Once Upon a Highland Christmas by Lecia Cornwall Page B

dowries at the very least, but the sixth earl had left nothing at all to the girls, or to Marjorie. Without dowries, the girls could not hope to wed men of power, wealth, and stature. Pretty as Penelope was, her beauty alone would not make the kind of match Marjorie wanted for her daughter. And without a financial legacy of her own, Marjorie would also be consigned to rot in a small cottage somewhere out of the way, forgotten.
    She wished now that she had not dismissed her young Scottish nephew as a worthless bumpkin when she’d met him all those years ago. She could have cultivated a friendship—­ or at least an acquaintance—­with the boy who was now going to be her salvation.
    He hadn’t yet proposed to Penelope. He must, of course, be brought to the point, forced to it, if necessary. She smoothed the frown lines away from her brow. Penelope was exceedingly pretty, and raised to be a countess. It baffled Marjorie that Iain had not dropped to his knees and proposed the moment he’d met his lovely cousin. There was not another woman at Craigleith who could be considered even remotely attractive—­not when compared with Penelope. Marjorie had assumed the man would be all too eager to take such a fine lady to wife, but he was proving remarkably stubborn about it, or perhaps he was just slow. Marjorie had hinted to her daughter—­sharply—­that if Iain would not come to the point, then Penelope must do whatever was necessary to make him propose.
    She was determined that before Iain set foot inside Woodford Park’s hallowed halls, Penelope would be the next Countess of Purbrick.
    Penelope need only give birth to a strong, healthy son, and her duty would be done. Iain looked more than capable of breeding healthy boys. Marjorie would carefully raise her grandson to be the next earl—­a proper English earl.
    She laid a finger against her cheek and smiled. There was so much to be done, so many things to take charge of. There was Christmas, first of all—­they would have a proper English Christmas, not the bannock-­and-­bagpipe slapdash kind of thing the folk here were no doubt accustomed to.
    And before the wedding vows were said, Marjorie planned to insist that Iain change his name back to Marston. She imagined the wedding invitations, stating that Lady Penelope Curry would wed the esteemed Earl of Purbrick, Lord Iain Marston. Or better still, he might be coerced to use the English version of his Chris­tian name too, become John Marston, a proper English name no one could find fault with.
    She nibbled on the edge of her toast, then tossed it back on the plate in disgust. Rough brown bread was all they seemed to have here. How she missed fresh, warm white rolls, served on a bone china plate with strawberry preserves and thick English cream.
    The door burst open. Marjorie opened her mouth to scold the invader for failing to knock, but she stopped at the sight of Penelope’s stricken face.
    â€œDarling girl, whatever is the matter?” She’d instructed Penelope to encourage Iain to kiss her. Surely the man hadn’t insulted her, taken it too far, or not far enough.
    â€œIain brought a woman home,” Penelope said, and Marjorie felt a sharp stab of anger in her chest.
    â€œA woman? What kind of woman?” A doxie, perhaps, or a mistress?
    â€œHe found her in the snow, lost on the moor, injured,” Penelope said. She folded her arms over her bosom and stuck out her lower lip like a mutinous child.
    Marjorie sighed. “Some local woman, I assume, a Highlander.” She let her lip curl on the last word.
    â€œShe’s a lady, ” Penelope said.
    Marjorie’s brows shot upward. A lady ? “Scottish or English?”
    â€œScottish. But her brother is an earl.”
    Marjorie clenched her fists under the bedclothes, but she forced her face to register flat calm for the moment. “Is she plain or—­” She