Scotsman of My Dreams Page 28

  Each day would be an adventure. There would be something about someone or something in each day that would be special to her, and consequently to him. She would find something amazing or amusing, something that challenged her and in turn him. She would argue with him. She would ridicule his beliefs. She would attempt to convince him of some point or another. She would praise him and challenge him in the same breath.

  She would occupy his bed and his heart.

  “You have a son.”

  He suddenly realized who it was she was talking about.

  “He looks just like you.”

  “Does he? Arthur and I looked a great deal alike. ­People sometimes wondered if we were twins. You’re talking about Sarah, and she’s not my mistress. She was Arthur’s.”

  He felt her raise up. Was she staring at him to see the truth of his comment?

  “She’s really not your mistress?”

  “No, she’s not. But I would like her to be part of my family. The boy, too. I’m his uncle and I’ve never been an uncle before.”

  “Is that normal, making a by-­blow a part of your family? And isn’t that a ghastly label for anyone to wear?”

  “I think you choose what’s normal for yourself in your life, don’t you? If you’re wise you do.”

  He was beginning to understand that, just as he knew that he hadn’t chosen wisely before. But he didn’t have to continue making the same mistakes.

  “When did you find out about Neville?” she asked a few minutes later.

  “This morning. I went to your house straight away.”

  “Was that when the Covington sisters waylaid you?”

  “I found them to be very pleasant, all in all. Except for the part about being entirely too interested in your life. They look to you as some sort of heroine.”

  “What?”

  “I think they live vicariously through you, Minerva.”

  “Oh dear. I wonder what they would think to see me now?”

  “Marry me.”

  She didn’t say anything for so long that he thought she hadn’t heard.

  “Marry me,” he said again. “I’ve never asked another woman to be my wife. Does it normally make a woman mute?”

  She sat up.

  “I’ve never been asked to marry in that fashion,” she said, “so I can’t answer that. I would imagine it does, however. It’s certainly had that effect on me.”

  He sat up as well, wanting to reach for her but thinking it was perhaps better if he didn’t.

  “I would tell you I’m quite wealthy, except money doesn’t seem to interest you. I could expound about all my family’s various interests, but you know most of them since you’ve been working with me.”

  “Are you certain you don’t just want a permanent secretary? Someone who could put up with your grumbling without quitting?”

  “Only if she was also my countess and slept in my bed. Oh, you might have to guide me from time to time. I feel it only necessary to add that as part of your wifely duties.”

  “You can’t be serious, Dalton.”

  “Is it my face?” he asked.

  “Your face? What about your face?”

  “I know I’m scarred,” he said, wishing she would either just say yes or no quickly. No sense dragging this out.

  “Oh, bother. You’re as handsome as sin and you know it.”

  He felt something in his chest loosen. “You’ve never thought I was ugly, have you?”

  “Only because you’re not,” she said, her voice tinged with irritation.

  “Marry me.”

  She began to put her clothes back on. Since she wasn’t speaking, wasn’t giving him a chance to marshal his counterpoints to her arguments, he did the same.

  He’d never felt as supremely awkward in his life.

  Standing, he made his way to the chair, fumbled for his cup and drank his cold tea, wishing he knew what to say.

  The knock on the door was a welcome relief.

  “Are you decent?” he asked her.

  “Yes,” she said, her voice curiously without expression.

  He hesitated at the door. No doubt anyone would be able to tell what they’d been doing in his library. At the moment, he wasn’t certain he could face down his housekeeper with the equanimity one needed for a circumstance such as this.

  He opened the door, forcing a smile on his face.

  “Yes?”

  “Mr. Wilson is here, Your Lordship.”

  Good God, that’s all he needed.

  “Give me a moment, Mrs. Thompson,” he said. “I’ll come and meet with him in the parlor.”

  “Very well, Your Lordship.”

  He felt an uncharacteristic flush warm the back of his neck. Once he closed the door, he turned to Minerva.

  “Will you be all right here for a little while?”

  “Yes,” she said again. No other comment, just that single word.

  Is that what a marriage proposal did to Minerva, reduce her to one-­syllable words?

  He left the room, feeling as if there was something more he should have said or done.

  SHE COULDN’T become the Countess of Rathsmere. Had he lost his mind? The world would think them both insane.

  He had to be jesting. In a moment he’d say something like: “You thought I was serious, Minerva? What kind of fool do you take me for?”

  No, he wouldn’t say that, but he had to have temporarily misplaced his judgment.

  He couldn’t be serious. He couldn’t mean it.

  Her fingers were trembling. No, her whole body was trembling. Perhaps some of it was due to pleasure, but most of it was because of shock.

  How dare he ask her to marry him? How dare he throw her into confusion like that?

  She didn’t know what to think.

  She wanted to go home.

  She needed to go home.

  Hugh had taken her carriage. Still, she had to get home, one way or another, and she was more than willing to make her way on foot.

  Darkness had fallen in the last hour, however, and she wasn’t fool enough to walk the London streets in the dark.

  She would simply have to appeal to Mrs. Thompson, and through her, to Daniels.

  She had to leave. Now, before Dalton returned and catapulted her into more confusion. She wanted to be home, in her own room. Where she could think, rationally and logically, about what he’d said.

  Marry me.

  He hadn’t said anything about emotions. He’d only mentioned his wealth. He would probably have started enumerating the number of horses, cattle, houses, and carriages he possessed, plus the number of servants who worked for him, had they not been interrupted.

  She had to leave.

  After straightening her clothing, she wished she had a mirror to see how mussed her hair was. Her chin felt abraded. Did she look well-­kissed?

  She opened the door, looked both ways, and left the library. She headed toward the foyer and the hallway to the back of the house.

  “The announcement appeared in the papers this evening,” James Wilson was saying. “If Lewis is innocent, then he’ll no doubt send his congratulations about your forthcoming marriage.”

  She halted in the middle of the corridor, turned and stared beyond the library door to the parlor.

  “And if he isn’t?” Dalton asked. “He’ll make an attempt on my life?”

  “I would be willing to bet on it, Dalton. I’ve made arrangements to protect you, so you shouldn’t worry.”

  She continued toward the foyer, walking quicker until she was almost running through Dalton’s home.

  She had to get out, now. If Daniels wouldn’t take her home, she’d walk, anything to leave.

  He hadn’t meant it after all. He hadn’t been serious. This was just some sort of ruse
he and Mr. Wilson had devised. Where was the relief she should feel? If nothing else, she should feel a little amusement at her own gullibility.

  Instead, she was crying again. Silly, silly tears that proved she was better off home.

  THANK HEAVENS for Mrs. Thompson’s kindness. The dear lady took a look at her face and bustled to the doorway, leaving Minerva no choice but to follow her.

  They crossed the garden, eerily beautiful in the rainy dusk. Time had gotten away from her and she’d be returning home after dark, a fact that would no doubt scandalize the Covington sisters.

  They couldn’t possibly admire her. From this moment on she wouldn’t believe anything Dalton MacIain said. But she wouldn’t be seeing him again, so that would be enormously easy to do.

  “Daniels,” Mrs. Thompson said when they reached the stables, “I want you to take Miss Todd home, straightaway.”

  To her relief the driver didn’t say another word, but he did glance at her, then back at Mrs. Thompson. Did she have a sign on her forehead? Fornicator. Foolish Woman. Idiot.

  When he opened the door for her, she turned to Mrs. Thompson.

  “Thank you,” she said. “For everything.”

  She doubted she’d see the woman again.

  Mrs. Thompson only nodded, the kindness in her eyes almost Minerva’s undoing. She would not weep in front of the two of them. Somehow, she had to wait until she reached her bedroom. Then she would release all the tears that were building up. Between the situation with Neville and Dalton, she might cry for weeks.

  “Will you take me to the back of my house, Daniels?”

  She didn’t want the Covington sisters to see her come home, alone and hours after she should have arrived.

  “WHAT DO you mean, she’s gone?”

  Dalton had thought, on returning to his library, that Minerva might have gone upstairs to refresh herself. But when she hadn’t returned, he summoned Mrs. Thompson, only for his housekeeper to answer him in a sullen voice he’d never heard her use.

  “Crying she was, poor thing. Upset as much as I’ve ever seen a body upset. All she wanted was to go home, and who was I to tell her no?”

  “How long ago?”

  “I’m sure I don’t know.”

  He pushed past her, walked at a fast clip to the front door and down the steps.

  “James!”

  Damn the darkness. Damn his eternal darkness. Damn the man. Damn the situation.

  Had James already left? With any luck he hadn’t. With any luck he could commandeer the man’s carriage since Minerva had taken his.

  Why had she left?

  “What’s wrong, Dalton?”

  “Take me to Minerva’s house,” he said. “Where’s your carriage?” He gripped James’s sleeve. “Now.”

  He didn’t have a good feeling about this.

  Chapter 32

  Thankfully, the journey home didn’t take long. Long enough, however, that Minerva managed to thoroughly berate herself for her stupidity and was beginning to turn her anger on others.

  How dare Dalton stop her from traveling to Scotland?

  How dare the Covington sisters involve themselves in her business?

  How dare Hugh take on a sanctimonious tone?

  How dare Dalton ask her to marry him when it was all only a tactic to trap Lewis? That was unkind as well as unfair. Thank heavens she hadn’t revealed what she was feeling.

  She’d taken Hugh as her lover because of curiosity. She had discontinued their association the instant she realized he cared more for her than she did for him. It seemed to her that any relationship should be evenly matched, neither caring more than the other.

  Yet here she was, in the exact same circumstance. She was longing for the Rake of London, Dalton MacIain. She was a lovesick fool, someone staring out the window and wondering what to do.

  She loved him.

  How very odd to find herself in love with someone she hadn’t liked for a long while.

  Of course, she hadn’t known him then. Now she wondered if many ­people knew Dalton at all. He might well be known as reclusive, but he was also very protective of himself, guarding his emotions with such care that it had taken her a while to realize he wasn’t the debauched soul she thought him.

  He cared for those in his employ. He had a streak of altruism. He was kind when there was no reason to be kind, with no one looking on to judge and no one to impress.

  He had a sense of humor that revealed itself slowly.

  He wasn’t unaware of his own sins. She suspected he judged himself too harshly, as severely as he judged Neville. Yet, even so, he was honest and fair to her. He’d kept his word and revealed everything he’d found out about her brother.

  Now, somehow, she had to save Neville from the prison camp in America.

  But, first, she had to face the facts. She was in love with the Earl of Rathsmere. What an utter fool she was.

  Could you kill love? She was going to attempt to do so.

  When he’d uttered those two words, she’d been speechless. She’d been incapable of saying a word, suffused as she was by disbelief. The most handsome man she’d ever seen, a man who’d just loved her and brought her exquisite pleasure, asked her to marry him.

  Marry me.

  He hadn’t intended for her to be his bride. All he’d wanted was to fool his brother into thinking he was getting married.

  Marry me. The words had been a game, a subterfuge, nothing more than that.

  From this point on she would ignore the Earl of Rathsmere, wish him well, but have nothing further to do with him. She pressed her hands to her stomach. Please God, don’t let her suffer the consequences of her actions with Dalton. She’d used a vinegar-­soaked sponge in all her previous episodes, but not today. She’d never thought to be suffused with grief and worry, then cozened out of it by passion.

  She should have told him no, but that word had been as far from her vocabulary this afternoon as marriage was now. She was going to have to practice using it. No, she would not see Dalton again. No, she would not participate in his ruse. No, she wouldn’t welcome his help in rescuing Neville. No, she never wanted to see him again. No, she wouldn’t welcome his touch. Ever.

  She ignored the yawning chasm in her chest, the one where tears were rising. She ached with sadness.

  Because of the rain the night seemed even darker when Daniels pulled into the wide alley that separated the stables from her house. Nor had any streetlamps been erected here, no doubt on the theory that no self-­respecting homeowner would be traveling through the alley after dark.

  Normally, a lantern was lit and hung from the outside of the stable, but tonight it was extinguished. Had Hugh returned and just as quickly left?

  She would have to draft a letter of recommendation for him. There, she should concentrate on her tasks rather than how she felt. She was still too close to tears. A strange sensation to want to weep and kick something at the same time.

  There weren’t any lights on in the rear of the Covington house, but that didn’t mean the sisters retired early. They might be keeping watch at the front, eyeing the square.

  The carriage slowed, then stopped.

  Before she could open the door, Daniels had dismounted and was opening it for her.

  “If you don’t mind, Miss Todd, I’ll see you to your house.”

  “That’s not necessary, Daniels.”

  “Still and all, I’d feel better about it.”

  He’d always been kind to her, and exceedingly polite. She wasn’t angry at the driver, but at his employer.

  “Thank you, Daniels.”

  There, if the Covington sisters saw her, they’d witness her being properly escorted to the door.

  She dismounted, holding onto the frame of the carriage for balance until her foot touched the street. She fluffed her skirts, s
traightened her shoulders, and pasted a smile on her face for Daniels’s benefit.

  The rain had stopped for the moment, but the riffling clouds overhead, gray against the black night, were a future promise of it. She was in the mood for a storm, a thunderous ovation from nature itself. Rain washed the world clean, gave the air clarity and swept away the old odors.

  Suddenly, she wanted winter. Not the crisp weather of autumn, but ice and snow, dreary days and chilled nights. That would match her mood.

  As she rounded the back of the carriage, Daniels followed her. A moment later she heard an oath, then nothing.

  Suddenly, a man’s arm tightened around her waist while his hand clamped over her mouth. She screamed, but the sound was muffled as he dragged her backward.

  She was being attacked. Lurid stories she’d read in the newspaper filled her mind as she kicked out. She struggled in the man’s grip, reached up with both hands behind her and pinched what she could find.

  “Bitch!”

  She kicked at him again. His arm reached around her neck and tightened, cutting off her air. She bit at his hand and tasted blood.

  “Damn bitch!”

  “Shut up! Somebody’ll hear you.”

  “Like I bloody care,” the first voice said. “She bit me!”

  “Take her to the carriage.”

  She knew that voice. Howington? What was Howington doing here?

  “You sure he’ll come for her?”

  “I’m sure,” Howington said. “For some reason he’s taken a fancy to the bitch.”

  She bit at the hand covering her mouth again. Her attacker swore, loosening his grip long enough for her to scream. She didn’t see the blow before he struck her. The side of her face was suddenly on fire. Even her teeth felt loose. She stumbled several steps before she was grabbed again and a cloth stuffed into her mouth.

  She could hardly breathe. Tears welled in her eyes.

  “Get her to the carriage.”

  She knew that if they put her in a carriage, she’d never live through it. She kicked out again, managed to get one arm free and turned to face her attacker. Fear gave her strength as she slammed her fist into his face. He retaliated by punching her again, the blow coming hard and fast. Blood spurted from her nose as he grabbed her by one arm, dragging her to another carriage.