The Highland Countess by M.C. Beaton Page A

shafts straight through the window of the coach next to Morag’s.
    “Is it always like this?” she gasped to her companion.
    “Oh, always,” replied Lord Freddie. “I mean, it isn’t a fashionable event if you don’t have to go through this, don’t you see.”
    Morag’s coachman, perched on his box, became impatient with the press and frightened for the safety of his horses. He let out a wild Highland battle cry which froze the struggling mass for a minute—long enough for him to see a sizable gap and drive his carriage in.
    “Good work, Jimmy,” called Morag and the coachman touched his cocked hat and grinned down at her. “I hope I get us back oot o’ this mess, my leddy,” he called. “Did ye ever see the like? Whitna clamjamfrey. But you go and enjoy yersel, my leddy.”
    Morag laughed and waved her hand. Lord Freddie stared at her in surprise. “Are your servants usually so familiar?” he asked.
    “They are not familiar in the least,” said Morag in chilly accents. “They merely display a native independence of character combined with genuine concern for my happiness.”
    “Sorry,” mumbled Lord Freddie, privately thinking that his Highland rose was indeed set about with thorns in the shape of one impossible brat and an army of cheeky retainers.
    Almack’s was not so magnificent as Morag had expected. She had once been to one of the assemblies in Perth which had been held in an inn. It had been an infinitely more elegant setting than the one which now faced her. The ballroom was large and bare with a bad floor. Ropes were hung round it to divide the dancers from the audience of chaperones and wallflowers. Three equally bare rooms led off the ballroom where dry and tasteless refreshments were served.
    But the magnificence of the guests more than made up for these defects and the lighting and the music were good.
    Morag was quickly surrounded by men, vying to partner her in the dances. As the evening wore on, she began to relax. Lord Toby would not come, of course. Not that she cared, but it would be interesting to see if he looked the same. Nothing more.
    She was pirouetting gracefully under Lord Freddie’s arm when she became aware of an old feeling of apprehension and unease.
    Despite herself, her eyes were drawn to a corner of the room. Lord Toby stood there, staring straight across at her, those eyes, as green as she remembered, burning in his white face. He has changed, she thought breathlessly, tearing her eyes away. So much more elegant, so much more handsome, so much colder and harder.
    “Dyed, of course,” commented the calm voice of his fiancée at his elbow.
    Lord Toby glanced down at Miss Sampson in some surprise. His Henrietta was not being spiteful, of course, merely making one of her practical observations.
    “Do you refer to the Countess of Murr?” he asked.
    “If that is she,” said Henrietta, “the female with the impossible colored hair.”
    “I assure you it is not dyed,” said Lord Toby. “I met the lady and her husband some seven years ago when I was touring Scotland. It is a dramatic color, I admit, but quite usual in the Highlands of Scotland.”
    “Poor girl! How unfortunate!” said Henrietta, with a complacent pat at her brown curls. “But then she is newly come to town and will learn that
dark
beauties are the fashion. She is quite mature of course and perhaps I should advise her to wear caps.”
    “As I remember, she is some two years older than you, Miss Sampson,” said Lord Toby with some asperity.
    “Really!” Henrietta fanned herself languidly. “It must be the rigors of the climate.”
    Lord Toby looked back at Morag. Her figure was now full-breasted and mature. She moved with an ethereal grace, and more than one man stared at her hungrily.
    He was suddenly angry that she could laugh and dance with such seeming unconcern. She had seen him, after all. Surely she remembered him. Well, he was not likely to find out. He knew she was probably already