Catriona shook her head. “First of all, no one calls him Mr. Ferguson. It’s always Taran. I don’t know why; it’s not as if we’re so shockingly familiar with anyone else. And secondly, I’m not sure.” She glanced over at Fiona. “We were talking about that earlier. Certainly, I’ve never met them.”
“Nor I,” Fiona agreed.
“Do you know them?” Catriona asked Cecily. “I would think you would have been much more likely to cross their paths in London.”
“I know of them, of course,” Lady Cecily said, “and I’ve been introduced to Lord Oakley. But not the Comte de Rocheforte.”
“Why not?” Fiona asked.
Lady Cecily appeared to hesitate, and a faint blush stole across her cheeks. “I suppose our paths did not cross.”
That was a clanker if ever Catriona had heard one. But she certainly wasn’t going to say anything about it.
Fiona, however, must not have shared her reticence, because she murmured, “He strikes me as a bit of a rake.”
“Yes,” Lady Cecily admitted. “I imagine that’s why our paths did not cross.”
“It seems to me that he ought notto be a rake,” Catriona said.
Lady Cecily turned to face her with wide, interested eyes. “What do you mean?”
“Just that his is such a ready smile. I haven’t shared more than two words with him, but he strikes me as being altogether too niceto be a rake.”
“He is very handsome, of course,” Fiona observed.
“Well, perhaps,” Catriona murmured.
Fiona grinned. “You’re just saying that because you have fallen in love with the duke.”
“I haven’t!” Catriona insisted.
Fiona replied with an arch look, then said, “You may thank me later for securing you time alone in the drawing room.”
Lady Cecily pressed her lips together—presumably so as not to laugh—then said, “I havebeen introduced to the Duke of Bretton.”
“Really?” Fiona asked with great interest, saving Catriona the trouble of pretending that she wasn’t dying for more information.
“Oh yes. Not that I would pretend any great friendship, but our fathers were at Cambridge together. The duke generally pencils his name on my dance card whenever our paths cross at a ball.”
Catriona wondered what it would be like to dance in John’s arms, to feel his hand pressing gently at the small of her back. He would hold her close, maybe even a little too close for propriety, and she would feel the heat of him rippling through the air until it landed on her like a kiss.
She felt herself growing warm, which was ludicrous. It was the dead of winter, barely a week before Christmas, and she was trapped in Taran Ferguson’s underheated, crumbledown castle. She should be freezing. But apparently, the mere thought of the Duke of Bretton sent her into an overheated tizzy.
“Would you like some tea?” Fiona asked.
“ Yes!” Catriona responded, with perhaps more eagerness than the question called for.
“It only just arrived before you got here,” Fiona told her, “but it wasn’t hot even then.”
“It’s quite all right,” Catriona said quickly, thinking she could almost do with an iced lemonade right now, she felt so flushed. She set to work preparing her cup, moving slowly and methodically, needing the time to compose herself.
“Do either of you know what our plans for supper are?” Lady Cecily asked.
“Mrs. McVittie’s already laid the table,” Catriona said. She’d seen it after she’d left the duke— John, she reminded herself—in the sitting room. She’d been discombobulated, but not so much that she hadn’t stopped to inspect the seating arrangements. Taran had been at the head, with Marilla on his right, followed by Mr. Rocheforte, Fiona, the duke, Lady Cecily, Lord Oakley, Catriona, and then back to Taran.
Catriona had switched with Lady Cecily, certain no one (except possibly Taran) would be the wiser.
“Please tell me I’m not seated next to Taran,” Fiona said.
“Marilla has that honor,” Catriona replied. She gave a sympathetic look to Lady Cecily (but not so sympathetic that she regretted having switched their spots). “And you, I’m afraid.”
“That’s all right, I suppose.” Lady Cecily took a sip of her tea. “Did you by any chance see who was on my other side?”
“I think it was Lord Oakley, but I’m not entirely positive,” Catriona fibbed. There was no need for anyone to know she’d memorized the seating arrangements.
“Oh.” Lady Cecily brought her cup to her lips again. “How perfectly pleasant.”
The conversation stalled at that, and then, after Fiona had put her attention back to her needlework, Lady Cecily blurted, “Are either of you chilled? I’m chilled.”
“The tea isn’t very hot,” Catriona said, since the sudden statement seemed to call for some sort of reply.
“And the fire’s gone quite low,” Lady Cecily added. “Perhaps I should find someone to tend to it.”
“Well, I can do that,” Catriona said, coming to her feet. It didn’t matter how gently bred a woman was. In the Highlands, everyone needed to know how to tend a fire.
“But I think I need a blanket,” Lady Cecily said. “This . . . I mean, it’s not even really a shawl . . .” She fussed with the piece of fabric draped over her shoulders and made for the door. “Perhaps if I lie down.”
“That was very odd,” Fiona said, once Lady Cecily had hurried out the door.
Not so odd, Catriona thought fifteen minutes later. It just so happened she had to walk through the dining room to get back to her own bedchamber. When she inspected the place settings, she saw that someone had been busy with the name cards. Lady Cecily and Marilla had exchanged positions.
Catriona shrugged. As long as she remained next to the duke, she didn’t care where anyone else was sitting.
Chapter 8
Later in the evening
By the time Bret came down for supper, he was a changed man.
For one thing, he was talking to himself, something he was not accustomed to doing.
“I have a plan,” he said under his breath as he headed down the stairs. “A plan. I am a man with a plan.” He paused, letting his eyebrows rise at the sound of that. A man with a plan. Ridiculous.
And yet rather catchy.
Which might have explained why he was humming. He never hummed. Or did he? Honestly, he couldn’t recall. If he did hum, no one had ever mentioned it.
Catriona would notice if he hummed. She would even say something. And she would have plenty of opportunity to do so, because he was going to marry her.
All he needed was a quiet moment away from the motley crew of guests to propose. He didn’t have a proper ring, but he did have the House of Bretton signet ring. It had been placed on his thumb as soon as the digit was large enough so it wouldn’t fall off. The ring had moved from finger to finger as he grew, finally settling on his pinkie. It had been in his family for generations, the gold forged during the time of the Plantagenets, the sapphire in the middle scavenged from some Roman ruin. A face had been etched in the gem, an ancient goddess that some Bretton of old had probably rechristened the Virgin Mary.
It meant the world to him. It was the symbol of his family, his past, his heritage. And he wanted to place it on Catriona’s finger. To kiss her hand and ask her to keep it safe for their son.
He chuckled out loud, barely able to recognize himself in his own thoughts.
When he rounded the corner to the dining room, he saw that Rocheforte was already there, his eyes narrowed as he examined the place settings at the table.
“Rocheforte,” Bret said in merry greeting.
Rocheforte yanked a hand back. Had he been planning to tamper with the seating arrangements? Bret didn’t care, just so long as Catriona was by his side.