dipped a curtsy and departed feeling as if she might have won a minor skirmish.

      ‘Did you know about this meeting with Gordon?’ she asked Mrs Preston as they walked the corridor to the drawing room.

      The older woman shook her head. ‘I wish you would be less forthright with your cousin, dearest girl. More is accomplished with honey than with vinegar, you know.’

      Was it? She’d tried both ways now. Being patient. Hurrying him. Nothing moved him. If his younger sons had been single gentlemen, she might have suspected him of wanting her lands and title for them. But they were married. And very advantageously, too. Was there more to these delays than the lack of time he always claimed? Ought she to be more suspicious? Certainly her estates were of no great import to him. He’d seemed barely aware of her existence while she was living with her aunt. If that dear lady hadn’t died, he might never have remembered he had a ward.

      In the oak-panelled drawing room, the tea tray was already set out on the table in front of the hearth. It only wanted the delivery of hot water. Not that water was ever very hot by the time it made its way up from the kitchen in its separate building in the bailey.

      One of the joys of having a history to maintain.

      She had her own history to worry about. A Baron Aleyne had lived at Braemuir since the Dark Ages—until her father died. It was her duty to rectify the lack. Daily, the responsibility felt heavier.

      And yet there was comfort in it, too. The thought of returning to the home she loved. All she needed was a wedding and a child or two, boy or girl, to know she had done her duty, honoured her promise.

      ‘Do sit down,’ Mrs Preston said. ‘All that pacing makes me feel quite bilious.’

      She hadn’t realised she was pacing. She stopped short, staring at Mrs Preston.

      ‘What a charming young man Mr Gilvry is,’ Mrs Preston said, picking up her embroidery. ‘I had heard all the Gilvry men are as handsome as sin itself. Having seen this one, I can well believe it. Sadly, quite poverty-stricken, I understand.’

      The kind of man she couldn’t possibly conceive of marrying, even if he was the closest thing to an eligible bachelor she had met in months.

      Surely Carrick wasn’t thinking she would marry his poor relation? Without doubt, Mr Gilvry was young and attractive. Her heart gave a painful little hop. A reminder that it didn’t do to become too attached to anyone. It was too hurtful when they left one alone.

      No, she would need to be careful around Mr Gilvry. He stirred up uncomfortable emotions she couldn’t control. And Braemuir required a woman of sense if it was to prosper.

      If only she could bring Carrick to see the urgency of the matter. But how?

      The butler arrived with the hot water and set it on the tray. ‘Will that be all, madam?’

      ‘Yes, thank you,’ the widow replied.

      Jenna sat down opposite Mrs Preston and focused on the important issue of preparing tea. Or rather the important issue of how to ensure she would soon be pouring tea in her own drawing room at Braemuir.

      Niall sipped at his port, though he would have preferred the traditional dram of whisky.

      ‘Lady Jenna is a determined young woman,’ Carrick muttered.

      ‘She seems set on this trip to Edinburgh,’ Niall responded in what he hoped were neutral tones. After all, this really was not his concern.

      ‘Aye, and if my wife wasn’t busy with my daughter, she would be there right at this moment. I certainly don’t have the time.’ Carrick stared into his wine as if it could provide answers.

      Niall shrugged non-committally. The man just wanted to voice his frustration.

      ‘No doubt about it. She needs a husband,’ Carrick said moodily. ‘A man worthy of her title.’ He tossed off his glass and poured another. He grimaced. ‘I’ve already had one dubious offer. A lowlander and a shopkeeper to boot.’ He frowned. ‘Now what was his name? Davidson? Drummond? I think that was it. Verra unpleasant. Not the sort of family her father would want inheriting his title.’ He pinched the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger as if suffering a headache. ‘And who knows what sort of man she’d end up with if I let Katy Preston take her to Edinburgh.’

      Did he really want to discuss bridegrooms for the lady? Yet he couldn’t help himself. ‘You don’t trust Lady Jenna to choose wisely for herself?’ It was as close as he could get to an objection of his employer’s high-handed dealings with the lass.

      ‘I promised her father I would see her well settled before I had any idea of the weight of debt his father had left him. If he’d had more time, he might have managed to see himself clear, I suppose.’ He shook his head and took another swallow of his drink. ‘I gave him my word I would do my best by the lass and make sure the family fortunes were improved. And I will. I just wish he hadn’t brought her up more like a son than a daughter. My wife could handle her, no doubt, but Mrs Preston …’ He subsided into silence. ‘She’ll need a strong hand on the reins, I’m thinking.’

      ‘She reminds me a bit of my youngest brother, Logan. The more you tell him “no”, the more he insists on his own way.’

      Carrick puffed out his cheeks. ‘Wildness is a Gilvry family trait.’ He gave Niall a sharp look. ‘Except for you.’

      As a child, Niall had sometimes wondered