A Question of Love: Questions for a Highlander, #1

PART 1

Chapter 1

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Where both deliberate, the love is slight:

Who ever lov'd, that lov'd not at first sight?

~ Christopher Marlowe

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Half Moon Street

London, England

April 1884

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Who? Evelyn Preston’s jaw sagged in an unbecoming fashion before she snapped it shut and nearly screeched through her clenched teeth. You want me to marry whom?

"Now, dear, you know Lord Hindon. His father, the earl—a small smile played on her mother’s lips as she calmly spread jam on her morning toast—owns shipping offices here in London and in Liverpool. You met him last fall in New York. Don’t you recall? He and the earl visited us there when the earl was investing with your father."

Yes, I’ve met him. Evelyn countered. "Indeed, I’ve met him several times. But I don’t know him." She’d known for most of her life that the choice of husband would never be her own. She’d accepted the fact without argument. What she had not anticipated was that the time would come so quickly or that the choice made for her would be a man she barely knew.

For Mrs. Preston, to be certain, such an engagement would be a triumph when news reached New York. Her daughter would become a countess when the current earl had the courtesy to pass on. Other Society matrons, each one who secretly prayed for such a title for their own daughters, would be green with envy.

Her father, however, who had pampered and spoiled her through her entire life had promised her a man she could like and respect. She’d believed in his assurances. All the faith and trust she had placed in him to see to her future happiness seemed to have been wasted.

So just like that you pick a man out of the crowd for me? Evelyn’s hands knotted in her napkin as a sickening dread settled in her stomach. Blast it! She’d assumed her parents would at least ask her opinion of the intended groom. Just like that it’s done without even mentioning it to me? Without letting him ask me? Without asking me if I even like the fellow?

You seemed to like him very well at the last three balls we’ve attended, Mrs. Preston commented. You liked him well enough to attend the opera with him. You even danced with him twice at the Fernel dinner last week.

You practically accepted that second dance for me, if you recall.

Kindly mind your tone, Evelyn, her mother chided.

Eve ignored the reprimand and surged on. And if you were so certain that I fancied him, why not ask me? She turned to her father for support. Da!

Evie, darlin’ girl, Lelan Preston sat forward taking her hand. I asked your mother whom you had favored over the past months. She told me, and I checked them all out. Hindon is the one I chose based on several factors, and it is done. He rose, kissing her cheek and patting her hand.

Several factors? Eve sputtered. What factors?

Family and expectations. Also, as I promised, he is young—

He’s nearly forty!

—he’s presentable and of good character. He has had a hand in his father’s shipping interests and therefore should be capable of looking after ours. He will do well for you and you for him. Be happy now. Preston patted his older daughter’s cheek affectionately. You’ll have everything you and your mother have always wanted.

What I have wanted? Whom I have favored? I don’t favor anyone. And I never wanted to come here in the first place. You know that! she yelled pushing back from the table. "Da! You promised to find me someone I liked. I trusted you. Well, you can’t make me do it! Evelyn turned and raced from the room almost snarling when she heard her mother mildly comment to her father, That’s a fine Irish temper you’ve given your daughter, Lelan."

Eve nearly ran into her sister, Katherine, as she charged into the foyer. I’d be careful going in there if I were you, Kitty. You might just find yourself married off before you can blink.

Evie! What happened?

Leaving her sister openmouthed, Eve grabbed the front door handle and wrenched it open. Bixby, the butler, stared at her aghast. But, Miss, your hat—

She grabbed one from the bench near the door. I’ve got the damn hat, Bixby.

There was a rage boiling up in her. A fine rage the likes of which London had seen in few women and certainly not in any of their own ladies of Quality. Evelyn Preston, however, was not an English lady of the ton. She was an American and her father Irish. The combination made for an unusually volatile temper, and she was about to display it to the whole of London.

Slamming the door of her family’s rented townhouse on Half Moon Street in the fashionable Mayfair district, Evelyn glared back at the butler who opened it again behind her and frowned on her with clear disapproval. He closed it again with deliberate softness as she stomped down the steps. She slapped on the ridiculously large hat her mother had insisted she buy and stomped down Half Moon Street, anger and frustration churning in her wake. Muttering curses under her breath against her hat, her parents, and the whole of England, she continued to stalk along, readjusting the tilting millinery every few steps with no regard as to where she was heading.

Yes, she internally acknowledged with a grunt as she clumped along, she had come to London accepting that the basic ideal held by the matrons of New York’s social register, though perhaps never admitted aloud, was that the greatest measure of ranking among the matrons of Knickerbocker Society is not Fortune or Family. It’s whether they are able to engage their daughters to marry into the nobility of a foreign country. Gaining an English title, for example, for their American offspring enabled any New York Society lady to rise exponentially in the eyes of the other matrons.

And, yes, she accepted with an audible screech of frustration, that her mother, Mrs. Lelan Preston of Fifth Avenue, Manhattan, a cousin of the noble Astors, had followed the example of other ladies in the highest societies of New York, Philadelphia and Boston who had taken their daughters overseas to barter them and their wealth for titles and prestige. Most aspired for the rank of duchess for their daughters, of course, but regrettably, there were simply not enough dukes of marriageable circumstance in all of England to make every mother happy. An earl or marquis might do in a pinch.

Following suit, Mrs. Preston had ferried Evelyn and her sister Katherine, across the ocean to London to be presented to Queen Victoria and to serve for the Season as debutantes of the ton. The Preston girls were possessed of beauty and charm and a small link to the nobility—their father was the second son of an Irish viscount—helped somewhat to establish them in that fickle society. However, what had truly opened the doors to them in the end was that they were each possessed of the title heiress.

Once it had been accurately ascertained that Evelyn and Katherine were the offspring of the Lelan Preston, of shipping and railroad fortune, doors throughout the city were flung open in welcome. The ton could not imagine letting such wealth stay in America. After all, old titles often needed an infusion of new wealth.

Much to Eve’s chagrin, for the last three months, the two Preston girls had been paraded from dinner to ball to house party, courted by the most eligible bachelors—young, old, rake and recluse—Society had to offer. Proposals had been so plentiful that some whispered the sheer number to be simply indecent. Eve had heard that gossip easily since it had clearly been spoken loud enough for her to overhear.

The proposers quickly discovered, however, that the girls themselves were not the ones to propose to, but rather their mother and father—their mother to ascertain if the proposer’s title was worthy and their father to negotiate the price of said title.

And finally, yes damn it, she now cursed aloud, raining profanities down on everything she could think of, she and her sister both conceded that they would have little to say regarding whom they would wed. Given the wealth from which they were sprung and the society from which they hailed, they understood that the responsibility for choosing a proper mate had never in actuality been in their hands. She’d always regarded their mother’s ambition for title with amusement and tolerance. At the same time, she trusted that their father would find for them husbands who were reasonably young and attractive, of good character, and intelligent enough not to mismanage the incredible fortunes which would one day be theirs. It was a promise that Lelan Preston had made to them at the start of their journey, and Eve had trusted him to carry it out.

A wave of disbelief swept over her again as she recalled her father’s role in this travesty. Yes, travesty! Her beloved Da who had done little but indulge her and spoil her since birth. This man, whom she trusted in all things. Tears of frustration burned her eyes. Eve angrily dashed a hand across them raising her face to the sky searching for understanding.

Why would he do this to her? Her heart cried out just as she walked straight into a wall—or what felt like a wall—the force of which sent her painfully to the cobbles on her backside and palms, before she had a chance to take a breath. Her skirts flounced back above her ankles; her hat deserted her once again.

Brushing off her hands, she turned to reach for the offensive thing as a large male hand scooped it up. Her eyes rose to meet an amused olive-green gaze.

Chapter 2

Just like that, for the first time in her life, her breath was taken away.

Strange, Eve had always thought it was just an expression, one’s breath being taken away. Oh my, she whispered, her hand fluttering to her breast where her heart was suddenly pounding fast and hard. Oh, my Lord.

Ripping her gaze from those compelling eyes was the hardest thing she had ever done in her life, but she did. She closed her eyes taking several deep calming breaths though it did little good against the rapid tattoo of her heart. She opened them again.

With her characteristic boldness, her eyes started at the feet that were planted in front of her and up the long, muscular calves and thighs that were molded in crisply creased gray trousers. Her gaze slid past his narrow waist, up his broad chest and finally rested on his face. Her eyes became a caress as they followed his eyes, his brow, the plains of his cheeks, and unfashionably clean-shaven jaw before coming to rest on his lips. They were firm but full and currently tilted up at one corner in a half-grin, revealing white teeth that contrasted against his swarthy complexion. That lopsided smile prompted her heartbeat to race even more.

Why, he was so beautiful! She hadn’t realized that a man could be so. And she’d never before imagined that a man's lips could appear so...well, so tempting! She wondered what it would be like to kiss him. She knew she should be shocked by the thought and just as quickly realized that she was not.

* * *

Francis MacKintosh stared down at the young miss sprawled at his feet. She had come to his attention just minutes before when he was stepping out from his grandparent’s townhouse on Half Moon Street. A shrill female voice and a slamming door sounded from down the street capturing his interest. He had identified the source of the disturbance as this young woman waving her fist at a butler as he closed the door to a townhouse just four doors up toward the park. If the volume of her voice alone had not caught his attention, the sheer energy and ire that radiated from her body would have done so just as quickly.

As she had forged down the street in his direction, her preposterously large-brimmed, ornate hat, which should have perched daintily on her coiffure, slipped from one side to the other, then to the front and then the rear as she caught it again and again crushed it upon her head with a vehemence that might have vanquished lesser millinery.

Fascinated, he’d watched as she approached—or actually stomped up—the street without even a maid in attendance. Unusual that. No debutante he knew of would have dared to walk a public street alone. Whether she was aware of that social faux pas or not, within moments he could hear faint expletives drifting up the street toward him that would surely oust her from Society’s good graces if they were to be heard by another. As she approached, they articulated into creative and fluent curses against parents, men, and the whole of England.

Clearly, she was in a pique that wasn’t to be quashed merely by the strict rules of etiquette if she felt no need to contain such vocal disparagements against her neighbors.

A grin tugged at one corner of his mouth as he recalled her creative language. Clearly no London lass with that mouth. Her long, mannish strides had marched her straight toward him, without pause or hesitation, cursing at the ground and sky without awareness of her surroundings.

She had walked right into him before he’d even had the chance to realize two things. One, that for all his notice of her, she hadn’t seen him. And two, because of that, she didn’t intend to stop.

Bending to retrieve her hat, Francis stared down at the lady before him. His attention shifted from her aura of ire as a new awareness developed. By God, but she was extraordinarily lovely! The absence of her hat revealed dark blond hair that shone in the sun with honey gold highlights and a face kissed by the sun and angels. Her features were smooth, her skin creamy with just a spot of color high on her cheeks that gave away her temper. Full, pink lips held a quirk of innocence that belied the words that recently poured from them. Her green morning gown—hardly appropriate wear for an outing—was the very height of fashion and molded to every curve of her willowy figure.

Lovely, he thought. A vision of beauty and temper. He was drawn to both in a way that was disarming and inappropriate for a Tuesday morning stroll in Mayfair.

Francis watched her arresting bright green eyes make a quick study of him and physically felt where they settled. His lips tingled suddenly, surprising him. Lust blossomed, and his heart raced as her tongue darted out to wet her lips. There he was in the middle of the street squatted on his haunches before the most entrancing girl he had ever seen holding a most ridiculously large hat, lusting as he had never lusted in his life, staring as if he had never before seen a female.

And being stared at as if she’d never seen a man.

It was but a moment and yet an eternity before he could summon the wherewithal to put together a coherent sentence.

* * *

May I assist you, lass? His voice was deep and husky with a touch of an accent Eve couldn’t immediately identify.

She blinked. Well, I suppose so.

Recovering herself, she took the bare hand he held out, but the lightning that passed through their contact startled her so that she snatched back her hand as if burnt and fell back on to her rear once more. She stared up at him in wonder. Well, that had never happened before!

Puzzled, she took his hand again, intrigued now by the unusual electric warmth of his touch, and rose to her feet, shaking her skirts out until they fell back to her ankles. Rubbing her tingling fingers together as he released her, Eve felt a burst of annoyance that he should affect her so and yet look merely amused in turn. She held out her hand. May I have my hat back?

Francis nearly chuckled at her surly tone, unable to rein in the pure delight that chased through him as he watched her. Clearly her fall had not diminished her temper. You mean this hat? He turned it over in his hands. It’s an intriguing piece of millinery.

Honestly, it’s hideous, I know, but I’m supposed to wear the damned thing because I’m outside, and heaven forbid a woman should go outside without a damned hat. Enthralled by her ire and a bit startled yet charmed by her candor and use of language, he watched her fling her arm back up the street.

Well, by all means then, let us put the hat back on. Still smiling, he carefully set the hat atop her loosely styled hair, settling it into place. Have you no hat pin?

No, I lost it yesterday afternoon. She was still mulish in her response. It’s fine. May I pass now?

Pass? the insanely good-natured man chuckled again.

Yes, you know? Pass? As in go by. She made a walking motion with two fingers and pointed down the street.

Never had Francis been so captivated in his whole life and, considering his long-standing opinion of ‘ladies’ as the spawn of Satan, was quite intrigued by his attraction. Lass, you’re walking unchaperoned and unescorted. You could be accosted by any ruffian on the street. Please, allow me the pleasure? He cocked his arm at her. May I be of service?

And you may be a ruffian yourself, she pointed out with a shake of her head. I don’t need an escort. I just need my hat to stay on my head.

Lass, what a charming creature you are. You are smart-mouthed and saucy. Very intriguing.

Evelyn stared up at him, strangely pleased by his comment and bemused by the novelty of her response. Normally she didn’t care a fig what anyone thought of her. It was a quality that tended to terrify new acquaintances or at least put them off her company, yet this man only waited with a genial half-smile and sparkling eyes. His dark hair lifted away from his brow in the breeze. Her fingers itched to reach out and touch it. He did not follow the current mode of heavily pomaded hair, a fact which Eve appreciated. And as attractive and well-dressed as he was, he didn’t show any of the scorn that many in this high-tiered society had shown when faced with one of her frequent faux pas. In fact, he actually seemed to...like it? Fascinating, indeed, she thought, barely noticing as an elegant town carriage came to a halt next to them.

The accompanying footman jumped down as the door swung open and a deep male voice commanded firmly from inside, Get in, Evelyn.

She glanced to the carriage and back to the gorgeous man before her. She didn’t want to leave him here like this. She struggled a moment searching for something to say. Sir...

Now, Evelyn.

Francis nearly chuckled as she rolled her eyes and turned toward the carriage. You don’t have to yell, you know. I am standing right here.

You’re a fine one to talk, lass, came the deep voice again.

You didn’t have to chase me down either, she retorted sharply as she took the waiting footman’s hand and climbed into the vehicle with one last regretful look. I would have come back eventually.

Well now, I couldn’t be sure of that either, could I, lassie?

Francis could identify a thick Irish brogue in the man’s voice. Obviously, her father, he thought. Or rather, he hoped.

As the carriage started forward, the lass stuck her head from the window and raised a hand in reluctant farewell. Feeling a sudden sense of something akin to panic, he took a step toward it but stopped himself. What was he thinking to do? Call out ‘Stand and deliver!’? He couldn’t make such a fool of himself. But then, what did it matter? She was just another woman, after all, much like any other.

He turned and resumed his walk toward the park but, unable to help himself, let his thoughts linger on the lovely lass he had just encountered, wondering if he would ever see her again.

Chapter 3

Oh, Kitty! Eve hugged her pillow tight and rolled on her back. I can’t believe I didn’t even learn his name.

She closed her eyes, and the image of the man’s handsome face came to her mind, dark hair, deep—almost mossy—green eyes. Just calling him to mind launched a cacophony of feelings inside her that she couldn’t truly comprehend. Her heart beat frantically, her breathing grew shallow, and butterflies filled her stomach. If she didn’t know better, she might have thought she was coming down with the ague. I was just so angry at Da and Mama that it never even occurred to me to ask. Also, I was simply so stunned. She nodded emphatically. Yes, stunned by him. She banged her head into the pillow. If I have not met him this entire time we’ve been in London, there is little chance I’ll see him again.

They had been readying themselves for bed for nearly fifteen minutes, but Kitty was fairly certain her sister’s bemoaning her meeting with a strange man was not going to be over any time soon. It was amusing, really. Eve wasn’t normally one to become all aflutter over any man. Why, over the past three months since they had arrived in London for the Season, Eve had not yet become even slightly enamored of any man, be he lord or prince. It simply wasn’t her way.

Well, he was walking up our street. Perhaps he knows someone here, Kitty reasoned as she perched on the side of the bed. Lady Hyde is having her ball tomorrow evening; perhaps we could ask her then if she knows of him or whom he was visiting.

Eve bounced up on her knees and waved her pillow toward her sister, a shiver of excitement in her eyes. Or, or...I know, we can call on every neighbor on the street tomorrow and ask about him!

Eve, really, her sister admonished, though her eyes were dancing with amusement. You cannot just ask everyone if they know him. It would not be proper.

You’re so strait-laced.

It was true, Eve thought. Of the two of them, Kitty was definitely the sister who was better at walking the right side of the proprietary line. They had grown up in a society of ritual, rules, and customs where proper Form and Taste were to be adhered to above all. Lelan Preston often teased Eve that they left upholding their social position to his wife and younger daughter. It was a world in which her sister excelled under the tutelage of her mother, and she was sure to follow Mrs. Preston as a premier hostess of their set. Kitty, just a year younger than Evelyn, was certainly the more ideal debutante of the pair. She was witty and charming yet soft-spoken, a perfect socialite.

Evelyn, on the other hand, did not take to Society’s rules as well as her sister. Certainly, she could run the large Preston households very well, directing servants and planning menus. She spoke three languages fluently and could be very witty and entertaining over tea. And, to give her fair credit, one could say that Evelyn was equally aware of the conformity of Society. She simply chose, from time to time, not to conform.

New York’s Knickerbocker set extended approval to Evelyn and her father with affection tempered by tolerance of their difficulties bending to the acceptable form of the times. Her Da was one for doing as he wanted, damn the consequences and had always encouraged his daughters to do the same. They may have lived in a society of rules and rituals, but Lelan Preston had never been very good at consistently doing what was polite and proper.

Despite all that, both father and daughter could charm anyone they met, even the matrons of the oldest families on the social register.

Her father had travelled a long road since he had immigrated to New York from Ireland nearly forty years before. Despite his marriage to Margaret Winters, a distant cousin to the Astors, and the fortune he’d accumulated, it had taken Preston some time to become truly accepted into Old New York Society. Evelyn was born shortly after the end of the war in 1865, and Katherine, whom they all called Kitty, was born the next year. The family they created softened the Winters and Astor families to him. The Preston family name gained secure position in Society when they were listed among the ‘400.’ The elite of Society as determined by Mrs. Caroline Astor, the ‘400’ was actually named for the number of people who would fit in the ballroom of her Fifth Avenue mansion. It consisted of 213 families of established social background whose lineage could be traced back at least three generations.

It was a place secured by his wife’s heritage, but Preston did not stop his quest to become one of the richest men in America. By the time the girls had made their debut, he was worth more than one hundred million dollars.

What charm alone had not overcome, wealth had forgiven.

* * *

He was a Scot, I think, Eve contemplated out loud as her mind wandered back to the mysterious man she had met. Her sister was letting down her hair at the dressing table, and Eve moved to join her. Taking the brush from their maid’s hand, Eve dismissed her and proceeded to brush her sister’s hair as they had done all their lives. I recognize his accent now that I’ve had time to reflect on it. Maybe Abby or Moira would know who he is.

Abygail Merrill and Moira MacKenzie were the sisters’ two dearest friends from The Folkestone Academy for Young Ladies—a veritable prison of a finishing school they had all attended together until almost two years ago when Eve had graduated and moved on to university. She and her sister had been outcasts at the elite school from the beginning of their stay six years before simply for being American, while Abby and Moira had faced equal disdain for their Scottish heritage. And, except for Abby, they were all heiresses of obscene wealth which was enough to prompt animosity from the academy’s other students without further cause.

Where Eve and Kitty were sisters true, Abby and Moira were sisters at heart having grown up near each other. Moira had actually begged her father to send her down to the academy when she had found out Abby was going. They had spent the better part of their time serving punishments the headmistress, Miss Stapleton, continued to heap on them each time they decided to have a little fun. For four years, the quartet had run wild together, becoming inseparable, the best of friends, and getting into more trouble than any other students in the history of the school.

Should I write them and ask, do you think? Eve asked tying a ribbon at the bottom of the long plait she had just completed.

Taking the brush and pushing her sister into the chair for her turn, Kitty shook her head and giggled at Eve’s obsession. Dearest, even if you had an actual name, Abby and Moira do not know every man in Scotland.

They might.

They probably don’t.

Improbable but not impossible.

Kitty continued to brush and braid and finally gave her sister a pat. There, you are done now.

Eve sighed heavily. Not that it would matter. Da has all but engaged me to that stuffy old man, Lord Hindon.

He’s not that old. Kitty’s soft voice tempered her comment.

Eve merely shrugged. And you know mother would never let me choose some mere gentleman over a future earl.

True.

But...oh Kitty! When he looked at me...

What? her sister urged as she turned down the covers on her side of the bed and climbed in. A dollop of envy descended upon Kitty as she listened to Eve and watched her sister’s face light up as she spoke about her mystery man. She’d never met a gentleman who had caused her such flights. Never met a man who made her feel anything like the sisters had dreamed of. She wanted to very badly. Was it like a fairy tale? Was it like everything we always dreamed of?

My heart fairly stopped. I swear it! Eve giggled, climbing into their bed, hugging her pillow close again. "It was like a fairy tale meeting. The stuff of dreams. I never imagined that such immediate feeling was actually possible. But I’ve never looked at a man before and just had the thought leap into my mind that I had to know his kiss."

No!

Yes. The idea of love at first sight chased through her mind, but she dismissed it as a girlish idea. It was girlish, still utterly romantic. She turned down the lantern next to the bed and smiled dreamily into the darkness. And somehow, some way...I know I will find out.

Chapter 4

Half Moon Street

London, England

The next evening

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It’s just no use, Evelyn’s voice was fraught with exasperation. There are just too many people here. I haven’t been able to engage Lady Hyde in conversation for more than a few seconds and, if he is here, I could never see him for the crush.

Indeed, the assembly room of Lady Hyde’s townhouse was packed to the rafters with London’s finest. And Lady Hyde was probably as pleased as punch in spite of the heat generated by so many bodies. Eve was so very uncomfortable under her long corset, and her agitation over her target’s failure to appear certainly did little to ease her discomfort. She circled the ballroom a dozen times in search of the man who so captured her attention, tempting her mother’s wrath while rudely ignoring any other gentleman who might beg a dance from her.

Worry not, dear, Kitty tried to reassure her. We shall keep looking. I’m engaged for the next set with Sir Melton but, as soon as we’re done, we can take another turn about the room. If you had let anyone fill in your dance card, you would have had something to do other than worry over this.

I wanted to be able to dance with him in case he asked.

And instead, you’ve been a wallflower for most of the evening, and there are only two sets remaining before supper.

Leave me, Kat, and go enjoy your dance. Eve continued her perusal of the room. I know Sir Melton is very handsome and dashing.

True, but I don’t feel that I have to know his kiss, her sister teased, bringing a blush to Eve’s cheeks.

Very amusing, dear sister, but one day— Kitty turned as her sister froze and clenched her arm. Kat, it’s him!

Where? she demanded, scanning the room in the direction Eve