The Scottish Companion Read online

  A handsome man smiled at her, and her heart beat faster. He whispered into her ear, and her thoughts immediately conjured up passion. He touched her wrist with his fingers, and desire curled up in her stomach, a tiny little flame that seemed annoyingly eternal.

  Perhaps she should seek out a nunnery, or devote herself to good works for the rest of her life. If nothing else, she should find a household where there were no men at all. But it wasn’t simply any man, was it? No, it was only a rather striking earl with fascinating eyes and a deep voice that gave her shivers to hear it.

  “Miss?”

  She looked up to find Agnes staring at her in the mirror, an expression of concern on her face. “I was asking, miss, if you would like a shawl? These spring evenings can be chilly at Rosemoor.”

  “Yes, please,” Gillian said, standing. She didn’t give herself a last look. If something was askew or out of place, then good, all the better. Perhaps he would think her slovenly, or uncaring. Perhaps he would remark to himself that she had no sense of decorum, that she had no inclination on how to dress or comport herself in public. Perhaps he wouldn’t speak to her at all tonight, and she needn’t be bothered having to school her features or arrange her smile so that it was no warmer toward him than to a footman.

  Agnes handed her the shawl, and she took it from her with a smile. She left the room, walking down the corridor to the wide marble steps. There was no one in sight except for a footman who stood with his back to the staircase. Beside him, a gas lamp glowed brightly, illuminating the foyer and the bottom of the steps.

  Gillian hesitated halfway down the stairs and looked around her. Rosemoor was a home designed for entertaining, for long weekend parties and guests who stayed for months. She could easily hear the voices of people raised in laughter and conversation.

  What was she doing here? She didn’t belong at Rosemoor any more than Arabella. Arabella had challenged her fate from the beginning; Gillian was only now feeling the cold hand of doom. She couldn’t remain here after their wedding. She couldn’t see him every day and know that he returned to Arabella’s bed at night. She couldn’t, God help her, watch as Arabella bore his child.

  Although she was normally punctual, she saw no advantage to being on time for this gathering. She would spend the entire dinner, as she did most nights, wishing that it were over. She wouldn’t taste what she was served, and she would be too conscious of the undercurrents at the table. Arabella would be sitting as narrowly as possible, her elbows tucked against her sides in case she accidentally touched someone. She would keep her head bowed, her focus on her food, in case Grant should smile at her. Dr. Fenton would be jocular; the countess would be ever watchful, and Grant…Grant would be too intense, too focused. He would seize upon a topic of conversation, and he and the doctor would discuss it for the duration of the dinner. Occasionally the countess would contribute her comments, but Arabella would never speak, and no one would ask Gillian’s opinion.

  Perhaps Lorenzo would change the tenor of the conversation.

  She went into the dining room, and to her surprise, none of them was seated. Instead they milled around the fireplace at the end of the room.

  The countess was holding a very small glass of something that looked purplish brown. A type of sherry, no doubt, something to settle her stomach. Gillian didn’t doubt that it also aided in settling her nerves, and wished someone would offer her a glass. Unmarried women, however experienced they might be, were not offered sherry.

  “We are waiting for Lorenzo,” Grant said from behind her. She turned to find him standing there easily commanding the room. He was taller than the others and dressed plainly in a black suit and snowy white shirt. His shoes were brightly polished, and there was a gold chain hanging from his waistcoat pocket. She knew, from seeing him consult it before, that it led to a diamond-encrusted watch.

  She turned away from him deliberately, putting a few feet between them. She didn’t want him to be charming or personable. It would make this evening even more difficult to endure.

  She walked to the window, watching him in the reflection. He was staring after her, and his expression was as carefully neutral as hers. Could emotions travel through the air? Could longing itself be felt without a word being spoken? Would anyone looking at her know what she was thinking?

  Grant turned suddenly, greeting Lorenzo. Lorenzo, who was even more resplendently dressed than he’d been this afternoon.

  The man wore a dark suit like Grant’s, but there the resemblance ended. A bright red sash ran diagonally across his chest, fastened by a scarlet and gold brooch. She’d never seen jewels quite so large or sparkling, and couldn’t help but wonder if they were real. But then, her knowledge of rubies was somewhat lacking.

  “Ah, the little signorina,” he said, coming to her side. He bowed over her hand, making too much fuss over her. “Little one, have you had a good day, a pleasant day here at Rosemoor?” Since she towered over Arabella, it was hardly the proper soubriquet, but she nodded.

  “I have, sir.”

  “Ah, but you must call me Lorenzo.”

  “Must she?” Grant said easily from beside him. He nodded to Gillian and she nodded back, for all the world as if they were strangers on an Edinburgh street.

  They found their seats at the dining table, and exactly as she had hoped, Lorenzo was seated next to her. Instead of being forced to listen to Grant and Dr. Fenton, she was able to ignore everyone but Lorenzo. It was an enchanting experience, being subjected to the Italian’s charm. Just as Grant had said, however, it was obvious he was in love with his wife.

  “Seven boys?” she asked, after the fish course.

  “And another baby to be born soon.”

  “Why would you think of coming all the way to Scotland at such a time, sir?”

  “Grant needed me,” he said simply. “He is my friend. I owe him a debt such as I could never repay.”

  She was hoping her silence would encourage him to speak, but he didn’t say anything further.

  “So you say you have never been to Italy, Miss Cameron?”

  “I have not,” she said. “I would like to go to Rome,” she said.

  “You must see Florence, Miss Cameron. It is the splendor of Italy. And the Palazzo Vecchio is not a sight to miss. The Hall of Lilies, the courtyards, the statues by Michelangelo.” He sighed theatrically. “The Uffizi Square, by Vasari, all such treasures to see before you die.”

  He glanced in Grant’s direction. “You should ask Grant to tell you. He has a villa in Florence, and has spent many years there.”

  “Do you help Grant with his experiments?” she asked.

  “I am a scientist as well,” he said. “But in a different field.” He said nothing further, leading her to wonder if there was a great deal of mystery surrounding Lorenzo, or was it an impression he cultivated on purpose.

  He smiled down at her. “My friend does not allow just anyone into his laboratory. He tends to isolate himself there, and is completely happy to do so.”

  She glanced up to find Grant looking directly at her, and only then did she realize that the conversation at the table had halted. Had everyone been listening to the two of them?

  “That was only occasionally, Lorenzo,” Grant said. “Otherwise, I consider myself a very civilized sort.”

  “He lies,” Lorenzo said in an aside to Gillian. “His valet had to distract him with scientific questions in order to get him to change his clothes. Anyone who is going to share Grant’s life should be versed in science,” Lorenzo said, stealing a quick look across the table to Arabella.

  At his comment, she looked directly at him. “I am of a scientific mind, sir. Indeed, my father and I both engage in scientific pursuits.”

  “Then I do not doubt that you and my friend will suit quite admirably, Miss Fenton. Perhaps on your honeymoon, you and Grant can discuss Volta’s memoirs. I obtained a set for your wedding present, Grant,” he said. “But you must pretend to be surprised, for the sake of my Elis
e.”

  Grant only smiled in response.

  “And you, Miss Cameron, are you of a scientific mind?”

  “I regret to say, sir, that I’m not.”

  “Gillian does not have an analytical predilection, sir. She prefers novels to texts that would improve her intellect. I have seen her spend hours arranging her hair and staring at herself in the mirror.”

  “Hardly hours, Arabella,” Gillian said, embarrassed. Surely this was not the topic of conversation that should be allowed at the table? But neither the earl nor the countess seemed interested in stopping Arabella, and Dr. Fenton thought anything his daughter said was worth hearing.

  “I confess to my share of vanity, Arabella, but I doubt if even I would be interested in spending hours in front of the mirror.”

  Lorenzo smiled. “A woman is not to be criticized because she pays attention to her appearance,” he said, a gentle rebuke toward Arabella.

  “Neither is a woman to be criticized because she wishes to learn,” Grant said.

  His comment stung, but Gillian did not indicate her feelings either by her expression or by commenting.

  Lorenzo, however, had no such reticence. “Are you not being too harsh toward Miss Cameron? Simply because she doesn’t wish to study medicine doesn’t mean she lacks a curious mind.”

  “I was not singling out Miss Cameron. On the contrary. She has proven to be quite an able assistant.”

  “You allowed her to work on your electrics?”

  “I have. And I hope to convince her to assist me in the future.”

  “You are to be commended, Miss Cameron,” Lorenzo said, turning to her. “Grant does not issue such an invitation lightly.”

  “Nor has he issued one to me,” Arabella said quietly.

  “Then you should both come,” Grant said.

  “To the laboratory?”

  “To the marsh,” he said.

  “The marsh?” Gillian glanced at him.

  “I visit the marsh periodically. I need to go tomorrow morning.”

  “There is no necessity for Gillian to accompany you, Your Lordship,” Dr. Fenton said.

  “Indeed not, Grant.” Arabella smiled. “I would be more than happy to do so.”

  Dr. Fenton looked pleased at Arabella’s comment. Grant and Lorenzo looked rather noncommittal. The countess, however, surprised Gillian by just staring at Arabella, her expression that of someone who’d just received unpleasant news.

  “I’m afraid you will not have any time to spare, my dear girl,” she said, her voice more tremulous than Gillian had ever heard it. Grant glanced at his mother, and she wondered if he, too, remarked on the oddity of the older woman’s sudden paleness. But the countess ignored both of them, her attention focused on Arabella. “You must be trained in the running of Rosemoor. There are duties you must assume upon your marriage to Grant that are more important than even your medicine.”

  Arabella looked as if she would like to say something in response, but after a quick glance toward her father, she stifled her comment. She only nodded, and concentrated once again on the food on her plate.

  “I would be more than happy to be of assistance, Your Lordship,” Gillian said. There, a very pleasant, if innocuous comment, betraying nothing of what she truly felt.

  Dr. Fenton glanced at Gillian, his expression one of disapproval. A lecture was coming, she was certain. A diatribe as to her past, and her future, and no doubt a section on her manners as well. Fallen woman. She’d heard that before. Foolish woman. She’d called herself that often enough after arriving at Rosemoor.

  She should speak up right this moment and decline any invitation issued by the Earl of Straithern. But she was silent, a fact that evidently continued to irritate Dr. Fenton, if the looks he gave her were any indication.

  Dinner was a blur after that, the conversation shifting between the weather, Italy, Lorenzo’s children, and a dozen other topics, each one of which was more interesting than the personal dissection of her intelligence.

  The gentlemen did not stay behind, but joined them in the parlor immediately following dinner. Occasionally the countess graced them with a performance on a pianoforte. Tonight, however, she waved away the request framed by Dr. Fenton and sat, instead, in one of the wing chairs by the fireplace. Uncharacteristically, she summoned the footman to her side, and gave him instructions to light the fire.

  “Are you ill, Your Ladyship?” Gillian asked, coming to her side. She had felt kindly disposed toward the countess ever since the night they’d shared hot chocolate, but had never presumed upon the acquaintance until now.

  For a moment, she thought that the countess would dismiss her, and harshly, but then Gillian realized the woman was still in the grips of some discomfort.

  “Is there anything I could bring you?” She moved a footstool a little closer so that the countess could use it.

  “Mother,” Grant said beside her, “if you are feeling ill, we shall make your excuses.” He bent toward her solicitously.

  “I am not feeling ill, Grant,” she said, her voice still weak. “Let us just say that the past has visited me without warning.”

  He looked as if he would like to say more, but a quick glance toward Gillian warned her that he would not do as long as she was standing close. She moved away, a gesture that summoned a frown from him. Could she not please him at all?

  She moved to the other side of the room, taking a chair along the wall. A clear notice to any who would engage her in conversation that she wasn’t disposed to be pleasant. What she really and truly wished to do was retire to her room, but as the paid companion to Arabella Fenton, she couldn’t very well leave before Arabella did.

  Grant was coming toward her.

  Gillian looked out the window, wishing he would stay away. She glanced back to find that he’d stopped to say something to Dr. Fenton, and then to Lorenzo. But the next moment, he was still coming closer.

  She pasted a smile on her face with some difficulty, and held it there with great deliberation.

  “Forgive me,” he said, stopping in front of her. “I did not mean to be boorish.”

  “At dinner? Or just a few moments ago at your mother’s chair?”

  “Both, perhaps.”

  “Do you think to disarm me by using the truth, Your Lordship?”

  “Is that what I was doing?”

  She didn’t bother to respond.

  “You will have to forgive me; I was annoyed at Lorenzo, and I took it out on you.”

  She continued to look out the window, a difficult feat since it acted more like a night-darkened mirror.

  But he had incited her curiosity, which annoyed her further. She wanted to ask why he was so annoyed at his friend, but she remained silent.

  “He was flirting with you, and I disliked it.”

  She stopped studying the window, and glanced at him. “He wasn’t, and you know it.”

  “I told myself that he wasn’t, but it didn’t seem to make a difference to my irritation. It kept growing the longer he kept smiling.”

  Something in her chest opened, like a giant cave that had never been seen in the light of day. And the warmth of her heart, perhaps, was the sun. Or maybe it was simply his words. Or even worse—or better—the look in his eyes.

  Arabella was barely a dozen feet away.

  “You are the one who is flirting, Your Lordship. And I don’t think it’s well done of you. You should not have invited me to be your assistant. Nor should you be talking to me now.”

  “I am the Earl of Straithern, Miss Cameron, and this is Rosemoor. I can damn well do anything I like.”

  He looked angry, and very intimidating. An earl, with all his power, wealth, and might.

  She was a foot shorter than he was, poor, and certainly not his equal in experience. But she had courage, and at this moment, anger. “I am not to be cowed, Your Lordship. You cannot treat me as you would a maid or a footman.”

  “I never intended to, Gillian. But I dislike being
told what I can and cannot do.”

  “Then we are the match in that,” she said. “Do not presume to dictate to me what I will or will not do, Your Lordship. I may be, as you say, under your employ, but I will not be treated with disdain.”

  “So we are a match in arrogance. I can’t help but wonder how else we are well matched.”

  “You should be saying that to Arabella, Your Lordship, not me.”

  “Will you join me in the marsh?”

  The change of subject made her blink at him. How could he go from being so annoyed to suddenly so affable? He was smiling at her now, as if he approved of her show of temper.

  The man was insufferable, irritating, and too fascinating for her peace of mind.

  “The marsh?”

  “I haven’t been there for months.”

  No. That’s what she should say. A simple no, an uncomplicated no. A polite no, a respectful decline. I have letters to write, she would say, although there was no one to whom she could address her correspondence. Her parents would not read her letters, nor would the cousin with whom she’d stayed for a few weeks. Robert, of course, was married by this time, and her friends would be scandalized if she dared to address any of them. Better she should claim some mending. Would he respond with the comment that there were dozens of servants at Rosemoor who could perform exactly the same chore? I have personal things to attend to, she might respond, and he could not hope to counter with any comment. He would be forced to silence, and she would return to her room feeling virtuous and proper.

  “I warn you, however, that it’s messy work. In the spirit of being completely honest.”

  “Your Lordship, there is something to be said for a little restraint. In this case, of honesty. Perhaps it is not wise to tell someone everything.”

  “I must beg to differ, Miss Cameron,” he said reverting back to propriety in addressing her. “I think it’s the best policy to always speak with as much honesty as possible. Otherwise, there is some doubt about motive, or intent.”

  If she were totally candid with him, it would no doubt make both of them very uncomfortable. She would tell him that he should not look at her in such a fashion, and counsel him that he should remember, more often, that he was to be wed to Arabella. But of course, one did not lecture an earl, especially an earl who took such umbrage at being corrected. Yet he balanced that arrogance with a disarming charm, which made him even more devastating to be around.