Page 87 of Waiting for a Scot Like You
“Maybe he is,” Nicolette answered pertly. “Looking for company, chap? Would you like to waste some time?” She followed this with a wink.
“The ale’s enough company for me,” Duncan answered.
She blew out a breath before getting to her feet. “Suit yourself.”
Once he was by himself again, Duncan could only shake his head. It would have been a perfectly unemotional fuck with a fine-looking woman, and yet the thought of touching anyone who wasn’t Beatrice was exactly like the invisible knife Nicolette had imagined going straight into his gut.
The pain he’d experienced after receiving Susannah’s letter had been, in a way, more manageable. Because while he’d been fond of her, fondness had been all he’d felt, and all Susannah had ever shown him. What was between him and Beatrice was explosive, consuming.
Or, ithad beenexplosive and consuming. Now it was nothing. No, that wasn’t true. Nothing would have meant being numb, and he was one big raw wound.
He respected Beatrice’s wish to never marry again. Yet the alternative that she had proposed was utterly alien, existing so far away from the boundaries of the world that he knew and understood. It was one thing to host an unsanctioned assembly in a town that didn’t permit dancing, but not marrying the person you cherished above all others, that he could not comprehend.
Duncan threw back his ale, draining the tankard, and signaled for another. He couldn’t permit himselfto get drunk when he still had a ways to go on the road, but he’d come as close to it as possible and hoped that it could dull the edge of his agony.
Bathed, dressed, ready in every way, Beatrice stood with her hand on the doorknob. It was ten past seven. She ought to go downstairs and join the others. Already, she heard the sounds of revelry—glasses clinking together, laughter, music. She could picture the feast that awaited her with the best food and drink that could be found in Britain. There were many attractive men downstairs, as well. Everything was as it should be. All she needed to do was open her bedroom door, go out into the hallway, and take a few steps before she’d be part of the merriment.
She didn’t move.
After a minute, she stepped away from the door. Then took another step backward, one more, and another and another until she sat on the edge of her bed. She willed her legs to make her stand and her feet to carry her back to the door, but her body had other ideas, and she stayed seated on the bed.
She must be tired. Her attempt at a nap earlier had been an exercise in futility. All she had done was try not to think about Duncan and failed miserably. Her efforts at reading one of her rather damaged Lady of Dubious Quality books in an attempt to summon some sensual inspiration had met with similar failure.
It was merely exhaustion.
“Who the hell am I fooling?” she muttered aloud.
Certainly not herself. It was as though he existed inside of her, beside herself, so that when she breathed, she breathed for both of them, and when his heart beat, it beat alongside hers. The fact that he was likely miles away did not alter the bond. It was as strong as it had been when they’d traveled together and when they’d lain with their bodies intertwined in the aftermath of their extraordinary lovemaking.
Because that’s what it had been. Not simply sex but a communion between two people. Perhaps at first it had been simple physical attraction, yet that had quickly changed into more than mere bodies finding pleasure and release. He’d been so caring, so attentive to her needs and wants, pushing himself becauseshehad asked him to.
She wanted him—wanted all of him. But she could not do something that went against everything she believed in and everything she wanted for herself.
One thing she did not want for herself was to remain at Lord Gibb’s. She didn’t desire any of the people here, and there was no purpose in staying, not when her heart was heavy with loss.
She moved to the clothes press and began pulling out a few garments. Just the essentials, and she’d ask for the rest to be sent back to her in London.
A tap sounded at the door.
“You may enter,” she said over her shoulder as she grabbed a handful of shifts.
“Will you not join everyone downstairs?” Lord Gibb asked, coming into the room. “Supper is about to be served.”
“My thanks, but if I might have a tray brought up, I would be most grateful.”
“You’re staying in your room?” There was genuine puzzlement in Lord Gibb’s voice.
She turned to face him. He’d changed into a banyan, likely because it would be easily removed once the actual bacchanal began, and he gazed at her with mystification.
“I am,” she said. “Forgive me, Lord Gibb, but I find that I cannot remain at this gathering. What I need is a ride to the nearest coaching inn, and then I can see to my own transport back to London.”
“Ah. I see.” Lord Gibb blinked in astonishment. “Your letters had indicated considerable enthusiasm for attending my house party, so I find this decision unexpected.”
“To me, as well,” she said. “Yet it’s the right decision.”
“My coach and coachman are at your disposal,” Lord Gibb replied. “But I ought to tell you that the London-bound mail coach will not arrive at the village until midmorning. If you’ll stay one night beneath my roof, I can have my carriage take you first thing in the morning. I promise you’ll find the beds here more comfortable than you will at the inn.”
“Thank you,” she said. “I’ll remain tonight.”
