He tightened his jaw, fighting off the tantalizing image. Women like Venetia did not flirt. They loved, and they married. That was it. There was nothing in the middle for her—nothing for a man like him.
Gregor thrust his hands into the deep pockets of his overcoat. “We had better return to the inn before anyone notices we are missing.” He gestured toward the path, but she didn’t move, merely stared at him with blazing eyes.
“Fine, then.” He turned on his heel, saying over his shoulder, “Be careful when you return; it is slippery in spots.”
With that calm, impersonal good-bye, Gregor left. He walked down the path, his boots crunching in the snow, lifting his face to the cooling fall of new flakes. God only knew how much snow they’d get this time. Damn it all, how Venetia got under his skin!
What was it about her here, away from London, that made him notice things he’d never noticed before. Whatever it was, he hoped it would go away soon. Being so close to Venetia, stuck at that small inn with so many people around, was torture. Something odd was happening between them. Something unforeseen and growing in power. What could it—
The sound of crunching snow made him stop and turn. Venetia was approaching, her dark hair dusted with snow, her posture stiff, as if she were weighing her words. Perhaps she’d come to apologize.
She marched past him to the beginning of the trail, where she stopped and waited for him to catch up, hands behind her back.
Ah. She wished to speak to him with the inn in plain sight. Considering their propensity to fall into each other’s arms when alone, that was a wise decision.
He strode toward her, glancing down to avoid a slick rock. Thank goodness she’d come to her senses. She’d apologize for her recalcitrant behavior and cease her machinations concerning Miss Platt and Ravenscroft. He’d accept her apology, of course, so they could go back to their easy relationship and—
Thwack! A snowball hit Gregor on the side of his head. He stood there, unable to believe what had happened. The icy mass took the opportunity to slide into his collar, freezing his skin as it went.
He roared and raced forward, icy tree roots be damned, but it was too late. Venetia was gone in a swirl of hiked skirts and fleet booted feet. Before he even reached the yard, the inn door slammed closed.
Gregor stood stock-still, the cold wind blowing through his clothing, his collar wet and cold, the heavy rumble of snow thunder echoing through the wind’s moan.
Damn Venetia Oglivie! Damn her impetuous, intractable nature, and most of all, damn her for looking so damnably touchable!
Gregor turned his face to the sky and cursed loud and long, the snow pelting down.
Chapter 10
There’s only one thing worse than losin’ a beau, and that’s ne’er havin’ one t’ begin with.
OLD WOMAN NORA FROM LOCH LOMOND
TO HER THREE WEE GRANDDAUGHTERS ONE COLD EVENING
“D on’t you agree, Miss West?” Miss Platt asked loudly.
Venetia blinked, realizing she hadn’t been paying attention—again. “Um. Yes. Of course, I agree.”
Miss Platt cocked her head to one side, a considering gaze in her light blue eyes. “Is something wrong?”
Venetia’s face heated. “Oh, no. I was just…thinking.” About Gregor. Ever since yesterday morning, when he’d kissed her again—or, rather, she’d kissed him—she’d been unable to do anything but think about him.
It had been bad enough during the day as the inn had seemed too small for them both, but last night, she hadn’t slept a wink. Miss Higganbotham’s snoring hadn’t been as much of a problem as the hot thoughts that filled Venetia’s mind—memories of the kiss and imaginings of far more intimate contact.
And when she managed to sleep, her unruly mind roamed even more freel. In her dreams, she desired him passionately and insatiably, every touch igniting the desire for another.
Since that kiss, Venetia had avoided being alone with Gregor, which hadn’t been difficult thanks to Miss Platt and Miss Higganbotham. They had attached themselves to her so thoroughly that she scarcely had a moment alone. Ravenscroft had continued his attentions to Miss Platt, which had caused Gregor to glower and eventually order the younger man to visit the horses with him after dinner. Ravenscroft hadn’t realized he was being manipulated and had eagerly agreed. Gregor had sent Venetia a triumphant smirk as he led Ravenscroft off.
Venetia sniffed. He was being unbearable lately, ordering everyone around as if they were his lackeys. She wasn’t the least bit sorry about yesterday; Gregor had deserved to be smacked in the head with a fat snowball even if it had made the snow fall for another two hours.
“This weather is horrid,” Miss Platt said. “We’ve had another foot of snow since yesterday.”
Which was all Gregor’s fault, blast him. He might wish to blame her, but he was the one who’d been so arrogant and high-handed.
Miss Platt retrieved her sewing from a basket she’d brought into the room with her. “The weather is so very odd for April, and the way it trapped us all here—I wonder if it wasn’t meant to be.”
“Do you believe in fate?”
“I am beginning to,” Miss Platt said in an earnest tone as she deftly threaded a needle. “I wonder if I was brought to this place at the same time as Mr. West because—” She colored. “Oh, dear, I shouldn’t have said anything to you, since Mr. West is your brother, but I was just thinking—oh, never mind!”
Venetia blinked.
Surely Miss Platt wasn’t developing real feelings for Ravenscroft in such a short period of time? It had been only two days, and Ravenscroft didn’t possess the sort of address that could sweep a woman off her feet. Of course, Miss Platt wasn’t an ordinary woman, but still.
“I know what you’re thinking,” Miss Platt said, stabbing her needle into the cloth. “We haven’t known each other very long.”
“Well, yes, and—”
“But I knew as soon as I met Mr. West that this was true love.”
Venetia lifted her brows. “But…at first, you were attracted to Lord MacLean.”
“Was I?” Miss Platt made a small line of neat stitches. “I don’t remember.”
“Miss Platt, I hate to be a naysayer, but Ra—I mean, Mr. West is still quite young and a notoriously unstable character. He simply is not yet capable of the level of emotion necessary for a prolonged relationship.” Which was the sad truth. “After he’s matured, it is possible he might be able to love someone, but not now.”
Miss Platt laughed. “Oh, Miss Venetia! Spoken like a true sister. I suppose it’s difficult for you to see your brother in a manly light. I am the same with poor Bertrand. But trust me on this, Mr. West is fully capable of deep emotions.” She dropped her sewing in her lap, clasped her hands to her heart, and sighed. “I have seen his soul in his eyes.”
Venetia rubbed her temple, where an ache was beginning to form. This would never do; she’d have to speak with Ravenscroft as soon as possible. What would he say to the idea that Miss Platt might be growing fond of him? It was probably best not to think too much about that now. Yet somewhere in the back of her mind, she could hear Gregor’s deep voice warning her of the dangers of getting involved in other people’s lives. She resolutely squelched the voice. She’d rather be trussed up in a sack and tossed into the Thames in the dead of winter than become as hard-hearted and unfeeling as Gregor.
“Miss West.” Miss Platt’s soft voice brought Venetia back to her surroundings. “A woman as lovely as you must have had plenty of beaus.”
“I wouldn’t say plenty.” She could count them on only one hand, since most of the men she met seemed lacking in some way, as if they didn’t measure up to some invisible standard.
Miss Platt shook her head. “I daresay you’ve had hundreds of admirers. Perhaps even thousands.”
Venetia had to laugh. “I have had a few, but I fear I am far from the type of woman the ton admires.” She looked down at her plump form. “Try as I might, I cannot give up pas
tries. I am not willowy enough for current fashion.”
“I must disagree,” Miss Platt said devoutly.
“That is very kind of you, but I am not complaining. If I were unhealthy or could not be active, I would be tempted to change. As it is, this is who and what I am and how I seem to be the happiest.”
Miss Platt looked at Venetia dubiously, then down at her own body. “I wish I had some of your curves. No one ever notices me, because I’m so flat in the chest.”
“A fact easily hidden by the right gown,” Venetia said. “In fact—”
The door opened, and Miss Higganbotham stood in the doorway, her golden locks held on top of her head by sapphire pins, her morning gown adorned with French lace.
She paused dramatically, shading her eyes as if the light was too strong.
Venetia had the distinct urge to roll her eyes, aware that her mother would have applauded such an entrance.
But Miss Platt cried, “Miss Higganbotham! Whatever is wrong? Have you something in your eye?”
The younger girl dropped her arm and looked around the room. “Oh. It’s just you two. I thought my father and Lord MacLean were still here.”
“Lord MacLean?” Miss Platt’s eyes brightened with curiosity. “Why would you wish to see him, I wonder?”
Miss Higganbotham shrugged, though she couldn’t seem to contain a small smile. “I am quite devoted to my Henry, of course, but…” Her smile deepened.
Miss Platt tittered. “Oh, my dear Miss Higganbotham, I know exactly what you mean. If it wasn’t for dear Mr. West, I do believe I’d be in love with Lord MacLean myself!”
Miss Higganbotham raised her soulful eyes and sighed deeply. “He is almost beautiful, even with that scar.” She shivered deliciously. “I plan on asking him about it before dinner tonight. I wonder if he was involved in a duel? That would be quite dashing of him, if it was true.”
A strange emotion stirred Venetia’s heart. What did this child have to do with Gregor? He would never take the slightest interest in someone like her, and the sooner the little minx realized it, the better it would be!
Venetia forcibly shook off her uncharitable thoughts. Really, she was going mad. First, she’d allowed Gregor to kiss her and had enjoyed it, and now she was allowing a feeling almost like jealousy to raise its ugly head. Next, she’d be writing “Lady MacLean” on all of the scrap paper and making faux wedding invitations on the backs of old dress patterns!
Unaware of the turmoil she’d stirred in Venetia’s breast, Miss Higganbotham closed the door and leaned against it as if barring it against an unspeakable evil. “I am so glad to see the two of you! Do you know where my father might be?”
“He is in the stables,” Venetia said. “Your groom believes that the lead carriage horse did not break his leg as feared but has merely sprained it.”
“Why does he care for the horse when his own daughter is here, declining away?” She came to sit across from Venetia and Miss Platt.
Miss Platt reached over to pat the girl’s hand. “You don’t appear to be declining. In fact, Mrs. Treadwell said you’d eaten every tray she’s taken to your room and even asked for more.”
“What does she know of pain and suffering? Or anyone here, other than me, I ask!”
A lovely pink suffused Miss Platt. “I’m sure I don’t know, for my love life has been nothing but delightful of late.”
“Miss Platt!” Miss Higganbotham said in a soulful voice. She grasped one of the older woman’s hands. “Perhaps I have wronged you. Have you also felt the transports of pure love?”
Rather than breaking into giggles at such extravagant talk, Miss Platt beamed. “Oh, yes, I know all about true love. I was just speaking to Miss West of that very topic when you arrived.”
Good God, Miss Platt needed to be warned about wearing her heart on her sleeve. It was true Ravenscroft had been nicer to Miss Platt than she was used to, but only in public and only under the watchful eye of Mrs. Bloom and Venetia. Never had he gone over the line of the acceptable.
Miss Higganbotham smoothed her delicate skirts, then looked at Venetia and Miss Platt. “Did I disturb your private conversation?”
“Oh, no,” Miss Platt said immediately. “Miss Venetia and I were just discussing men.”
“I think all men are difficult,” Miss Higganbotham announced. “I would not be in this mess if my beloved Henry had listened to me. I told him how it would be once Father found out, but Henry refused to elope. And now, here I am, torn from his arms!”
Though Miss Platt seemed impressed, Venetia wasn’t. “Miss Higganbotham—”
“Call me Elizabeth, please. Everyone does.”
“Very well. You may call me Venetia.”
Miss Platt leaned forward. “And I am Delilah.”
Elizabeth and Venetia looked at Miss Platt, who blushed. “My mother felt Delilah was unfairly treated. Everyone thought she was so horrid, cutting Samson’s hair and stealing his strength, but perhaps she was forced to cut Samson’s hair!”
Elizabeth nodded. “I never thought of that, but I daresay you are right. Men always wish to blame women for their travails.”
Venetia’s headache was now very real.
“I know all about men,” Elizabeth added loftily. “I have been engaged three times.”
“Three?” Miss Platt blinked. “You could not be!”
“They were all secret engagements, of course, for Father is very strict. But they were engagements nonetheless. Henry even gave me a ring.”
“Elizabeth,” Venetia said. “Didn’t you tell me you are only sixteen?”
“Some people say I look a lot older.”
“How old were you for your first secret engagement?”
“Fourteen. I probably shouldn’t count that one, as it was only to the underfootman. It didn’t last more than a fortnight, but still, it shows that I understand men.”
“Only a man can understand a man,” Venetia said shortly.
“Ask me a question about men,” Elizabeth said. “I’ll show you.”
Miss Platt clapped her hands. “Oh, excellent! I know just the question. Suppose a man, a young man with considerable address—”
Surely Miss Platt didn’t think Ravenscroft had considerable address? Why, he could barely eke out a complete sentence.
“A man,” Miss Platt continued, “who has shown one particular attentions. How long before you can assume his interest is something more than flirtation?”
Elizabeth pursed her rosy lips. After a moment’s thought, she said with a great deal of authority, “A week.”
Miss Platt’s face fell. “A whole week?”
“Nonsense!” Venetia said. “You cannot fall in love in a mere week.”
Elizabeth shrugged. “I did. And so did Henry.”
“Are you certain it is love?” Miss Platt asked.
“You can’t be absolutely certain how a man feels until he gives you that look.”
“What look?” Miss Platt said eagerly.
“Like this.” Elizabeth looked very intently at Miss Platt.
Venetia had never seen such a silly thing in all her life.
Miss Platt squinted back. “I hope you will forgive me, Elizabeth, but I am not certain how to tell that look from a normal one.”
“Look closer.” Elizabeth put her hands on Miss Platt’s shoulders and leaned closer, their noses almost touching. “See? See how my eyes are gazing directly into yours?”
“Oh, yes!” Miss Platt said, her eyes wide. Elizabeth leaned back in her seat. “There! You can see how powerful the look is.”
“I see it now. Oh, if Mr. We—” She glanced at Venetia and blushed. “I mean, I hope someday a man will look at me in such a way.”
Venetia sighed, suddenly wishing for some solitude. “If you decide that every man who simply looks at you is in love, none will dare raise his eyes from the floor.”
“Not all men are such hardened cases. Some men enjoy engaging a woman’s interest,” Elizabeth said,
tossing her hair. “It makes them feel manly.”
Miss Platt nodded quickly. “As you are engaged to be wed now and have been engaged twice before, I daresay you know all about that.”
“Yes,” Elizabeth said naively. “I have vast experience, which is a great pity, for it is quite difficult to be romantic when one is so disillusioned.”
“Poor thing!” Miss Platt murmured, patting Elizabeth’s knee.
Venetia could not stand another moment. She quickly made her excuses, then left the two women talking cozily by the fire. She’d better warn Ravenscroft to stop paying attention to Miss Platt; he might be in grave danger if he even looked at her!
Venetia went up to her room, grimacing when she saw the mess left by Elizabeth. It looked as if an entire trunk had exploded, clothes laid across every surface, the scent of lavender strong in the air.
Venetia cleared off the chair, piling Elizabeth’s clothes on the bed. She was not the neatest of roommates, even with a maid to clean up after her. Boots and slippers were strewn across the floor. Three hair-brushes had fallen beside the washstand. A tangled knot of hair ribbons had been tossed over the back of the chair, two pelisses and an opera cloak with them.
Venetia wasn’t certain she could keep a civil tongue in her head if she had to spend many more days living with such slovenly housekeeping, or nights filled with more snores and snorts. The entire inn seemed several rooms too small, and tensions were beginning to build.
Crossing to the window, she tied back the curtains to allow welcome light into the room. Fortunately, the weather had cleared. She opened the window a little and let the light breeze in. Snow-fresh air seeped into the room, dissipating the cloying scent of lavender.
Leaning against the sill, Venetia breathed in the cool air, gazing absently about the innyard. The snow was definitely melting. It was so thin along the edge of the stables that the grass was almost visible, and in a few places, the packed dirt from the innyard had mixed with the snow to make a muddy mess.