Page 86 of Waiting for a Scot Like You
She barely heard anything Lord Gibb said after the wordsMajor McCameron has departed. Nothing else truly mattered.
She and Duncan would see each other no more. Perhaps from time to time, they might cross paths, though she’d never again return to the Duke of Rotherby’s estate of Carriford. Securing an invitation wouldn’t be a challenge, and the estate itself was delightful, but to go to that place, knowing that Duncan worked and lived there—that would be a torment.
Despite her furious bout of weeping less than an hour ago, fresh tears sprang to her eyes. The cord that tethered her heart to Duncan’s pulled tightly, and she braced herself for its inevitable snap, severing that tie.
“Lady Farris?” Lord Gibb’s concerned face appeared in her line of vision. “What troubles you?”
“I’m merely fatigued from my journey.” Her voice didn’t shaketoomuch, so that was an achievement. “It was a rather turbulent week.”
“So I gathered. I’ll have one of my servants show you to your room.”
“That would be most appreciated.”
He waved over a footman and gave instructions to escort her to her bedchamber. “The gala begins at seven,” Lord Gibb added. “If you decide to nap, I can have a maidservant wake you in advance so you’ve time to bathe and ready yourself for the evening.”
“Most gracious of you.”
She followed the footman out of the drawing room and through the house. As she trailed after the servant, she tried to distract herself by taking note of the house’s interesting details, such as a stained-glass window that would be quite stunning to see when the light shone behind it. But the thought of trying to calculate the proper time to see the window at its best only exhausted her. Besides, she’d seen many stained-glass windows in her life. This one wasn’t so special.
The footman climbed a staircase and then walked down a lushly carpeted hallway before stopping infront of a door. He opened it and stepped back to permit her entrance.
It was a pleasant room, decorated in genteel shades of pale blue and gray, with a generously proportioned canopied bed. No doubt all the beds at Lord Gibb’s home were of similar size to accommodate the guests’ amorous activities. Surely, she and Duncan could use up every inch of that mattress, and he’d be very creative in his use of the bed’s posts.
She shook her head. Duncan wasn’t here. He would not share her bed ever again.
“The maid’s unpacked your belongings, my lady,” the footman said, interrupting her thoughts. “Everything’s in the press.”
She handed the servant a coin. “That will be all.”
He bowed and left her alone. Driven more by restlessness than interest, she opened the press and did, indeed, find all of her gowns cleaned and whole. Curious, she looked into one of the press’s drawers. Her collection of erotic novels was there, though slightly water damaged from the rain. And her contraceptive devices were there, too. Doubtless the maid was not shocked to find them in Beatrice’s bag, but to see them again made her start. When she’d obtained them in London, she’d been filled with anticipation of a week’s debauchery, almost naive in believing that seven days of uninhibited sexuality was precisely what she wanted, what she needed.
She knew better now.
Chapter 21
Duncan didn’t want to stop. He planned to ride straight on to Atherton’s, return the horses, and then find some way to get back to London. If he kept moving, he wouldn’t have time to think. To brood. But Atherton’s cattle were not sturdy military horses accustomed to long hours on the road. They were delicate creatures, mostly bred to be decorative and admired when ridden to church. So Duncan had no choice but to give the animals a rest.
He found a town with an inn, and its taproom would suit his purposes. Once in the yard, he gave the horses to a boy, with instructions to see to their care.
Inside, the taproom was bustling with the activity of early evening. People looked up at his entrance, but this village seemed large enough that a stranger’s presence wasn’t entirely unusual.
Much as he wanted to sit with his back to the room, ensuring that no one would disturb him as he drank, old habits and self-protection won out. He took a seat at a table, keeping his back to the wall.
The tapster took his order for ale. “Anything for supper, sir?”
Duncan’s response was a grunt. He’d no appetite, and though he knew it was wisest to keep himself fed so that he’d have the necessary energy should anything go awry on his way south, he couldn’t bring himself to eat.
“Right, then,” the man said before shuffling away.
Duncan observed the merry taproom as though he looked at it through the reverse of his spyglass. It all seemed very far away, and he couldn’t feel the warmth of the fire or be cheered by the laughter. He was a visitor from some strange, distant land that knew nothing of conviviality or happiness. His realm was one of endless shadow and harsh, rasping voices that held no emotion.
“Stomachache?” a woman with black hair asked, dropping into the seat opposite him. “Got a hand on your gut, and you made a sound like someone was stabbing you. Since I don’t see a knife in your belly, maybe it’s a stomachache.”
“I’m fine,” Duncan muttered.
The woman put a fashion periodical on the table, and it was clear from the publication’s worn pages that she’d read it many times.
A moment later, the tapster plunked a tankard down in front of Duncan. “Evening, Nicolette,” he said to the woman. “Don’t bother the man too long, hear? He ain’t looking for company.”
