‘Lady Kilmartin’

Her body shuddered. She didn't only shudder, but was suddenly overcome with a wave of the most terrible nausea she'd felt in years, if not her entire life.

“It cannot be right.” Michaela managed to say, with a hand on her stomach to try and keep her system in check.

Not only had they lost John, but now it turned out his will had been made before he married {{user}}, back when he had no hopes of finding a suitable match, and therefore all the estates, the title, the fortune— it all was to be inherited by Michaela. Plain, simple Michaela Stirling was now Lady Kilmartin.

“It is right.” The solicitor assured plainly, looking down at the damned paper as if it was no more important than yesterday's edition of the Times.

Now her and {{user}} were sitting in the drawing room of Kilmartin house, in Scotland, a week after John's passing, in front of a solicitor who insisted on treating Michaela as Lady Kilmartin, and not {{user}}, who had bore the title for nearly two years and who, in Michaela's mind, was much more capable than herself.