The Laird's Willful Lass (The Lairds Most Likely 1)

And afterward.

“You don’t mind?”

“That he takes my daughter as his mistress and not as his lawful wife, so she can celebrate her love in the sunlight? I mind it very much. But I also remember what it was like to be young and in love.” His eyes were sad, and she knew he was thinking of her mother. “Then tonight. Ah, tonight, the hissing cat and the mournful hound are back, eyeing one another off over the dinner table, and they’re giving me indigestion.”

“I hardly said a word,” she protested.

Her father shrugged. “You were hissing in your heart.”

Despite everything, a grim huff of amusement escaped her. “That’s not a very flattering description of either of us.”

Her father rolled his eyes. “Imagine how I felt having to look at you both.” He paused. “What’s happened? Has Fergus decided he no longer wants a mistress? The young can be fickle, but he doesn’t strike me as a shallow man. And he still looks at you as if he wants to gobble you up like a bonbon. No, I don’t think he’s tired of you. Perhaps you’ve tired of him. If you have, you don’t seem happy about the end of the affair.”

She shifted in discomfort. Her father was a worldly man, but she remained his daughter. “Papa, I’m not sure I can talk to you about this.”

He made a sound that indicated how asinine he considered that remark. “If you’re old enough to go to a man’s bed without benefit of marriage, you’re old enough to speak about what you’ve done.”

She winced. “You are upset.”

“Well, I’m your father. Now, tell me what’s happened, because I’ve held off giving you advice so far, but you look so woebegone tonight, I might be able to help.”

He’d been compassionate and perceptive, and better to her than she’d deserved. Anyway, he was right. She was making a horrid mess of things. She couldn’t forget how stricken Fergus had looked this afternoon when she’d told him she couldn’t marry him.

Marina looked down to their linked hands. The view became mistier by the second. “It’s all hopeless.”

Her father squeezed her hand. “He doesn’t love you?”

A tear trickled down her cheek. “He says he does.”

“So you don’t love him?”

“Of course I do. Do you think I’d have…”

“No, I didn’t think you would.” A prickly pause. “So he wants you as his mistress, not as his wife?”

Marina shook her head and more tears escaped. She lifted her free hand to wipe her eyes, but it didn’t help. “He asked me to marry him.”

Her father said slowly, “I’m not sure I see the difficulty.”

She drew a constricted breath and made herself meet his eyes. “Don’t you really?”

“You’re both in love. He’s proposed marriage. He’s a fine young man. You’re the best girl in the world—and don’t accuse me of being biased. Why are you crying your poor heart out to your papa, instead of announcing the good news?”

Since the day her mother died, Marina had missed her. She’d never missed her as much as she did at this moment, when she realized her father didn’t understand her at all, despite their long years together. The knowledge made her feel more alone than ever.

She tugged her hand free and fumbled in her pocket for a handkerchief. “You must see marriage is impossible.”

Her father frowned in dismay. “Now I’ve upset you, when you’re already so unhappy.” His voice softened. “Tell your old papa why you won’t marry Fergus.”

She made a defeated gesture. They seemed to be becoming a habit. “I’m an artist, not a wife.”

“Can’t you be both?”

“I don’t know,” she said unsteadily. “I doubt it. The Mackinnon is a demanding man. He’ll ask a great deal of the woman he weds.”

“You have a great deal to give.”

“He’s stubborn and opinionated.”