Page 85 of Waiting for a Scot Like You
Her lips trembled, and a tear tracked down her cheek. She thought she knew all the different varieties of pain a heart could endure, but none of them werelike this, threatening to incinerate her and leave her a pile of lifeless ashes. “Duncan.”
“Remember that night when we slept outside,” he said, his voice gravelly as he continued to hold her hand. “How you asked me what would make me happy?”
“I remember,” she whispered. It had been only a few nights ago, when he’d looked at her across the fire with his heart in his eyes, and she’d been its grateful and careful keeper. Closeness had woven between them, potent as any ancient spell, but it seemed so long ago now. Yet the memory of the pleasure caused fresh torment to well within her.
“It won’t make me happy, but it’s what I need.” He released her hand, though his fingers moved stiffly, as if letting her go was an agony.
“Yes?” she answered at once, eager to give him whatever it was he required.
“Open that.” Moving as though he was made of heavy iron, he tilted his head toward the parlor door.
Frowning at his odd request, she did as he said.
Once the door was open, he rasped, “Now walk out of this room, and for the love of God, do not come back.”
Her legs threatened to give out beneath her, and she held onto the doorframe to support herself. “Oh, Duncan.”
“I’d leave on foot if I could, but I have to return Atherton’s horses to him. Since I’m stuck here at Gibb’s for the next hour, I need you to go.” Desperation was in his gaze and a pain so limitless that to see it in him, she couldn’t catch her breath. “Beatrice. Please. Be kind and leave me.”
Tears streamed unchecked down her face. It was incredible the amount of sadness a person could experience. If there was any fairness in this world, such hurt would simply make you wink out of existence, like a candle in a draft. But the world wasn’t fair. It let you keep on going, continue living and suffering, and all you could do was endure it.
Unable to speak, vision swimming, she turned and went quickly down the corridor. If they ever did meet again, they would do so as strangers.
She found a retiring room that was fortunately unoccupied. Wrapping her arms around herself, she sank down onto a low chair and permitted herself the luxury of giving in to her tears. Yet she pressed her knuckles tightly against her mouth to quiet her sobbing. The very last thing she wanted was for some female guest to hear her weeping and come in to ask for an explanation.
She wasn’t certain what she’d say to them, anyway. There was no concise way to describe everything she’d experienced this past week, nor the incredible man who’d been with her the whole time. And how could she expect anyone to understand that though they’d come to mean so much to each other, they had to part? There had been no alternative.
Finally, after what felt like decades, her tears slowed and then stopped. Her head was thick and her bodysluggish, so she used a provided ewer and basin to splash cool water on her face. She dried her cheeks with a soft cloth before examining her reflection in the tabletop mirror.
Her eyes were still red, as was her nose, and she looked, frankly, puffy. Hardly the sort of siren who’d attract a lover.
She didn’t want anyone else. Only him.
Still, she couldn’t stay in the retiring room for the rest of the week, so she emerged from the small chamber and absently followed the sounds of laughter emanating from the back of the house. Double doors had been opened to reveal a drawing room. It led to a terrace and a manicured and stylish garden. The drawing room itself contained nearly a dozen people, some of whom she recognized from seeing them earlier in other parts of the house.
Lord Gibb himself was there, talking animatedly with a trio of guests. They all held flutes of sparkling wine, and when Lord Gibb spotted her standing at the entrance of the drawing room, he snapped his fingers at a servant. The footman approached with a tray holding more glasses of wine.
With rote motions, she took a glass and downed it in one gulp before reaching for another.
She drifted through the room, trying to find a place to alight. The guests greeted her with smiles and some looks of interest, yet she could find no group of people that intrigued her enough to stop and talk. Nothingand no one could hold her attention. She didn’t want to chat, and she certainly had no sexual appetite.
Lord Gibb approached her. “There’s a special evening planned for our first night. It’s not to be missed. I’ve engaged a circus troupe to entertain us before supper, and guests are encouraged to try their hand at tumbling. There’s music, as well, with performers coming from as far as Vienna. My French cook and his staff have spent the last three days preparing a lavish meal with food that rivals anything served at Carlton House. Though I was unable to get Mrs. Catton herself to come from London, she’s sent two of her best pastry cooks, and they have made an array of cakes and sweets that will make any gastronome’s heart overflow.”
“How delightful,” Beatrice said, attempting to summon enthusiasm. She couldn’t have what she wanted—Duncan—so surely, she ought to enjoy all of these things thatwereavailable to her. Yet hearing this litany of pleasures moved her not at all. Lord Gibb might as well have recited the dates of a recent canal’s construction milestones.
“And then,” Lord Gibb added, his smile widening, “we fuck.” He chuckled.
“Yes, right,” she said without enthusiasm.
Lord Gibb rubbed his hands together. “Most guests tend to form specific couples or groups over the course of the week, but for the first foray, there are pillows and couches set up throughout the ballroom. I encourage everyone to experiment and find as many partnersas possible over the course of the evening. It’s quite a sight, I can tell you. So much freedom in one ballroom. You’ll never experience anything like it anywhere else.”
“It does sound unique.” Her heart continued to beat steadily in her chest—there was no kick of excitement, no tingle of anticipation anywhere in her body. Certainly not in the parts of her that ought to be more interested in the prospect of having her every erotic fantasy fulfilled.
A footman approached Lord Gibb and murmured into his ear. The host nodded before dismissing the servant.
“Is everything all right?” Beatrice asked.
“Indeed. My servant merely wanted to let me know that Major McCameron has departed, taking both horses with him. But you needn’t worry—when the week is over, I can easily arrange transport for you back to London.”
