Chapter 1

Violet could feel the eyes of the parlor maid on her. The butler, Rogers, was professional enough not to let his disdain or astonishment show on his face. Oliver’s absence nagged at everyone in the house, as no one could possibly have a good reason to be about in weather like this. It was up to Violet, as the mistress of the house, to project calm.  She could not let her worries show and her pacing was a major breech of decorum.

The parlor maid had no such concerns.  She was young enough and was considered sufficiently “unrefined” that she could be as emotional as she wished. She could even stare at Violet as her mistress fretted.

A gust of wind blew so hard she heard a tree fall somewhere in the distance. Trees were rare enough in London these days, and it was a pity to lose that one.

“Miss, if you could be at ease, I am certain His Excellency will return from his errands soon. You would not like him to be rushing home in such weather, I am sure.”

The maid, who was so new Violet could not remember her name, stepped forward.

Violet forced a smile. Perhaps it was kind of the maid to want to reassure her. Perhaps it was condescending. Perhaps it was both. Violet would not lash out or turn the girl away for such a small infraction either way.

“Of course. I am sure he’ll want tea when he arrives, however.”

The maid took the hint and disappeared. Violet thought she saw a modicum of respect in the butler’s eyes. She returned to her knitting. She was not especially gifted at the art, but it kept her busy and calmed her nerves. Today, she worked on gifts for residents of the almshouse. She was no great artist, but she could offer up her services to keep people warm and dry. If she focused on that and not on the howling wind or driving rain, she would be much better off.

The door flew open, and both Violet and Rogers jumped. Under normal circumstances, the footman would have kept things quiet enough to leave Violet undisturbed. Instead, the wind blew the thing open with so much force it must have left a dent in the wall.

“I will see to this, ma’am.” Rogers stalked into the hall, an iron poker in his hand.

Violet’s mouth went dry. London could be dangerous, to be sure, but not the better parts. Violence did not come to the homes of the nobility. She gripped her knitting needle in her hand. She would not go without a fight. Upraised male voices, mostly speaking in heavy Scottish accents, reached her ears. Some of them did not even seem to be speaking English, which made Violet shudder. After a moment, though, she picked out her brother Oliver’s voice among them.

Oliver spoke in a weaker voice than was his custom, but it was him and he did not sound as though he were under duress. “Rogers, these men are my guests. They have assisted me in a private matter. Please, have rooms prepared for them, and tell Cook to set extra places at supper.”

Violet flinched. She could do that here, where no one could see her. Scots, as guests? From the sound of things, there must have been a full army of them. Cook would be hard pressed to stretch a meal to serve everyone, never mind at such short notice. Then she heard boots on hard wood. She barely had time to put her knitting down and pull herself together before her brother and his band of Scotsmen walked into the parlor.

Oliver looked terrible. One of his eyes was swollen shut and bruised, and his blood dripped from a massive split in his lip. The fine coat in which he had left that afternoon was gone, and the shirt and waistcoat underneath were not only soaked through but covered in blood and filth. His breeches were in no better shape, torn to rags and stained.

When he saw her, though, he managed a bloody smile. “Sister, dear!”

With a greeting like that, she could not stand on ceremony. She could only run to him. “Brother!” She examined every wound. “What in the world has happened to you? We must clean these out and bandage them this instant.” She found a bell pull and rang for one of the maids. She did not care who responded. “And we must get you out of those ruined clothes and into something warm just as soon as we can.”

“First things first, Sister, although your tenderness toward my welfare warms my soul. I must introduce my new friends to your acquaintance, for it is sure I would not have lived without their intervention. Allow me to present Bryan Grant of Strathspey and his men.”

Bryan Grant must have been the man standing more forward of the Scotsmen. They wore identical woolen kilts in a kind of dark blue, green, and black tartan Violet was sure she had seen around. Bryan Grant bowed ever so slightly at the waist, his wild black hair falling into his face as he did.

“A pleasure.”

His face was handsome, but cold and stern. Of course, Violet knew the life of men in the highlands would not lead to openness and ready affection.

“Likewise.” Violet had heard of Bryan Grant. He had attracted the notice of more than a few of the ladies on the London circuit in recent weeks for his tall bearing and his reputation for bravery. Of course, his brooding aura and Highland manners ensured any admiration was brief. Violet could understand the reactions of her friends and associates, although she had not had the opportunity to meet him personally until now. Even soaked to the bone and somewhat bedraggled from whatever had befallen poor Oliver, he cut a dashing figure. His green eyes seemed to cut through any masks or illusions a person might try to weave. She could not hide anything with a man like that. He would know just how deep her emotions ran…

The thought brought her up short.  He was handsome, but she should be long past being affected by anything of the sort. And he was a stranger, she should not be concerned about showing deep emotion in front of him.  She should have none where he was concerned, other than as they related to her brother. What in the world could be going on with her?

Mr. Grant unsettled her, stirring up womanly feelings that she was sure she had thrown out the window. She did not like it. Unsettling as he was, he was still her guest. She bowed to him.

“Mr. Grant. Thank you for your kindness to my brother. We are in your debt.”

“Was that nae what got him into trouble in the first place?”

The corners of Bryan’s mouth twitched. According to reports, it was as close as he had ever come to smiling.

Violet was too well bred to react. The two maids who had just entered the room in response to her summons had no such struggle. Rose, the older one, gasped and covered her mouth. Agnes, the younger, dropped the duster she had been carrying.

Oliver just chuckled ruefully. “I suppose that will teach me to delay payment to men who cheat at cards.”

Bryan raised his eyebrows and nodded playfully. “Ah, so ye only lost the gamble because they cheated.”

“You say it like that, but I mean it, I would have won otherwise and would not be in this debt,” Oliver said, putting his hands on his hips.

“Nay, if ye had nae bet in the first place ye would nae be in this mess.” Bryan joked, causing his men to laugh and the maids to bite the insides of their cheeks to keep themselves from laughing at their master.

Oliver rolled his eyes and grumbled. “You are just using this opportunity to scold me for gambling.”

Violet wondered if shame could kill. She loved Oliver, but sometimes his proclivities made her wish the ground would open up and swallow her whole. She wished it would swallow one of them whole, anyway.

She plastered a bland smile onto her face and turned to the maids. “If you could ensure these gentlemen have clean and dry clothing to change into while their own clothes dry, it would be helpful. Also, we’ll be needing bandages and compresses for Lord Oliver, thank you.”

Bryan nodded once. “Ye are too kind.”

Rogers returned with footmen to escort Bryan and his men to their rooms. Only Oliver and his valet remained, and Violet could be as effusive as she wished in her concern for her brother.

“You must let me look at you. Oh my goodness, what have they done? It is sheer luck that these Scotsmen happened along when they did. Who knows what might have happened otherwise? Oliver, you must leave off gaming. I ask you this not as a dependent, but as a sister who loves you and thinks only of your welfare.”

At that, Oliver nodded, despite his face saying he had heard her say this a million times and it was getting old. It was in times like this that Violet missed her mother, wishing she could be strict on Oliver, but it was difficult when he was her older brother.

“I will do my best, sister,” he said, getting up to leave.

Violet watched him go. Then she retreated to her own quarters. Supper would not be long, but she felt little need to sit around in the parlor waiting for it. She could knit in her room just as easily as she could in the parlor.

In her room, she found she had received a letter from her cousin Beatrice at some point during the day. Beatrice’s husband had been named governor of Jamaica two years ago, and Violet always enjoyed her letters. She had sometimes wondered what it might be like to travel to someplace so far and exotic as Jamaica, or even Wales, but fate did not have such a journey in store for her.

She tried to make the best of it, although it was not always easy. In the earliest days of her disappointment, she had found it miserable.  She had expected to be in Italy exploring the glories of Rome, and she could not even get to Bath. She had taught herself to accept her fate with patience and effort, but it had not been easy. Some days, she was embarrassed to say bitterness could win out.

When she read Beatrice’s latest dispatch, she could honestly say today was not one of them.

“Dearest Violet, you can not imagine how things are here. Everyone is sick with yellow fever, five of the servants have died from it, and no end to this plague is in sight. All enjoyment and gaiety is at an end as Lord Edmund tries to keep order on the island.”

Violet shuddered. She had heard of yellow fever in other places, such as the American colonies or in the tropics. Thankfully, it had never been found in England. They did get occasional outbreaks of other diseases, and Violet considered herself lucky to have avoided them. Her own parents had lost their lives to typhoid fever. The tropics seemed to be home to so many more illnesses than England. Still, she wished she could see more of the world than London and, on rare occasions, the family estate in Chipping Norton.

Any hopes of travel were long since behind her.  Her brother, who was a man in the prime of his life, could not even safely travel to his club. Violet was a woman on her own.  She had aged past the point where she could reasonably hope to attract a man to escort her somewhere, and she had little need for it anyway since she had shut herself away from the eyes of high society.

Things had not always been like this. When her parents were alive, they had been there at the center of all the excitement in town. The tea parties and balls and every trip to the theater or bookstore were colorful events that they were always privy to. The days when she could hope for such frivolities were long gone, however. And good riddance, too. She had been foolish back then. Her life now might not be terribly exciting, but how much worse would it be with a fickle man?

She wrote back to Beatrice, without mentioning Oliver’s fight. He did not need their extended family knowing about their problems, and Beatrice did not need to add to her worries. When her letter was finished, she returned to her knitting and finished the hat. It was not pretty, but it was serviceable and it was better than the last one she had made. She set it aside to add to the bundle she was sending to the almshouse and went back downstairs to prepare for dinner. The household staff would see to the actual food, but as the lady of the house, responsibility for hospitality fell on her.

Her route from her room to the kitchens passed her brother’s study, and she heard her brother speaking with Bryan Grant as she passed. Bryan’s rumbling brogue had a pleasant sound, even though she had to work hard to understand him. She thought she heard a mention of marriage once or twice, but perhaps someone had caught Oliver’s eye? Despite her heart skipping a beat, she could only count that as a general good. Perhaps a wife would help Oliver settle down and abandon his dangerous lifestyle.

It would be good, for him, but not necessarily for her… if Oliver got married, the chances that his wife would tolerate him having his sister depending on him would be very low. In the first place, for a viscount, Oliver was terribly poor and in debt. They were living in a small house they purchased after being forced to sell the family home in the capital. It was a miracle that they had even survived at all, finding food to eat and able to pay the few servants what little they could afford, and this was because Oliver continued to shave off what land they had in their fief to other lords around them. If Oliver got married, they would need to move to his fief down in the north away from all the life in the capital. A woman marrying into such a life would no doubt despise Violet as an unnecessary mouth to feed, and she would not be wrong. Moving to their fief might seem like it was the safest move financially, but in fact it was not. If they moved to the fief, they would need to take up the responsibility for it, and that would drag them into deeper debt that would make Violet’s unneeded presence at the table glaringly obvious.

She had no idea where she would go if Oliver sent her away. She would have to take residence at an inn, perhaps? The life would be very difficult, as it was not easy for a woman to live on her own, especially when everyone was well aware that she was alone. She would be open for every attack under the sun and would be disrespected by everyone since they knew she had no backing. Her heart was thumping even as she tried to convince herself that she should be happy for her brother if he truly was getting married.

In fact, it could also not be her brother getting married, but the Scotsman Bryan. It made sense that he would be the one getting married, he was much more of a catch than her brother anyway. Despite how she thought about it, it still made her nervous, which irritated her. How close were they that they could discuss such matters anyway? If Oliver was considering getting married, why would he tell the Scotsman first instead of her?

She still could not understand how they had met in the first place. What kind of business could bring a Scot – and a highland Scot at that – down to London? She could think of nothing, but she supposed it was none of her business.

The kitchen was a flurry of activity, and Cook was in a fouler mood than usual when Violet walked in. She could hardly blame the woman.

“Did the viscount honestly believe we would be able to accommodate the sudden increase at dinner of eight?”

Cook had worked for Violet’s parents. She might have worked for Violet’s grandparents. All Violet knew was that Cook’s strong arms and red face had been the most constant force in her life, and she hoped never to lose them.

“I think my brother knew you were talented enough to make it happen, if anyone could.” She was going to have to really pour on the sweet talk, but she managed somehow. “These men saved Lord Oliver’s life. He could hardly condemn them to whatever swill an inn might offer.”

Cook grumbled, but her shoulders relaxed. “It is not going to be as elegant as you might prefer at a dinner party. There was no time, ma’am.”

“I know, Cook. We’ll be pleased with whatever you have.” It was not as though they had any choice. “We always are.”

She made her way to the dining room next to ensure the proper number of place settings and their disposition. And just like that, it was time for the evening meal.

The Scotsmen had all changed into different kilts, scarlet this time and seemingly more formal. Violet knew there were different meanings to the different forms of dress the Scots wore, but she had not taken the time to focus on them. She had to admit it was an impressive sight to see arrayed around her dining table, something outside of the ordinary. They seemed taller than the English men she saw more frequently, and more muscular as well.  The life they led would lead to a stronger physique than English men, whose lives were safer and more sedate. While their manners were somewhat rougher than her usual guests, she suspected they were more genuine.

Rogers directed two maids to serve the soup course, but before they could begin, Oliver raised his glass. “A toast, if you please. To Clan Grant – the greatest group of friends a man could want.”

The Scotsmen raised their glasses and heartily joined in. “To Grant!”

Violet joined the salutation, with suitable decorum of course. She could understand her brother’s desire to celebrate his saviors, but surely tonight’s hospitality was sufficient. Perhaps he had been hit on the head. She did not want to think he had another motive. Her gaze clung to Mr. Grant’s strong form briefly. If Oliver had other ideas on his mind, she could not fathom what they might be.

Chapter 2

Bryan had sat through any number of these English dinner parties. Tonight’s dinner was less odious, because most of the participants were Scottish and because it was being held by his friend Oliver. It was still a ridiculous, formal affair that seemed to serve little purpose other than wasting money Oliver did not have. If he had possessed the money, he would not have needed Bryan and his men to rescue him.

Then again, the English could be strange. They would rather spend a fortune on display than pay their bills. It did not make sense to Bryan, but he supposed it did not have to. He would be back in Strathspey soon enough. he had endured enough of these English and their odd mannerisms to last a lifetime. This trip had been simple enough, he had come to make trade, but it was the first time he had been forced to come this far into England.

Of course this was all Oliver’s fault, although not a bad fault. Oliver had been helping him as he introduced him to an English merchant who bought his wares at a much higher price than he usually was able to sell. It was part of the reason why Oliver was a friend he trusted despite his horrible habits. Although he had seen Oliver in an unfortunate light today, he did not lose any of the trust in him. As unreliable as the events of the day made him seem, he had moments where what Bryan believed to be his true character seeped through.

He had met the English man for the first time a few months ago. He had been trying to get his previous trading partner to stop the attempts at cheating him and failing. Since he did not have any other connection to England, he was at a disadvantage in every sale, and Mr. Tudor had known this fact and used it well. Oliver had happened to be in Mr. Tudor’s company that fateful day, and at first glance he looked every bit the degenerate nobleman, with his shirt untucked and unbuttoned at the top, and a bottle of whiskey in his hand.

It seemed he was there to convince Mr. Tudor to buy some of the land he owned in the north, so he was every bit the ruined nobleman. Tudor was mocking him along with the other Englishmen in his circle, but Oliver had seemed too out of it to deduce their mockery laced in fanciful words. Bryan had started to pity Oliver until the negotiations were done and Tudor had showed them both out of his office, finishing his deal with Oliver and cheating Bryan out of half his expected earnings.

Once they left the office, Bryan was left shell-shocked as the sway in Oliver’s gait vanished and he became sober immediately as he lit a cigar and brought out a list, mumbling as he crossed off each need that would be filled from the money he had just received. Bryan could not believe it. Had he just… acted like a fool in front of Tudor so he could receive a favorable sale? Catching him staring, Oliver had given him a wink.

“Are you surprised? I saw you pitying me in there. You were not wrong in your assessment of me, I am every bit the degenerate, I just know how to get things done when I really need to. Tudor is a nasty man, but an easy man to fool. Since he thinks me stupid, I was able to sell him a useless piece of land for the price of a decent one, because he imagined that my pricing must be in his favor already, and that he was doing a degenerate like me a favor,” Oliver had said, “Acting smart in front of a man like that will get you nowhere, my friend.”

With those words and a pat on his shoulder, Oliver had left him and sauntered down the hall, resuming his drunken sway. Bryan had stood with his jaw hanging open for a few moments before he ran after Oliver, offering him a drink of friendship. Oliver, not one to turn down a free drink, accepted his invitation, and by the end of the evening, Bryan had contact with his new trading partner, as well as a new friend. Even as he returned to the Highlands back then, he kept contact with Oliver, half for the purpose of establishing the next sale with the man Oliver introduced him to, and half to keep in touch with his odd friend. He had just finalized his sale when he and his men happened upon Oliver being beaten black and blue and rescued him. His first words had been, “I told you I was a real degenerate.”

Oliver’s sister sat at the other end of the table, charming the men as much as an English girl could. If she was uncomfortable around so many rough Highland men, she did not show it. She spoke to them as if they had all been raised in the same drawing rooms their entire lives, and never flinched if they let an oath slip or made a joke that would have sent a lesser woman into a faint. In short, she was a good hostess.

She was a beautiful hostess as well, with a slender body and alluring violet eyes from which she had doubtless gained her name. How she had become a spinster with looks and manners like hers, he did not know. She could grace the head of any man’s table, and his arm as well. He could almost imagine the warmth of her body beside his. He wondered if there was more to her as well, just as there was more to her brother.

He had met other English women at these parties, as establishing business with his new trading partner meant he had been dragged to quite a number of events, and he had felt their eyes on him. He knew they admired his figure. Highland men were the latest craze in the drawing-rooms of London – from a distance. As soon as men like Bryan opened their mouths, the Londoners’ romantic illusions fell away, so Bryan kept his distance.

Oliver’s sister seemed to be an exception, but then so was Oliver. His interests were trivial, but he was a solid friend nevertheless, and since Bryan had met him, he had always been willing to back anything Bryan suggested. He had far more intelligence than his habits suggested, it was a shame he had fallen into the frivolous habits of the English nobility. He would have made a good Scotsman.

“Do you ever think about marriage, Bryan?” Oliver toyed with his wine glass.

Bryan jumped. He had gotten lost in his thoughts again and had not been paying such close attention as he should. “Nae in several years, I am afraid. I can nae imagine the state after losin’ me Sophia.”

Oliver bowed his head, as did Bryan’s men and Lady Violet. After a decent moment of silence, though, Oliver sighed. “It is a dilemma, of course. I have a sister I’d like to see married, but she is a spinster. Today’s events make me more concerned to see her in the marriage state.”

Lady Violet’s cheeks turned scarlet from clear embarrassment. It was the first time her solid form as hostess had cracked and Bryan could see how rattled she was.

“Brother!” her voice cracked across the table like a whip, but she softened it once she had gotten her brother’s attention, “Our guests do not need to hear about trivialities like that. Mr. Grant, you have been fighting in the Indies, I believe?”

“Nae in several years, I am afraid. Most of me time is spent in service to me clan now. Bein’ me uncle’s general leaves me little time for other work.” Bryan could have laughed, but he thought Violet might kill him with her dessert fork. He obligingly shifted topics to his time in the Indies and the fighting he did on behalf of Clan Grant.

He hardly wanted to reminisce about Sophia in front of Oliver and his sister, either. His grief for Sophia was eternal, and it was not for public consumption. Even now, the mere mention of her name had him seeing memories of her slender fingers in his and her brown eyes shining with joy as she led him through the flowery plains near his uncle’s castle. He squeezed his fingers into a fist to keep himself from such memories and focused on his food.

After dinner, when Bryan and Oliver retired to the billiard room, Bryan took a moment to gently chastise Oliver for his words. “Ye need nae have brought up your sister’s state at dinner. The poor lass turned scarlet.”

“I know, I know,” Oliver sighed, “If it were anyone else, I would not have brought it up. Her status has been on my mind of late, and then after today it seems so much more urgent. If something happened to me, how could I protect her from predators? How would I keep her safe from men who wanted the fief and title her name came with, or worse? I am anxious to see her safely married, but she has so little interest she has avoided even the assemblies since she was younger than twenty.”

Oliver truly sounded worried and Bryan thought back to the sister in question. She was pretty, and not so very old as to be past marriageable age.

“How old is she?” he asked, more out of curiosity than anything.

“Six and twenty. She says she has no use for men, but you see how well she manages my household. She is an excellent hostess. She is full of affection toward me. She is well educated and she has an excellent disposition,” his friend said, his voice full of love for his sister.

Oliver slumped, which must have been painful given the beating he had taken only that day. “You never think of marriage, then?” Oliver seemed to pout.

The way he was talking, Bryan wondered if there was something his friend was aiming for. He decided to answer honestly. “I’d be lyin’ if I said I did nae want a son, an heir. What man does nae want that?” Bryan hesitated before his confession. He knew he should not be saying such things to someone like Oliver, even if he was the best among the English. “The problem is, it would be cruel to ask a woman to be me wife, or to bear me child, since I ken that I could nae care for her.”

Oliver blinked at him. “Never?”

“Nay. I could never love a woman after me Sophia. She was me world. I can barely even look at a woman since she died.” Even the mention of Sophia’s name brought tears to Bryan’s eyes, but he forced them back. A man had to have some standards, and weeping in front of some Saxon, no matter how good the friendship, was where Bryan drew the line. “It would be ghastly for her. I can nae do it.”

“Hm.” Oliver rubbed at his jaw, a reflexive action from being deep in thought, then winced as the pain from his injuries hit him. “But if you found a woman who likewise had no interest in marriage, your conscience would be clear, yes?”

Bryan scoffed. “Ye must have gone daft. Such a woman would never allow me to touch her to get an heir – and I will nae stoop so low as to take her by force, whatever ye may have heard about Scotland.”

Oliver shuddered and put a hand to his chest, his wide eyes proving that he had never even considered it. “Perish the thought. I’d never suggest or even think such a thing,” his friend said in a serious tone, before continuing in a more subdued voice and scratching his neck, “However, it seems we have complementary problems that might solve each other. I have a sister who needs the protection of a husband, but does not want one. You need a wife to give you an heir, but you do not want a wife who expects love.”

Bryan stared at his friend. He had thought it suspicious, the direction Oliver had steered the conversation, but for Oliver to truly say it… “I did nae see ye gettin’ hit in the head. I might have missed it, though. I came to the scene late,” he said, causing Oliver to breathe out a short laugh.

“I assure you that my head is perfectly fine. Think about it, Grant! This would solve both our problems. I know you to be one of the most honorable men in the world. I know you would never take advantage of her, and you have enough of your own wealth that she would never be an object of prey to you. She has enough of a dowry to not be a burden to you, and of course, I will help,” Oliver said, his full intentions now on display.

He seemed to have no reservations marrying his sister to a Scotsman and truly seemed to mean it when he said he trusted Bryan. However, how would the lady feel about moving to the Highlands, no matter how short the time?

“I’ve nay use for an English title. Me heir will live in Scotland. And as much of a degenerate ye are, I can nae say that ye deserve to lose yer title,” Bryan said, dismissing any thoughts that might have come to light about him marrying for the viscount title.

Oliver just laughed. “Is it that you do not find her attractive?”

Bryan rolled his eyes. “A stone would find her attractive, Oliver. She is a bonny lass. I am nae good for her, though. You can nae want me to bring her up to Scotland and then, in essence, leave her there to rot while I go fightin’ for me clan. We have a lot of enemies, me friend. Most of what ye hear about Scotland is nae true but some of it is, and if ye thought she was at risk here in London, ye have nae seen Strathspey when we get a good grudge goin’.” He was not sure that Oliver understood very well what he was offering and, as a friend, he had to tell him.

“That could happen anywhere. And you are not in the habit of killing women and children.” Oliver shook his head. “I am not so worried about that. I am more worried about vile men who would hold her hostage for my debts, or who would think they could get at my title through her. Or who might try to take advantage of her spinster state to make a scandal. I overheard two men talking about doing exactly that to Lord Withers’ daughter the other day. I love her. My parents left her in my care, and I have an obligation to make sure she has some security.”

From the words he spoke, Bryan could see Oliver’s true feelings and how worried he was.

“So find her a proper husband. An English husband,” Bryan emphasized the word English as strongly as he could, since Oliver did not seem to be at home to reason right now, “Me whole life has been Clan Grant since I could walk. Yer sister is a delicate English noblewoman, used to London and all of its conveniences. Ye cannot want her to pick up and move to a remote holding so far in the north of Scotland we’ve got more sheep than people.”

“Even better,” Oliver beamed at him, “If it brings her farther away from the people who want to harm me, then it can only be to her benefit.”

“Has she ever been outside of London?”

“She’s been to our family holding in Chipping Norton.” He shrugged. “I am sure she’ll be over the moon to see Scotland. She is always writing to this cousin or that. Who is it? Oh yes, Beatrice, who is married to the Royal Governor of Jamaica. She would love to see something of the world, I assure you.”

“Most of what she will see is sheep, Oliver. Strathspey is nae Jamaica.”

“Well, no, of course not. You do not have yellow fever in Strathspey, have you?” He patted Bryan on the back. “Look, this is a perfect solution for both of you if you would just open your heart a little. She truly is not going to want you to court or woo her. She is more likely to chase you off with a broom if you tried.”

“Yer sister would nae ken what to do with a broom if her life depended on it. She has had servants doin’ everythin’ for her and that is just nae how it is in Scotland.” Bryan shook his head. “She would nae survive there. Nae happily.”

“Violet will be fine, Bryan. She is a lot tougher than you think she is. Do not worry so much. She is still young enough to give you the heir you want, and she is old enough to know how to care for it the right way. She is pretty, she is smart…” Oliver continued listing all his sister’s good points.

“What do ye expect me to do with her? She’ll be miserable up there after the life she has led here.”

“Are you miserable?” Oliver blinked. “Because you can take her back to the Chipping Norton house if you like.”

The thought of living permanently anywhere but in Scotland made Bryan want to be sick. He gave Oliver a face. “Nay, obviously. I love Scotland. I am just trying to show some concern for yer sister here. It is different for one who was born there and one who was born here.” He could not understand why none of these were concerns for Oliver, but he felt like they should think of the lady involved.

Oliver’s sunny smile fell. “My friend, it is a very nice idea for women to marry for love, but the truth is that it almost never happens for women of our class. There is a polite fiction, of course, but in reality, women marry whom they are told to marry for the reasons they are told to do so. There is far too much at stake to leave such an important decision to the whims of a young girl who is of necessity sheltered from the realities of life until after marriage. Although Violet cannot be listed as one of the young and naive girls as she is now a grown woman, the same still applies. It is kind of you to want to be sensitive to what you perceive as Violet’s needs. I will mention that to her when I tell her. But Violet knows better than most that marriage is a transaction. Everyone involved gets something they need from the deal. It may not be romantic, but it is the way things work and right now and it is the only way I can ensure my sister is safe.”

Oliver’s words landed with the impact of a punch. He and Sophia had loved each other since they were children, before love could be romantic or physical. There had never been any doubt that they would choose each other, regardless of relative advantage or disadvantage to their families. He did not want to imagine a world where children – of either sex – were treated as chattel on a market for competitive advantage.

But then again, this was England. These weren’t his people. This was not his culture. All he could do was make sure his heirs, should he have any, were kept safe and secure from this type of banal mercantilism.

“Fine. I will dae it. But we have to make sure the poor girl kens what she is gettin’ into. I am nae signin’ on to take a girl up into the highlands who thinks she is livin’ in some kind of fairy tale, who only gets upset that I do nae have the time to be waitin’ on her hand and foot.”

Oliver laughed. “I think you will find, brother-in-law, that Violet is exactly as independent as you could wish.”

The degree to which Bryan wished Violet to be independent was fully, and far away from him. That might not have been entirely true. Violet was a beautiful woman, the kind who drew the eye of men anywhere she went. He had heard Lady Violet’s name mentioned more than once during his time here in London, and while he had never put her together with his friend’s sister, he had understood her to be a beauty. He would not have any problem performing the physical part of the marriage, that much was certain, but that was not something to mention to her brother.

It was the rest of it that made him think this was the worst possible idea. What would his friends and family back in Strathspey think when he returned with this new, English bride? He had not mentioned it to any of them that he was in search of a bride. Although they continued to nag him, he knew they had mostly given up. Would they welcome her? Or would they clash with her and remind him that she could not hold a candle to even the memory of Sophia?

There was only one way to find out, and that was by doing.

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