Janice Preston - His Convenient Highland Wedding

She studied Lachlan, taking in his expensive clothes. His gold fob watch and the signet ring he wore on his right hand. His confidence. He must be very wealthy to afford a place such as Lochmore Castle. And from that thought it was a short hop to realising that her own appearance nowhere near equalled his. In the eyes of the staff she would look nothing like the daughter of a nobleman or the mistress of Lochmore Castle. Her luggage consisted of just one evening gown and one afternoon dress—gowns she’d worn during her brief excursion into Edinburgh society last October. Other than those, she only had her everyday clothing—nothing like the luxurious and lavish trousseau she had once dreamed of. The remainder of her garments from last year were back at home, intended for Aileen who, at seventeen, would soon be expected to catch a suitable husband, with the help of the dowry paid by Lachlan.

‘Are you ready?’

Lachlan’s gaze swept Flora from head to foot, raising a quiver of awareness in her, but reminding her again of her sorry appearance, clad in a worn velvet cloak and bonnet, both of which had seen better days, with a scruffy wire-haired terrier at her heels. Her husband’s expression revealed nothing of his thoughts and she raised her hands to tuck away any stray strands of hair. Did he find her unattractive? Not many men found short, freckled ladies with red hair appealing. If he wasn’t already disappointed by his end of the bargain he had struck with her father, he surely would be once he realised how little help she would be in finding patrons for his whisky. The scandal she had caused had been huge. Her parents had whisked her home and she had not shown her face in society since, although she knew from Donald exactly what the gossips were saying, including their speculation that she was no longer an innocent.

She swallowed. She could not avoid this. She was married now and this was her new home. Her new life. She drew in a steadying breath and nodded.

‘Then come.’ Lachlan swept one arm around. ‘Welcome to Lochmore Castle, Lady Flora McNeill. Welcome to your new home.’

Flora took Lachlan’s arm—her fingers curling around his hard bicep—and they walked up the front steps and through the door into a spacious, bright entrance hall, a still-subdued Bandit at their heels.

Halfway down the hall, just past a tall stone-dressed archway on the right-hand side, a wide, polished wood staircase carpeted in red and gold swept up from the marble-tiled floor. A huge chandelier hung over the stairwell—luxury indeed, thought Flora, as she pictured the stone staircases of Castle McCrieff, still lit by wall sconces at night.

Footsteps echoed and a tall thin female and a short, wiry man with thinning sandy-coloured hair emerged through the stone archway that gave access to the old keep. They were followed by two footmen. The woman’s greying hair was pulled back from her face and a bunch of keys was attached to the belt of her uniform.

‘Ah. Allow me to present my wife, Lady Flora. Mrs Dalgliesh is the Lochmore housekeeper, and Drummond is our butler.’

‘May I offer my congratulations on your marriage, Mr McNeill? And welcome to Lochmore, Lady Flora.’

The housekeeper’s gentle greeting belied the harshness of her features. What Flora had at first taken for lines of disapproval etched into Mrs Dalgliesh’s countenance were, upon closer inspection, lines of sorrow and disappointment. Flora relaxed and smiled at her.

‘Thank you, Mrs Dalgliesh.’

Drummond echoed the housekeeper’s felicitations before sending the footmen to fetch the luggage.

‘I shall leave you to show Lady Flora around the castle and to introduce her to the rest of the staff, Mrs Dalgliesh. I have work to attend to, so I shall be in my study if I am needed.’ Lachlan hesitated, then bowed to Flora with a fleeting smile. ‘I shall see you at dinner, my dear.’

Flora watched her new husband stride across the hall and disappear through another archway directly opposite the first.

My dear.

He had used no endearments until now. She was not fooled—the endearment was for the servants’ edification. She could not help but be disappointed that he chose not to show her around himself.

She stretched her lips into a bright smile.

‘Would you show me to my bedchamber first, please, Mrs Dalgliesh?’

‘I have already ordered warm water to be sent up, my lady.’ Mrs Dalgliesh spoke over her shoulder as she preceded Flora up the stairs. ‘A maid is waiting to unpack your clothes and to assist you. If she pleases you, you may keep her as your personal maid, or you may wish to appoint your own woman, of course.’

The first flight of the staircase angled oddly to accommodate what was clearly the outer wall of a tower. Flora’s step faltered as she trailed her fingertips around the curved wall, memories rushing in on her of that long-ago day when she had found her brooch.

Mrs Dalgliesh paused. ‘That is Morag’s Tower, a part of the old keep,’ she said.

‘Why is it called Morag’s Tower?’

‘The Duke of Lochmore’s great-aunt Morag lived there, staying on even after the Duke and Duchess moved out. Now, downstairs, the keep consists of the dining room, the morning parlour, the kitchens and it gives access to the new chapel. Not that it’s new, actually. It was built in the sixteenth century, but there is an older chapel in the grounds, too. So, the keep has four storeys, with two of the original four corner towers still standing, whereas the modern wing only has two floors. The ground floor of the modern wing has the drawing room, library, billiards room and the master’s study, and the passageway leads around to give access to the ballroom, which is closed off most of the time.’

The first-floor landing was bright and spacious with a polished wood balustrade that overlooked the stairwell and that magnificent crystal chandelier. On the far side of the landing was a large window through which Flora could see the portico roof and the castle grounds beyond.

Mrs Dalgliesh pointed left, through a similar archway to the one downstairs, beyond which there stretched a wide corridor. There were doors to both right and left, between which several paintings were displayed.

‘The keep end of the gallery leads to guest bedchambers and the back stairs. The second floor has more guest rooms plus a nursery suite and the top floor houses the staff. This way—’ she pointed right ‘—are the master suites.’

‘Mr McNeill told me the Duke’s wife had this wing built,’ said Flora.

‘His first wife, yes. It is much newer than the rest of the Castle, but it was all fully refurbished before Mr McNeill moved in.’

The need to know more of the man she had wed warred in Flora’s breast against her mother’s mantra that one should not encourage servants’ gossip. The need to know won.

‘It must have taken a great deal of work.’

‘It did. The master was fully involved—nothing was too much trouble and he didna stint on expense. If there’s one thing I can say about the master, he’s no’ a stingy man even though he’s a man of few words. He works hard and he works long hours, but there are many folks who depend on him. We all appreciate his efforts.’

‘Where does the Duke of Lochmore live now, Mrs Dalgliesh?’

‘He and the present Duchess live a few miles from here, in a country house not far from Lochmore village. The castle was leased out after Morag died, but the Duke never wanted to move back and decided to sell. I was living in Glasgow when I heard Mr McNeill was hiring.’ A shadow crossed her face. ‘My husband was already sick when we were turned off our farm by the landlord. He wasna strong enough to face an ocean crossing so we went to the city to find work.’