To Scotland, With Love

  Gregor peeled and sliced the onions, the strong odor stinging his eyes. He cut as much as he could, then turned away, his eyes burning almost as much as his pride. “Bloody hell, these are strong!”

  “They get stronger as they age.” She tossed a rag across the table. “Dry your eyes before someone thinks I’ve stepped on your toe.”

  She had stepped on his pride. That was what ached so badly now. He wiped his eyes, the burning subsiding a bit, and replaced the rag on the table. “Thank you.”

  She gathered the onions and carrots and carried them to the pot.

  Gregor watched silently. He’d botched everything. His attempted rescue had achieved nothing, and now his attempt to settle her future had put yet another barrier between them.

  He should have found a better way to present his proposal—though, eventually, she’d have to agree to it. There was no other solution.

  Venetia removed the lid from the pot and added a pinch of something.

  “That smells wonderful. What’s in it?”

  “Some ham from yesterday, some broth, rosemary, and garlic.” She gave him a brief impersonal smile before she turned away. “Thank you for helping, Gregor.”

  She was dismissing him. Gregor stiffened, his pride bruised. But then, so was hers. He watched her for a moment, noting the high color in her cheeks and the way she avoided his gaze.

  Perhaps it was better if he left, for now. Once she’d had time to think things through, she’d come to the same conclusion he had. All she needed was a little time for reflection.

  Gregor washed and dried his hands, then shrugged into his coat. Damn it, this was not the way he’d thought this would go. He paused by the door, trying to find words to explain what he thought and why, but none would come.

  Instead, he said, “We should be able to leave tomorrow. You will need to pack your portmanteau. I suppose you will wish to return to London right away.”

  She replaced the lid on the stew and returned to the table. “No. I have decided to go to my grandmama’s as I originally intended.”

  “Fine. I will escort you.”

  “No, thank you. I can travel on my own.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  She smiled thinly. “Why shouldn’t I travel alone now? I’m a ruined woman, remember? In a way, I am certain I will find it very freeing.”

  “Venetia, I—”

  She lifted her eyes to his, a hopeful expression burning there. “Yes?”

  Gregor heard the hope, the hint of wanting, and for an instant, something deep inside him responded to that hint of more. Then his good sense returned. “I will escort you, and I won’t take no for an answer.”

  She shrugged, wiping the table as if her life depended on it. “Do whatever you will. By this time tomorrow, things will return to normal.”

  But things wouldn’t, and they both knew it.

  Gregor left, torn by the desire to explain—what? That he didn’t love her and therefore couldn’t say so? That he respected her more than any other woman, and that should be enough?

  Scowling, he grabbed his overcoat from a peg by the door and headed out to the sanity of the stables.

  Chapter 16

  There’s no bond like that betwixt a mum and her wee ones. No one can make yer heart sing louder, or yer knees quake more.

  OLD WOMAN NORA FROM LOCH LOMOND

  TO HER THREE WEE GRANDDAUGHTERS ONE COLD EVENING

  T he squire set his napkin on the table. “Miss West, that’s the best stew I’ve ever had! And to think we were afraid we’d starve to death.”

  Venetia offered the squire a faint smile. “Thank you. I enjoy cooking.” She turned her gaze back to her own bowl, studiously avoiding Gregor’s gaze. He’d come in late and had taken a chair, growling at everyone who attempted to draw him into conversation.

  Ravenscroft looked up from where he’d been ravenously gulping the stew. “I say, Venetia, can you cook anything else?”

  Miss Platt tittered. “Oh, Mr. West! Surely you know what dishes your sister can prepare.”

  Ravenscroft blinked. “Oh. Well. I might except that, ah, well…” He swallowed noisily, then said in a rush, “Venetia lives with, ah, our parents whilst I have a set of rooms off St. James. She didn’t know how to cook back when I lived at home.” He sent a wild glance at Venetia. “Isn’t that right?”

  She sent him an approving smile. “My skills have only recently been proven. After Ravenscroft moved into his own apartments, Mama hired a temperamental French cook who delighted in quitting hours before any given entertainment.”

  Mrs. Bloom nodded. “That is very good of you to assist your mama, my dear. What are your favorite dishes?”

  “My favorites are Cornish hens stuffed with crab dressing, duck in mint sauce, and an especially savory liver pâté.”

  “That,” Ravenscroft said, spooning in another mouthful, “is just another reason why you should have run away with me to Italy.”

  “Run away with you to Italy?” Elizabeth looked at Ravenscroft with surprise. “Why were you and your sister planning on running off to Italy?”

  “My sister? Oh! Well…” Ravenscroft’s cheeks burned a bright red.

  “My brother is such a tease. He is forever suggesting we should run away from home to Italy.”

  “Just so,” Ravenscroft said. “Venetia could marry an Italian, and I could write a novel or some such thing.”

  Mrs. Bloom clucked her tongue. “Mr. West, you and your sister are too old to be running away from home. What would your parents say?”

  Ravenscroft opened his mouth, then closed it, then opened it again. “Our mother is a saintly woman who—”

  “I am certain Mrs. Bloom does not wish to hear that particular story.” Venetia sent Ravenscroft a warning glance. He’d tangle them up in a story so wild they wouldn’t be able to remember the details.

  Ravenscroft flushed and obediently busied himself with his stew.

  Satisfied he would cause no more harm for the moment, Venetia told Mrs. Bloom, “My brother is forever imagining he will start a new life in Italy with me to wash his clothes and take care of him, though I have informed him that I will take no part in such nonsense.”

  “I don’t blame Mr. West for wishing to have a cook with him.” Miss Platt forced a laugh and said in a plainly critical voice, “Although I must admit I’ve never known a lady who could cook at all.”

  Elizabeth sent a hard glance to Miss Platt. “I am glad Miss West can cook, or else we’d have been forced to eat cold bread and cheese for dinner.”

  “Indeed,” Mrs. Bloom said, eyeing Miss Platt with disfavor. “I hope none of us is so ungrateful as to describe Miss West’s talents as anything other than wonderfully fortunate for us all.”

  “Yes,” Gregor said, surprising everyone, as he’d not said a word the entire meal. He stood and bowed in Venetia’s direction, his mouth still turned in a straight line. “Miss West, you have taken simple stew to a new level.”

  Venetia didn’t know where to look. She wished she’d approached their conversation in the kitchen in a different manner. It was arrogant of Gregor to have assumed she would marry him as a matter of expediency, but now that her emotions were a bit cooler, she had to admit that the offer was quite chivalrous.

  If only he’d worded it with some finesse. She had been so outraged at his assumption that she should blindly allow him to fix all of her problems that it wasn’t until she was alone in the kitchen that the other aspects of his offer had sunk in.

  She wished she had the chance to apologize for her hot temper, but looking at his expression, she rather doubted it would do much good.

  Gregor told the squire, “Mrs. Bloom has offered us the use of her coach after dinner to see if we can find a horse in town to replace your injured one. The road is clear enough to travel.”

  The squire nodded. “Excellent. Thank you, Mrs. Bloom.”

  “It’s nothing.” Mrs. Bloom waved her plump hand. “Miss Platt and I plan on le
aving first thing tomorrow morning. It’ll be good to get the coach out of that musty barn and into the fresh air.”

  The squire raised his brows. “It’s still kind of you.” He stood as well. “Elizabeth, have your maid pack your bags this evening. We should be off at first light as well.”

  “I should pack, too,” Mrs. Bloom said. She gathered her shawl and stood. “Miss Platt, come with me.”

  Miss Platt tore her gaze from Ravenscroft, blinking in surprise. “But…I, ah—” She snatched up her spoon. “I have not yet finished this delicious stew.”

  Mrs. Bloom sent a knowing look at Ravenscroft, who appeared miserable, but she only said, “Very well, Miss Platt. When you finish, pray come to our room, and let’s pack our things. As charming as this inn is, it is time we go to London.” Mrs. Bloom left and was soon heard making her way up the stairs.

  Gregor sent a glance at Venetia. “I daresay you and your brother will wish to leave at the same time?”

  She nodded. “I will pack this evening, too.”

  “Good. I will be accompanying you and Mr. West to your grandmother’s.” He turned to the squire. “Are we ready?”

  “Wait!” Ravenscroft jumped to his feet, tossing his napkin onto the table. “I will help you!” He hurried to join the other two men by the door.

  “Good,” Gregor said. “We could use someone to carry the broken wheel from the Higganbothams’ carriage.”

  Ravenscroft gawped. “But I’ll get dirty.”

  “So you will,” Gregor said with obvious satisfaction as he followed the squire from the room.

  Ravenscroft sighed. Miss Platt half stood, her hand outstretched, a hopeful expression on her face. Ravenscroft gulped, then almost ran from the room.

  “Did you see that?” Miss Platt said, dropping back into her chair, almost glowing. “Oh, Miss Elizabeth, he looked at me!”

  “Did he?” Elizabeth frowned. “I missed it.”

  “He looked directly at me!” She waved a hand to fan herself. “I think…he must…is it possible that he cares for me? Oh, Miss West, please tell me what you think? He is your brother, after all.”

  “I don’t think Mr. West is capable of truly caring for anyone,” she said. “He’s much too young.”

  Miss Platt’s face fell.

  Elizabeth sent the older lady a quick look of compassion. “Which only means he’s not capable yet.”

  Miss Platt attempted to smile.

  Venetia felt as if she’d just kicked a puppy. “I’m sorry, Miss Platt. Perhaps I’m not the best person to ask about Mr. West’s feelings.”

  Miss Platt tried to take heart, squaring her shoulders. “That’s true, though I know what I saw. Miss Elizabeth, perhaps we should go upstairs and pack our things?”

  Elizabeth nodded absently. “Of course. Go ahead. I will be up in a moment.”

  Miss Platt looked from Elizabeth to Venetia, then back, plainly unsettled by Elizabeth’s implied dismissal. “But, Miss Higganbotham—Elizabeth—I thought that while we were packing, we could discuss romance, as we are both veterans of that joyous state.”

  “Yes, well, I have something I must discuss with Miss West first. You may go ahead and I will arrive shortly. This will not take long.”

  Miss Platt sniffed her disapproval and flounced out of the room, closing the door with a decided snap.

  Elizabeth rose and went to the door. She opened it a crack and peeked out. Apparently satisfied, she closed the door and came to sit beside Venetia, her eyes unusually bright as she took one of Venetia’s hands and held it tightly. “I must speak with you!”

  “Of course.”

  Elizabeth leaned forward. “Miss West, there is no one else I can trust. Mrs. Bloom is too judgmental, and Miss Platt—well, there have been times in the past few days I have thought her not a nice person.”

  Venetia had been thinking the same thing. It was odd, but she’d first thought Mrs. Bloom a horrid person who sadly tromped upon Miss Platt’s pride. Since then, though, Venetia had witnessed the many kindnesses Mrs. Bloom conferred upon her fellow travelers, while Miss Platt seemed more and more selfish.

  Elizabeth sighed heavily. “I have no one else to turn to. Miss West—Venetia—promise you will not fail me!”

  “I will do what I can,” Venetia said cautiously.

  “Elizabeth!” Squire Higganbotham called out.

  The girl sent a harried look at the door. “Miss West, I have thought a lot about what you said to Miss Platt about being independent and keeping your opportuni—”

  “Elizabeth!” The squire was almost at the door.

  She stood, still clinging to Venetia’s hand, her expression serious. “Miss West,” she said urgently, “can I trust you?”

  “Of course you can, though I don’t know—”

  The door opened, and the squire entered, bundled in his coat and hat, carrying a large portmanteau half stuffed with shirts and waistcoats, most of which were falling out. “Ah, there you are!” The squire set the portmanteau on the table, and a waistcoat immediately fell to the floor. “MacLean is having the broken axle removed from our carriage, so I thought I’d pack my things, only it wasn’t as simple as I’d thought. I need that silly maid of yours to see if she can get all of my clothes back into this blasted thing.”

  Elizabeth forced a smile. “Of course! As soon as she’s done with my clothes, I shall have her organize this for you.”

  “Excellent. I’ll carry it to your room.”

  Elizabeth sent Venetia a long, meaningful look and reluctantly followed her father out the door.

  Venetia sighed. What on earth had Elizabeth meant about being able to trust her? And when had Mrs. Bloom become so generous and Miss Platt so difficult? Had Venetia misjudged them both?

  But none of that mattered in the face of what had happened in the kitchen with Gregor. She placed her elbows on the table and dropped her face into her hands, succumbing again to the quicksand of reliving those kisses over and over. She couldn’t stop thinking about how fathomless Gregor’s eyes had been, how absolutely tasty he’d appeared all during dinner, even when glowering at her.

  More to the point, she couldn’t stop wondering what would happen to all the members of their little party when they rejoined society.

  The next morning broke sunny and warm. The snow had melted off the roads, and only the icy drifts by the side of the barn reminded them of the blanket of white that had covered everything only a day ago.

  Venetia folded a pair of stockings and carefully tucked them into her portmanteau, the faint scent of lavender making her long for the orderliness of her bedchamber in Oglivie House. She sighed and snapped the lock closed.

  After so much excitement, last night had been woefully uneventful. Gregor, Ravenscroft, and the squire had not returned from Eddington until well after dinner, leaving Venetia at the mercy of the other members of their party.

  Following her cryptic comments Elizabeth had spent the evening sending Venetia looks brimming with unspoken meaning. When Venetia tried to question her, the girl merely gave her a secretive smile and said in an arch voice, “All in good time, my dear Miss West! All in good time!”

  Soon tired of it all, Venetia escaped to her bedchamber. She’d just donned her night rail and had unbound her hair when she heard Gregor and the men returning. The plank floors had done little to muffle their voices, and somehow she found herself pressed to the floor, trying to hear what was said.

  Eventually, this cold and futile effort palled, and she climbed to her feet, brushed off her knees, and climbed into bed. There she stayed, wishing she felt even a little sleepy.

  Elizabeth eventually came in, her maid following. Between the two of them, they made enough noise to wake the dead. Venetia had pretended to be asleep; she could not handle another drop of drama.

  The younger woman had sighed, rolled over, and fallen into a deep and immediate slumber. Venetia lay awake most of the night, thinking about Gregor’s words. He was right, of course; there would
be a scandal. People would talk, and some would openly refuse to speak to her. Then the invitations would cease coming. Only the very, very wealthy could break with propriety without harming their social standing, and Venetia was not one of that select group.

  The situation would be horrid from beginning to end, a fact Gregor had realized. No wonder the poor man had felt so sorry for her that he’d resigned himself to marrying her.

  But Venetia didn’t want a bridegroom who was resigned. She wanted a bridegroom who was excited, thrilled, ecstatic to be married to her. Not one who would casually mention it “had to be done” while chopping carrots.

  Her heart heavy, Venetia plumped her pillow and rolled to her side, away from Elizabeth’s loud snoring. Eventually, exhaustion lured her to sleep.

  When morning finally dawned, Elizabeth’s maid arrived with a breakfast tray and informed them in an annoyingly cheerful voice that the gentlemen were already having their breakfast in the common room. Grumbling about people who woke up in a good mood and how annoying such a trait was, Venetia arose, exhausted, listless, and thoroughly blue-deviled. She dressed quickly and was soon tucking her gloves into the pocket of her pelisse, ready to go downstairs.

  Meanwhile, Elizabeth and her maid whispered to one another, their voices strident even when hushed.

  A knock sounded on the door. Elizabeth paused in giving her maid endless instructions and raced to the door. “I’ll get it!” There, her manner changed instantly. Instead of a wide-awake young lady of fashion, she sagged listlessly against the doorframe, one hand over her brow. “Good morning,” Venetia heard her say in a low, husky voice. “Lord MacLean is here.” She followed the words with a feeble cough.

  “Good morning, Miss Higganbotham.” Gregor’s rich voice seemed to fill the room. “I was going to wish you a good morning as well, but I can see you’re not feeling well.”

  She pressed her fingers to her throat. “No. I fear I am catching something, as is my maid.”

  From behind her, the maid managed a feeble cough.

  “I am sorry to hear that.”

  Elizabeth smiled bravely. “I can only hope it does not settle in the lungs.” She turned from him, stumbling a little as she moved back from the door.