What the Hart Wants - Fiona Davenport Page 0,42

oak panels lined the walls, decorated with candle sconces. On one wall hung a woolen plaid with a red background, decorated with blue and green stripes, the contrasting colors shimmering in the candlelight. Beside it, hung a tapestry depicting a hunting scene—a stag in the forefront being speared by a band of men who looked like savages with shaggy red hair, heavy swords, wearing plaids in a pattern to match the wall hanging. A huge mountain dominated the background, above which a pair of eagles circled.

In the forefront, where the deer had been speared, blood ran from the wound, staining the rocks red.

Unlike the delicately embroidered screens of the parlors in Mayfair, the tapestry depicted life without embellishments. Nature in its raw fashion, together with the brutality and savagery of Highland life.

“Do you like what you see, Miss Hart?” her host asked.

“It’s like nothing I’ve seen in my life.”

“Look behind you,” he said.

She turned toward the opposite wall. A stag’s head mounted on a large, polished block of wood greeted her.

“Perhaps our guest finds our country a little too much for her,” a female voice said. Miss MacKenzie watched Lilah with a slight smile on her lips, though her gaze was hard and cold.

“Not at all,” Lilah said, “but I’ll admit you wouldn’t find quite such an honest depiction of a hunt in London’s drawing rooms.”

“Is that because the English are unwilling to face the truth?” Miss MacKenzie asked.

Lilah gestured toward the tapestry. “Were you to display such a raw picture of brutality in a Mayfair dining room, I doubt the diners would enjoy their venison as much.”

Miss MacKenzie gave a snort and reached for her wine.

“Do you find our honesty unsettling, Miss Hart?” Mrs. Macgregor asked.

“On the contrary, I admire it,” Lilah said. “I take it your ancestors are in the picture?”

“Aye,” Fraser said, pride in his voice. “That’s my great-grandfather leading the hunt. Auld Willie led him a fine chase.”

“Auld Willie?”

“The stag.”

“And your great-grandfather had him stuffed and mounted?”

“He ate him. But to honor their battle of wits, he had him mounted, so we would remember him. I think you would have liked him.”

“Your grandfather or the stag?”

He let out a laugh. “My grandfather, Miss Hart. He was a fellow countryman of yours.”

“He was an Englishman?”

“Aye. It’s due to him that I suffer the misfortune of being a duke. His older brother was the ninth duke. But my ancestor was, if I understand, something of a rebel. He left to marry the daughter of a Highlander who fought against the English in several battles, and his father disowned him.”

“Then you could argue that justice has finally been served, now that the title has fallen to you,” Lilah said.

He shook his head. “It comes with responsibilities and expectations I neither need nor want.”

“Ah, but your particular title comes with the least expectation,” Lilah said. “Your predecessor was hardly a paragon of honor.”

“You sound just like Mr. Smith,” he said. “Do you sympathize with his attempts to discredit me in print?”

“Of course not.” She resumed her attention on the dish in front of her, a creamy broth of smoked fish. “The soup is delicious, Mrs. MacGregor.”

“Thank you, Miss Hart. It’s a variant of a traditional Scottish recipe, which has been in our family for generations. Most families will have their own particular version.”

The conversation turned toward food for the rest of the meal. When supper was concluded, Fraser escorted them into the drawing room where he poured them each a glass of whisky.

“I thought you said Miss Hart loathed the stuff,” Miss MacKenzie said.

Lilah’s cheeks warmed at the notion that he’d been discussing her with his…

His what?

Family friend? Lover?

Or betrothed?

“I’m willing to try it again,” Lilah said.

Miss MacKenzie sipped her whisky and smiled. “I find first impressions tend to be the most accurate.”

Fraser handed Lilah a glass. “I’ve mixed it with a little water. It improves the flavor.”

She took it, ignoring the warmth of his hand as her fingers brushed against his, and sipped it. The flavor burst on her tongue, a smoky, earthy richness, which warmed her throat as she swallowed.

“That’s delicious,” she said. “Somehow not as harsh as the liquor I tasted in London. Are you sure it’s the same?”

“Perhaps your taste is improving,” he said.

Miss MacKenzie let out a snort. “It’s rather fickle to change one’s mind at the persuasion of others.”

“But necessary, if one is to grow,” Lilah said. “I admire a steady character, but an unwillingness to change one’s opinion can be a sign of