Page 32 of What a Highlander’s Got to Do

Cat blew out a heavy breath and tossed her red locks over her shoulder. “Fine. As you wish. But know I love you, Isobel. And I am here if you ever want to talk.”

For some reason, this generosity engendered tears as well. “Thank you, Cat,” she said, but she was talking to herself: Cat had spurred her mount and was racing toward the Serpentine, a certain invitation to follow.

* * *

Isobel was warm and dewy by the time she and Cat finished their ride.

Dewy, it was, Aunt Hannah said. Not sweaty.

Still, when they came into the grand foyer after settling their well-used mounts in the mews, Isobel was not prepared to entertain visitors, even though her mother called her from the drawing room.

“Give us a moment,” she called back, pulling off her hat and shaking out her hair.

Cat made a face as they headed up the grand staircase to their chambers. “Calls? So early?”

Aye. It was annoying to go from the glorious freedom of a mad ride down Rotten Row, deserted as it had been, to having to change into morning dresses and chat with members of the ton.

Isobel wasn’t looking forward to it in the least.

Naturally, she took her time in her ablutions.

So long that Mama sent a maid to check on her. With a sigh, she collected Cat, who had been equally sluggish with her toilet. They exchanged a pained glance as they headed for the parlor. At least some tea would be welcome after the dusty ride.

What awaited them in the drawing room was not a surprise. Mama, Aunt Hannah, and Aunt Lana were seated on the divans facing a pretty young debutante with jet-black hair, and a grand lady with a magnificent crown of red curls wound around her head. The elder was apparently holding court, much to the disgruntlement of Aunt Esmeralda.

Aunt Esmeralda preferred to be the one holding court, but in this case, her pique was muted, limited to a slight tightening of her lips, which led Isobel to the conclusion that this lady was one of great standing, one she dare not usurp.

“Ah. Darling,” Mama said, waving Isobel into the room. “Finally. Do come in. There’s someone you must meet.”

Someone you must meet was code for “a maven of the ton,” the exact type of person Isobel had been dreading to meet.

Not that she was worried she would spill her tea or otherwise disgrace herself and her family name.

But she was worried she might say something that might be construed as rude, should she be provoked.

And she was easily provoked by the British.

Still, she forced a smile onto her face and curtsied as she had been taught when her mother introduced the Duchess of Moncrieff and her daughter Sorcha.

“Your Grace,” she said in an acceptably awestruck tone.

She was not prepared for a laugh.

Or what came next.

The Duchess of Moncrieff, a grand maven of the ton, opened her mouth and said, in a delightful Scottish brogue, “Ach, lass. You must call me Kaitlin. Your mother and I are great friends, after all.”

Despite all her training, Isobel gaped.

Great friends? With a duchess?

And then she remembered her mother speaking of Kaitlin, or Kait as she sometimes called her, the Scottish lass who had snagged a British duke and lived happily ever after.

Isobel had ignored most of those stories—which were clearly told as an allegory for how she might proceed—but truth be told, she could never have imagined a lady of such beauty and, well, grace.

Against all her inclinations, Isobel liked her at once.

“I canna tell you how pleased I am to finally meet you. And Catriona?” She reached her gloved hands out to Cat who, equally dumfounded, allowed the duchess to take them. “How is your mother?”