“Yes, Papa?” Frances said at last, turning to face her father. “Did you wish something?”
“Did you wish something?” Ruthven mimicked her, and strode forward. “Come with me, my girl.”
“Really, Papa, I—”
“Shut your trap, Frances!” He grasped her arm and pulled her through the door.
She took double steps to keep up with him. At least, she thought, there would be no scene this time in front of Angus, who was the most garrulous servant at Kilbracken. They walked past the stables, past Randall and Penelope, their two goats, toward the hill behind Kilbracken that was just beginning to burst with bright purple heather.
Ruthven released his daughter’s arm and looked down at her in disgust. “What the hell do you think you’re doing, you stupid girl?” He looked at her eyes through the disgusting spectacles, and shuddered.
Only the truth, Frances thought. She thrust her chin up and said, “I do not wish to marry this Sassenach, Papa. I will not marry him. I am merely ensuring that he won’t give me another one of his arrogant looks.”
“Arrogant? Rothermere? Why, the boy’s fine, just fine. If he’s a bit stiff, I can’t say that I blame him. Like you, Frances, it was not his choice to come up here and take himself a wife. He’s behaving quite properly. What’s more, you stupid twit, the boy’s father i
s gravely ill. How would you feet—warm and friendly and bursting with good spirits?”
Oh dear, Frances thought. She’d not known about Rothermere’s father. Well, she was sorry, to be sure, but it had nothing to do with her. She raised her chin, and the spectacles slid down her nose. “Papa, I don’t want to marry. I don’t want to leave you or Kilbracken. I belong here. Please, Papa.”
That brought him up short, but just for a moment. “Just what makes you believe that he’d give you a second look in any case? Talk about conceit, my girl! You’re no better than Viola.”
“I know,” said Frances. She sat down in the midst of a clump of heather. “But I simply don’t want to take the chance.”
Ruthven was silent for a moment. Frances, uncomfortable with his silence, much preferring his rages, waved her hand about her. “Would you want to leave this, Papa?”
“What I want,” he said at last, “is what’s best for you, Frances.”
“That man,” she said in budding anger, “is certainly not it. Oh, he’s well-enough-looking, I grant you that, but he’s English, Papa. English! He probably thinks we’re all savages, you know he does.”
“With our proper British speech? Not likely, my girl. Frances, you’re getting me off-track. Now, I want you to appear as yourself at the dinner table.”
“No,” said Frances.
Ruthven, who had seldom heard any form of negative from his favorite daughter in all her nineteen years, merely stared at her. He said finally, “Do you have any idea how awful you look? How homely and dowdy?”
“Of course, I practiced in front of the mirror, before I removed it from my bedchamber.” She tilted up her face. “The bedchamber Sophia so kindly gave to him.”
“I can’t see the man camped amongst pink frills, for God’s sake, or breathing in Clare’s oil paints.”
“He could have slept in the tower.”
“Stupid girl! And have the floor collapse beneath his feet?”
That was true enough, Frances thought, but now she had to sleep amongst Viola’s pink frills.
“Where did you get those damned spectacles?”
“From a trunk in one of the attics. I rather thought they were a fine touch.”
“I’m going to thrash you, Frances.”
“If you do, I’ll look even more awful.”
The both of them knew it was an empty threat. Ruthven didn’t know what to do. Damn her for being so much like him! “You refuse to obey me, Frances?”
“Please, Papa,” Frances said, rising and grasping his hands in hers, “please don’t make me. Besides, he won’t want me anyway. Did you not see how he was gazing at Viola? She’s young and malleable, and gentlemen want that. And she’s pretty as Clare, and so vivacious. You said the earl preferred lively ladies. I would make him miserable, you know. Even Clare would please him more than I would. She could be quite an asset—she could paint portraits of all his friends. Think about the poor man, Papa.”
Ruthven was thinking about the poor earl. He was fond of his other two daughters, but they weren’t Frances. They wouldn’t make the Earl of Rothermere remotely happy, and if he weren’t happy, how could they be? Unlike Frances, Ruthven knew of Hawk’s character, at least from his sire’s undoubtedly biased perspective. He decided to think about this. Perhaps he could speak to Hawk, tell him of the deception, tell him what a fine girl Frances was, encourage him to be ... He frowned. Hellfire, he could just see the look on the young man’s face were he to tell him that his middle daughter couldn’t abide the thought of being his wife and had made herself purposely ugly to avoid it. He cursed fluently. Frances could see the pulse pounding wildly in his throat.