Free Amanda Scott by Highland Spirits Page A

Bella, and that Aunt Marsali has said she will be happy to help dress me.”
    “I do not like taking her charity,” Michael said stiffly.
    “Well, you cannot afford that sort of stupid pride if you want this venture to prosper,” she snapped. “You are putting a great deal of trust in his lordship, and far too much in me. If I do not like him…”
    When she paused meaningfully, glaring at him, he said with as much patience as he could muster, “All I ask, Bridget, is that you behave like a well-bred Highland lady should. You do not want to shame the name of Mingary.”
    “As if I would do any such thing. I know very well what is due to my great name, sir, and it is not to be dressed in rags.”
    “Your gowns look quite suitable to me,” he said, knowing the minute the words had left his tongue that he had merely offered tinder to a spark.
    She fired up at once. “You do not know anything about feminine attire, Michael. You rarely go into company, and even on those few occasions during the year that we manage to dine away from Mingary, you do not heed what other women wear, or notice how painful it is for me to let quite inferior females see me looking like a tattie-bogle, wearing the same ancient gown over and over again.”
    “Most of those females are likewise wearing gowns they have worn before,” he pointed out. “Few of our neighbors can afford much more than we can.”
    “Exactly so, but I am Lady Bridget Mingary. It is much worse for me than it is for plain Rose Martin or Sadie Sanderson.”
    “I know that you find it so, my dear,” Michael said in what he hoped was a soothing tone. Judging by the fire in her eyes, however, it was not soothing enough. A voice in his head warned him that he had no hope of persuading her to heed his concerns. Nonetheless, he made one more effort. “Although it may prove difficult for you at times to forgo some of the pleasures you crave, you will not want to be too much beholden to Aunt Marsali.”
    “She wants to help,” Bridget insisted, her voice rising sufficiently to warn Michael that unless he wanted to endure one of her tantrums, or be forced to play the tyrant again, he would do better to placate her.
    “Please, lass, we cannot discuss this if you fly into the boughs. I know that our aunt has offered many times to help you take your proper place in the world, but even she cannot know how much a Season in London will cost. She is not King Midas, you know. Her desire to help will not turn the leaves of the trees into gold. You must not press her to spend more than she can afford.”
    “Do you think she has no mind of her own, Michael?”
    “I don’t think any such thing. I merely—”
    “Then, pray, did you read her letter, the one she sent in response to yours?”
    “You know I did. I read it before I gave it to you to read.”
    “Well, you cannot have paid it much heed, or you would recall that she said I would want to be well gowned, and that she would be delighted to see to the matter if you would but allow her to do so.”
    “I do recall what she wrote; however—”
    “Oh, do be sensible! Even at the long price Glenmore is paying for Cailean, once you have paid for our journey, and set aside enough to pay for our month in London, I daresay you will have less than half of it left. Moreover, you will also need new clothing, you know, unless you mean to embarrass us all dreadfully.”
    “Begging your pardon, m’lord.”
    The servant’s voice startled them both. Neither had noticed his entry.
    Though he was grateful for the interruption, Michael replied more sharply than he had intended. “What is it, Connal?”
    “Sir Renfrew Campbell is below, your lordship.”
    “Mercy,” Bridget exclaimed, clapping her hands to her cheeks. “Don’t see him, Michael! Send him away!”
    “Don’t be foolish,” Michael said. Then, to the servant, “Bring him up. No, wait. Does he request hospitality?”
    “Nay, m’lord. He said he and his man stayed the