Grief touched souls differently, often lingering longer in some. She was by no means an expert on Wynn’s handling of personal sensitivities, but she sensed a change rooting deeper than the loss of his brother. Tension marked his moves and smiling seemed an afterthought. More than once she’d caught him staring off into the distance as if a war raged in his mind. When she asked him about it, he would shake his head and assure her nothing was amiss. But the smile he offered wasn’t from the Wynn she knew.
Since that day in the auto so many weeks ago, he hadn’t tried to kiss her again. In fact, he hadn’t done more than brush her shoulder in passing. Was he regretting his hasty declaration of wanting to move forward with her? Without the stresses of wartime binding them together, was he regretting their marriage? Was that the change he was hiding from her? An ache filled her chest as the fragile foundation they’d built continued its shift.
“I’m certain this party is just the thing to lift his spirits. Think of how much money you’ll raise tonight for the training center,” Marina continued. How blessed was youth without adult worries to tint its optimistic view. “I can’t wait to help with the nursing courses. If there’s one good thing that came from that wretched influenza, it’s knowing we need more nurses on hand. Do you think they’ll let me qualify early?”
“Hospitals have their age requirements, but don’t worry. I’m sure they’ll still need nurses when you turn eighteen.”
“What good is having a top surgeon for a brother-in-law if he can’t bend the rules a little?” Marina grumbled.
“Patience,
“Time for what? Cats?” Wynn materialized as if summoned. His hair, customarily waved and loose in opposition to the dictates of fashion, was slicked to the side with a sheen that darkened it to brown, with his eyes following suit.
“Kitten,” Marina corrected with a giggle as she eyed Wynn’s knee-baring ensemble. “More important, what is that?”
“A kilt. It’s traditional Highland dress for formal gatherings.”
Svetlana frowned. “We are in the Lowlands, are we not? Perhaps I do not understand the boundaries of your country as well as I presumed.”
“No, you’re correct.” Wynn adjusted the thick material pleating over his shoulder. “Traditionally, Lowlanders follow English standards of dress, but a few decades back, when King George became the first monarch to visit Scotland in nearly two centuries, organized by Sir Walter Scott, I might add, his regal vision was assaulted by tartan pageantry. The visit was a roaring success, blurring the lines between Highland and Lowland and declaring the plaid and kilt part of Scotland’s national identity. It’s a grievous sin now not to wear one. Thus, I am the tartan-draped man before you.”
He wasn’t the only man wearing one, but he certainly outshone all the others with his air of captured ruggedness. He tugged on the finely cut black jacket with its shining gold buttons, setting off the crisp white shirt and black waistcoat beneath. Svetlana had glimpsed the national garb worn by his ancestors—with great swaths of material looped over their shoulders and long eagle feathers blooming from their caps—in the portraits hung along the upstairs corridors. Seeing it in person was a thrill she could not anticipate. Men wore nothing like this in Russia. If they did, they would most certainly freeze. Hardy indeed were the men of Scotland. And this one was hers.
“I haven’t worn this rig in ages and now I remember why, but it befits a duke, I suppose.” A cloud passed over his face. It lasted but a second yet long enough to show the varying facets of his inner struggles.
Not knowing how else to show her support, Svetlana took a step closer and brushed her arm against his. “Very handsome.”
At her touch his expression softened as he looked at her. “And very bonny, as we say here in Scotland. The MacCallan colors suit you.”
A blush rose to Svetlana’s cheeks as she smoothed a hand over the shoulder sash woven in blue-and-green tartan pinned to her purple dress of half-mourning. “Your mother suggested it. As befitting the Duchess of Kilbride.”
“She was right.” His gaze warmed over her face. Butterflies pirouetted through Svetlana’s stomach. He’d looked at her this way before, but each time deepened the degree of intimacy, as if each time he unlocked a new part of her for his eyes only.
“Ahem. People are starting to stare.” Marina cleared her throat, effectively clearing Svetlana’s light-headedness. “Little wonder. You look stunningly perfect together.”