Chapter 1

1

Edinburgh, one year later…

S itting on the stiff and scratchy cushion of the window seat, Poppy stared out the paned glass at the dismal, foggy morning.

The last of their stuffed trunks had been brought inside her half-brother's house in Edinburgh, where she, her mother and her sister had begged for the charity of a roof over their heads. Quite unfair, it all was. Less than a month before, she'd never wanted for a thing, and now, they were practically paupers.

Edward did not share the same father as Poppy and her sister Anise, their mother having remarried after losing her first husband—Edward's father, Lord Leven. And now their mother had been made a widow again, and Poppy and Anise mourned greatly the loss of their gentle father.

The situation had become quite bleak when their father fell ill suddenly and relayed the succession of his house and wealth. The majority of which did not fall to them at all. Even their mother seemed surprised by this. Their house, the great and beautiful Featherstone Park, had been entailed to a male heir, which didn't fall to Edward's shoulders given he was no blood relation to George Featherstone, Baron Cullen. A meager one hundred pounds a year split between the three of them would mean remaining frugal and relying on the charity of others, not something Poppy was certain her sister would be able to accomplish, as Anise loved shopping for new linens and fabrics and already had a wardrobe fit for a princess.

Their father had ensured that their dowries would remain in trust until they married—but that money would transfer to a husband and did nothing to help with their current living situation.

For a week, they'd tried to live with their cousin, but the circumstances had been abysmal, and he'd treated them more like servants than anything else.

They hardly knew their cousin, Thomas, who'd come from somewhere north, the exact location never mentioned, and then completely overtaken the house. His wife had treated them like the staff, going so far as to pawn off their five insufferable children onto Poppy and Anise's shoulders, encouraging Mother to get her hands deep into the kitchen pots, and complaining about everything in the household that their mother had worked hard to create.

After a week of Thomas's family making them miserable, her mother had arranged for them to leave the only home that Poppy had ever known to live with Edward in the city.

But the situation at Edward's was, perhaps not surprisingly, very different. His wife resented their presence and wasn't very good at hiding the fact. Poppy believed she actually practiced the cruel jibes before letting them out as they were so…exacting in their precision to cut through one's emotions and bury themselves in the heart.

"What are you doing perched there? You're going to ruin your dress." As if on cue, her sister-in-law marched into the drawing room with her nasal, whiney voice, in a dress far too ostentatious in its frills and flounces for daywear and pointed a long finger at Poppy.

If Poppy squinted her eyes just so, that long, accusing finger grew blurry and took on the crooked, wretched look of a witch's talon.

Poppy pressed her lips together, her fingers splayed on the cover of a book she'd yet had the energy to open—so unlike her—and tried to find a suitable response. She didn't exactly care about her dress as she wasn't expecting company and thought merely to wallow in self-pity today.

"Did you hear me?"

Poppy would have liked to continue pretending that she did not hear her sister-in-law because that would have made her feel better, but the rising pitch of Mary's voice was such that if she didn't respond soon, she was sure to hear it from Edward later, who would end his tirade with "Why can't you be more like Mary?"

If Poppy had to hear that one more time, she might lose her mind and be sent off to Bedlam, at which point her sister and mother would truly be in a pile of it then, given Poppy seemed to be the most rational of the three.

They'd not even had a night here, and Edward had said it once already. Every time she came to visit, he made the remark, which she found odd, considering Mary was the one harping on everyone while Poppy hardly said a thing.

After having her coming out season the year before being relegated to the life of a guest in someone else's house and essentially labeled a pauper, not that anyone would say such to her face—except Mary—was the embarrassment of Poppy's life. And it was accompanied by the grief of her life too.

She missed her father something awful.

Which meant she merely wanted to curl up into a ball and pretend she was anyone other than Miss Poppy Featherstone.

Mary had yet to lose either parent. Not that she struck Poppy as the type to be empathetic even if she had experienced such devastation. More like she'd dust her hands as soon as the coffin lid closed.

"Good morning, Mary." Poppy kept her tone as sweet as syrup and smiled in the same manner, hoping to ease her sister-in-law's ire. If only she could find the pin stuck under her skin and pluck it out. Mary seemed to be one constantly suffering.

Mary's brow wrinkled that she'd not been formally addressed, but Poppy didn't care. She was too exhausted trying to please the one person in the house she'd thought she might befriend besides her own sister. A thought that had been dashed about thirty seconds upon entry.

Their mother was far too inside her own grief to be of any comfort.

Anise took that moment to enter the drawing room, too, her face drawn. She headed toward the piano, settling on the bench, her fingers poised over the keys. She took a dramatic breath and started playing Beethoven's "Sonata," the keys and notes filled with such sorrow that Mary actually groaned like a petulant toddler.

"Will you both quit your moping?" Mary's arms flailed with exasperation. "The atmosphere is far too funereal for me."

Shocked, Anise's hands fell flat on the keys in a wretched sound, her mouth agape as she stared. During the silence that passed for the next fifteen seconds, Poppy could hear the creaks of the house, the carriages rolling on the cobbles outside, and the beat of her heart in muted tones as if she'd been forced into a bubble and every sound was on the outside of it.

Poppy dropped her book, unable to hide her flinch. "Our father has just passed," Poppy said. "You might be more considerate in your word choices and in your attitude."

She regretted the words as soon as they were out of her mouth. Mary's lips curled, and she was certain there was about to be a huge rebuke. But a swift knock on the drawing room door had them all quiet and attention on the butler, who was opening the door and announcing that Lord Dougal Mackay was present.

Poppy bounced to stand, smoothing a hand down her skirt.

Dougal Mackay.

They'd met first at Edward and Mary's wedding several years prior. And then again, last year at a ball in London, he'd swept her off her feet and broken her heart. Back when life seemed easy and grand and her future bright.

To see him now sent a rush of embarrassing heat through her, taking her right back to that ball where he'd danced with her, making her feel as if she were the only woman in the room. And outside, in the garden maze shadows, he'd pulled her in for a kiss that made her toes curl in her slippers until he'd abruptly run away.

If only there'd been at least one other proposal for her hand in marriage she'd not find herself in this situation. But she'd put all her faith in waiting for Dougal to bend down on one knee, not paying attention to any other suitors. But his offer had never come, and he'd abruptly left London for Scotland, and she'd been without a proposal of marriage or any prospects.

When she herself had returned to Scotland, she'd been hopeful for a reunion, but she'd not seen him since, even though she'd looked.

The Earl of Reay sauntered into the room, the very picture of a hero—tall and lithe, his magnetism drawing the eye of all three ladies. He swept off his hat, bent his lofty body in a bow and straightened, a teasing smile on his impossibly perfect mouth. His dark hair was swept over his brow in a way that looked as if he'd just ridden here at a pace that would set Poppy's heart pounding, giving him both a casual and dangerous appearance.

"Dougal, we weren't expecting you this morning." Mary cast her gaze over her brother in a very judgmental way, which Poppy found infuriating.

It was extremely unfortunate for the two of them to be related. As in love with him as Poppy thought she was, she kept waiting for the curtain to drop, and he would reveal himself as harsh and cold as Mary. Even after he'd left London without a word, she'd still held out hope to see him and couldn't fault him for whatever reason that had called him away. As much as it hurt not to have seen him in nearly a year, she also couldn't cease the flutter of her belly, the squeeze of her heart, and that smile… He and Mary were too impossibly different for her even to consider they shared blood.

The man was every bit as handsome now as he was the previous times she'd been in his presence. The cut of his breeches showed off the muscles of his legs. His starched shirt was impeccable, and his jacket, spread over his broad shoulders, had the shiniest black buttons.

Dougal ignored his sister's rebuke and nodded toward Anise before settling his dark eyes on Poppy. "Ladies, 'tis a gorgeous day, and I thought I might offer to escort ye on a carriage ride around the city." Dougal's Scottish brogue was stronger than his sister's by far. Likely because Mary had spent much time in London perfecting the aristocratic accent of the ton, whereas he had preferred the Highlands.

Anise and Poppy had also spent much of their time in London in their youth, never truly developing a strong brogue either.

"Gorgeous?" Mary frowned and glanced outside at the dreary atmosphere; her puckered brow pinched enough that the sky might cry for her.

"Well, we can make it a gorgeous day can we no'? Or at least pretend?" Dougal winked at Poppy.

Something inside her chest cracked. Why was he so different from his sister? Kind, sweet, funny, as if when they were born, the pleasant half of one's personality went to Dougal and the unpleasant parts were saved for Mary. And why was he acting as though a year hadn't passed since the last time that they'd seen each other—since he'd kissed away her ability to breathe and see sense? Since he'd abandoned her without a word, taking her hopes with him.

She couldn't exactly say he'd dashed them or stomped on them; it was more like he'd taken her hopes and tied them up in a nice, neat bow and stuck them in his pocket for safekeeping.

"No, you cannot. That's rubbish. This weather is not good for the skin," Mary concluded, dismissing her brother with a wave of her taloned fingers.

"I'll go." Poppy made imploring eyes at Anise as it wouldn't be proper for her to go alone.

Anise looked slightly petulant, only wanting to remain behind and play out the rest of the sonata before spilling another bucket of tears into her pillow. As much as she empathized with her sister, for she'd been on the verge of doing just that before Mary came in to prod her, Poppy also knew it was best for her sister to get some fresh air and have a little bit of amusement, if only to distract her a moment from her grief.

Poppy didn't stop begging with her eyes. She contemplated outright saying the advantages of the ride, but Mary's nearly bared teeth kept her from speaking. Dougal seemed to have picked up on her desperation, for he approached Anise at the piano.

"Come get some air, my lady. The sonata will be here when we return, and perhaps the grayness of Edinburgh will add a certain note to your playing."

How was it that he could say the most perfect things?

Anise glanced up at Dougal, blinking as she processed his suggestion for melancholic inspiration, and then she nodded in agreement.

Poppy breathed out a sigh of relief. She needed to get out of this house. Away from Mary. Away from the dreariness of mourning. And she understood the irony of escaping the dreary house for a dreary, cloudy day, but perhaps the thick air would do something to make her feel better after all. If anything, it would get her away from Mary and her deep desire to scratch her sister-in-law's eyes out.

Dougal took both their arms, and Mary's eye roll could have been felt in London. Poppy wouldn't have been surprised if she'd caused the earth to quake in some far-off continent.

"Do be back in time for tea," Mary advised. "We've several ladies calling, and it wouldn't do for you not to be present." Her words were not directed at anyone in particular but felt by all three, as evidenced by the knowing glances they passed.

Mary practically hissed at the three of them having a bonding moment.

That was hours from now. Where exactly did she think Dougal was going to take them on their carriage ride? Down to London?

Dougal, his voice as calm as one of the lochs on a summer day, said, "I'll be sure to have them back in plenty of time for tea. Am I invited?"

"No," Mary retorted venomously, her mouth turned down, but rather than be offended, Dougal laughed as if he were used to his sister's disposition.

Poppy wasn't certain she'd ever be used to Mary. Her acerbic tones and puckered features made it look as if she had a lemon rind in her mouth and a dog's mess on her shoes.

"Shame," Dougal said, though he didn't sound too upset about it; in fact, it was the opposite.

If Poppy had the option to be disinvited to tea, she'd feel the same way: happy as a salmon swimming upstream.

Mary muttered something under her breath and then took up her place at the piano, playing a tune fit for a party rather than the melancholy of her sisters-in-law who'd recently lost their father.

Poppy tugged on Dougal's arm, and he hurried them out of the drawing room without so much as a backward glance. Good riddance.

They donned their coats in the foyer and then proceeded outside where Dougal's curricle sat as if it had been waiting for them, the top lowered to allow the passengers fresh air and a view of their surroundings. As if he'd swept into the house to swish them away from their misery, escaping his sister being the plan all along.

The coolness of autumn bit through Poppy's sleeves, and gooseflesh rose on her right arm; her left quite cozy in the crook of Dougal's hold.

"Please accept my apologies for my sister," he said as a footman opened the door to the open curricle and put down the steps for them to climb in.

Dougal actually looked sad about it, and Poppy felt bad for him, knowing he'd had to grow up with Mary. That had not been easy, she was certain. She and Anise had, of course, had their rows and didn't always see eye to eye, but in the end, they were at least kind to each other.

Poppy glanced up at the sky, a mist threatening to come down on them.

"I've umbrellas should the sky decide to ruin our day," Dougal said.

"Thank you."

Poppy climbed into the curricle, her sister sitting beside her and Dougal opposite them. He wasn't a bad view to have to watch the whole ride through. She rather liked looking at him. Which was a scandalous thing to think. What lady of good breeding would stare unabashedly at a handsome man?

She supposed she wasn't a lady of good breeding then, though her mother might throw a fit to hear her think it.

And also unfortunate, given he'd left without a word for nearly a year, and there was every possibility he would do so again. She had no stake on him. A kiss in a garden. A enough dances to make her believe he'd set his intentions.

But that kiss…it had been exquisite and left a mark on her that no other man was likely to erase. And yet, he'd walked away. As if kissing her had been the same as picking up the morning paper. Easily gone through and discarded without a need to review again.

The only thing she currently had going for her was that she resided in his sister's house. That meant she was likely to see him more often than not.

Dougal handed each of them a wool tartan blanket to place over their laps. "In case you catch a chill."

"Thank you, my lord," Poppy said as she spread it over her legs, instantly feeling the warmth of the wool blocking the autumn chill. "For the blanket and for offering to take us about."

"My pleasure." He glanced at the massive Edinburgh townhouse, which hid the tyrant he called sister. "I know how stuffy it can be when ye're all cooped up. And Mary is…not the best company sometimes." He grinned mischievously at Poppy and Anise as if they shared in some joke. Sadly, Mary's attitude was not funny. "If ye tell her I said that I'll deny it."

"We wouldn't dare." Poppy laughed softly, feeling marginally better.

"You both are so different," Anise pointed out without hesitation. "How do you suppose that is?"

Poppy stared at her sister, shocked she'd voice such a question, even if it were something she'd been contemplating forever. Dougal chuckled at Anise's bold question, and Poppy let out a breath. She had her ideas about their differences but waited for what Dougal might have to say.

"My sister is the eldest." He shrugged. "She has always had a heap of responsibility placed on her, and I suppose she takes it verra seriously."

"Very." Anise nodded seriously. " Very, very."

"For example, her tea parties," Dougal said. "No male would ever be invited."

"Why's that?" Anise asked.

"It's a henpecking, I'm certain."

Poppy frowned. She wasn't certain she was going to enjoy sitting around with a dozen Marys while they complained about the men in their lives.

"Perhaps we'll be late for tea," Poppy teased, the first time she'd done so in ages.

"I could direct our driver to take us over to Skye. Ye'd be certain to miss it then."

"I wouldn't mind," Poppy teased.

"We'd be gone for days." Anise clapped and abruptly stopped. "But Mama would go mad."

"Alas, I'd likely be set upon by the gatekeepers of society for having absconded with two beautiful ladies."

Poppy's face heated in a blush. The majority of abscondings ended in marriage, and she was irritated with herself for that being her first thought: she wouldn't mind being absconded with by him.

She stared hard at her fingers folded neatly in her lap as if they were the most interesting thing in this curricle and not the man opposite her, but then she chanced a glance up at Dougal. He was watching her, his expression thoughtful.

If Anise weren't here, she might have been bold enough to ask what he was thinking. But alas, she wasn't willing to risk her sister tattling to their mother later about her obvious interest in the man. Not if she wanted Dougal Mackay to come back.

A year without seeing him—hearing him—had been painful enough as it was.

He was the first bright spot in an endless sea of literal and figurative gray days. She wasn't going to do anything to ruin that.

"We wouldn't want to be the reason you were banished," Poppy offered instead. "Not when you've tossed us a lifeline."

Dougal smiled at her, his expression soft and endearing and confusing. He bent in a mock bow. "I'm at your service, my lady."