What the Hart Wants - Fiona Davenport Page 0,44
looked after by another.”
“Such as a wife?” Lilah asked.
“A wife lives for her husband,” Miss MacKenzie said. “My life will be complete when I can support someone I’ve pledged to honor and obey.”
“You believe a woman should be defined by her husband?” Lilah asked. “Can’t she have interests or pursuits of her own?”
“Only insofar as they do not hinder the husband’s ambitions.”
“She may wish to earn a living of her own,” Lilah said.
Miss Mackenzie curled her lip. “Only if she wishes to emasculate her husband.”
“Miss MacKenzie!” Mrs. MacGregor exclaimed. “I hardly think…”
“No, no,” Lilah said, laughing. “It’s a reasonable question which any woman in pursuit of equality must be prepared to answer. There are many women in the city of London, earning respectable incomes to support themselves.”
“Are they married?” Miss MacKenzie asked.
“Married women often help their husbands in running a business.”
“Perhaps you wish to earn a living from your writing,” Miss MacKenzie said. “An impossible task, given that you must first convince a man to publish your work.”
Lilah opened her mouth to respond but thought better of it. Though she wished to set this spiteful young woman straight by relating the success of her Essays on Patriarchy, she had no wish to reveal her identity as the author.
Fraser came to her rescue. “Commercial success does not always go hand in hand with the quality of the product, Jennifer. I’ve had the privilege of reading a number of Miss Hart’s poems and have found them to be excellent.”
Lilah looked up, and their eyes met. His glittered with warmth, reflecting the orange glow of the fire, and his lips curled into a smile.
“How wonderful!” Mrs. MacGregor said. “Would it be too forward of me to ask you to read one aloud for us? I am very fond of poetry, am I not, Fraser?”
He gave his mother an indulgent smile. “Ma was once privileged enough to meet the Bard,” he said.
“Perhaps our guest is unaware of the Bard,” Miss MacKenzie said, her tone sullen.
“I’m well acquainted with the work of Robert Burns,” Lilah said. “His Grace was kind enough to introduce me to the pleasures of Burns’s poetry the first day we met.” She gave him a saucy smile. “I’m sure you remember that day well.”
“How could I forget?”
Was it her imagination or had his voice taken on a gravelly tone?
“Are you working on a poem now, Miss Hart?” Mrs. MacGregor asked.
“I am.”
“I’d love to read some of your work if it’s not an imposition.”
“Miss Hart is never without her writing materials,” Fraser said. “She spent every evening writing during the journey here.”
Guilt stabbed at Lilah at the pride in his voice. For the past few days, she’d abandoned her poetry in favor of completing her final essay as Jeremiah Smith.
“I’m not sure…” she hesitated. Her hostess interrupted her.
“I promise not to compare you too unfavorably with Burns, my dear. I would encourage every woman, married or not, to cultivate her passion, to ensure she maintains her independent identity.”
Lilah had an ally in Mrs. MacGregor, which only made her subterfuge even more treasonous.
“Perhaps another time,” Lilah said. “I’m rather tired.”
“Is our Highland air too much for you?” Miss MacKenzie asked.
Ignoring the young woman, Mrs. MacGregor took Lilah’s hand. “You poor dear,” she said. “Not only have you been subjected to such a long journey, my son saw fit to drag you round his factory without a single thought for your comfort. Fraser, you should take better care of your lovely guest.”
“I assure you, ma’am, he’s taken the utmost care of me,” Lilah said, “but I am very tired, and would beg to be excused.”
“Then I’ll bid you goodnight,” her hostess said, “and see you tomorrow morning, where I trust a hearty breakfast will revive you.”
Lilah rose to her feet, curtseyed, then exited the room, but not before she caught a look of triumph in Miss MacKenzie’s eyes.
Tonight she’d learned two things. Her host was a man beyond compare, a man she could grow to love.
And, she had a rival for his affections.
Chapter Sixteen
An owl screeched outside, and Lilah sat upright, heart pounding.
Voices chattered in the distance—servants clearing up after dinner and laying the fires in preparation for the morning. How was it that the men and women who tended to the rich retired much later than the people they served and were obliged to rise earlier?
She wiggled her toes, which had grown numb with cold. The owl screeched again, and she slipped out of bed. A shaft of moonlight streamed through the window,