Highland Heiress - By Margaret Moore Page 0,18
had another reason. I stand to make such a tidy profit, I stopped to get a present for a certain young lady of my acquaintance.” He reached into his jacket and produced a small blue velvet box tied with a scarlet satin ribbon that he held out to her. “A trifle for my darling daughter.”
Even the wrapping looked expensive. “Oh, Papa, you shouldn’t have!”
“If I can’t spoil my daughter, who can I spoil, at least until I have grandchildren?” he replied. “Besides, I thought you deserved something after…well, after your recent troubles.”
More grateful for his sympathy, she leaned over and kissed him on the cheek.
“Enough of that! Just put it on.”
She undid the ribbon and opened the box. “Oh, Papa!” she gasped at the sight of a lovely cameo of a woman’s profile, the background a beautiful periwinkle blue. She lifted it out and held it up to admire against her cream-colored day gown. “It’s lovely!”
“I saw it and immediately thought of you, my dear.”
She pinned it to her bodice and went to look at her reflection in the mirror. It was the perfect size, and pretty and delicate.
“So, my dear, you know how my trip to Glasgow was. What have you been doing in my absence? Not spending all your time on that school, I hope.”
No, she most definitely had not.
But she certainly didn’t want to ruin this moment by telling him about meeting Mr. McHeath in the wood, and especially about that kiss, and surely Robbie’s legal challenge could wait a little while. Too many times in recent months her time with her father had been colored by dread and dismay. “I did have a meeting with Mr. Stamford about the school.”
Her father tilted his head and paused with another scone halfway to his mouth. “And?”
“And he seemed to think he could charge whatever he liked because I wouldn’t be aware of the cost of building materials.”
Her father chuckled before he took a bite of the scone. “More fool him. Speaking of fools, have those three idiot women done anything more to upset you?”
Moira wished her father hadn’t been with her the last time she’d gone into Dunbrachie. He’d been much more disturbed by the way the three young women had given her the cut direct than she had been, in part because she didn’t particularly care for the leader of the cabal, Sarah Taggart. “No, Papa, I haven’t seen them lately.”
He eased himself back on the sofa. “So, you’ve had a peaceful time in Dunbrachie, then.”
Moira laced her fingers in her lap and took a deep breath. Although she would rather wait, he was going to have to hear about Robbie’s lawsuit eventually, so she might as well tell him now, while he was in a good mood. And it would be better here, where all the wine and spirits were under her control. “I’m afraid there’s been some difficulty with Sir Robert.”
When he was sober, her father’s gaze could cut like a knife. “What do you mean, difficulty?”
She swallowed hard before answering, and tried to keep her voice level and calm. “It seems, Papa, that Sir Robert has decided to sue me for breach of promise.”
Her father bolted up from the sofa as if she’d stuck him with a pin, and his face bore the same incredulous expression that had probably been on her face when McHeath had made the same announcement. “What?”
“Because I broke our engagement, he’s suing me for breach of promise.”
“That’s ridiculous!” her father exclaimed, his face turning as red as ripe cherries, a stark contrast to his white hair.
“I quite agree, but ridiculous or not, that’s what he’s doing,” she replied, her hands clasped in her lap, hoping that if she was calm, he would be, too, although it might take a while. “Apparently his attorney thinks he has a case because our engagement was public knowledge, so what can be considered a verbal contract was also public knowledge.”
“Public knowledge?” her father angrily repeated. “Aye, your engagement was public knowledge and so were his liaisons with all those young women—to everybody in Dunbrachie but us!”
“Nevertheless, his solicitor said—”
“Has Gallagher lost his mind?” her father demanded, naming Sir Robert’s usual solicitor, the man who’d been involved in the drafting of her marriage settlement.
“It wasn’t Mr. Gallagher. The solicitor is a friend of Sir Robert’s from Edinburgh, Mr. Gordon McHeath.”
“I don’t give a damn who he is or where he’s from. They’ll never win.”
It was probably better to tell her father everything here and