Page 88 of Waiting for a Scot Like You
“Of course.”
“I am quite grateful, my lord.”
“This will be a first, having someone leave before anything has truly begun. But naturally I will honor your wishes.” Lord Gibb took a step toward the door. “Can I not enjoin you to partake in tonight’s festivities? It seems a shame for you to go through so much trouble to be here and then not participate. I have heard from a number of other guests that they were looking forward to your presence.”
Lord Gibb might as well have asked her if she’d enjoy snuggling a warthog. She’d no interest in embracing anyone or anything that wasn’t Duncan.
“That’s most gracious of them,” she said. “However, I shall remain here in my room until morning.”
Lord Gibb inclined his head, then opened the door. More sounds of the guests’ merriment drifted into her bedchamber. Later tonight, the laughter would transform into sighs and moans of sexual pleasure, but for now, everyone laughed and chatted. It sounded quite pleasant. There would be new people to meet, delicious food, and exciting festivities—and she’d no desire to be a part of it.
“Good evening, Lady Farris,” Lord Gibb said. “I shan’t be up to bid you farewell in the morning, but if you ever change your mind and decide you want to return, you are always welcome.”
“Thank you again for your generous hospitality.” She had no intention of telling him that she wouldn’t come back. There was only one man she needed in her bed, yet she could never have him.
Chapter 22
He’d never been more grateful to come upon a sleeping house than he was when he rode up to Atherton’s home and found all the windows dark. Even the grooms had gone to bed.
Duncan led the horses into the stable and tended to them, his movements rote and utterly unhelpful in banishing from his mind the thought that at that very moment, Beatrice was likely in someone else’s arms, doing... he didn’t want to think too deeply about what she was probably doing, because if he did, he’d go out of his mind. He could just picture Atherton and the entire household running to the stables, roused from their slumber by his maddened screams.
He pulled a scrap of paper from his pack and scribbled out a note to Atherton, thanking him for the loan of the horses. He stuck the note on the front of one of the animal’s stalls before hefting his pack to set off on foot. There was a possibility that he’d meetwith unsavory characters at this hour, but maybe a fist to his face could offer some distraction.
There was something both desolate and welcoming about being alone on the road long after the sun had set. The moon was still ripe enough to cast decent light. He debated for a moment whether or not to find a place to bed down for the night. Without Beatrice’s comfort and safety to take into consideration, he’d no issue with sleeping beneath the stars, even without the benefit of a blanket.
Hewasexhausted. The day had begun years ago, with the invasion of Atherton’s home, and in the intervening hours, he’d experienced devastating heartbreak. And there had been miles on the road.
Yet there would be no rest for him. Any moment’s quiet would only give space for memories to come flooding in, and if hewasable to sleep, he’d doubtless dream of Beatrice and the agony of walking away from her.
Better to keep going. So he did, putting one foot in front of the other, attempting to distract himself by thinking of all the aspects of estate management that would soon engage his attention. That kind of steady employment was exactly what he ought to do with himself. It was reliable and safe and precisely the sort of thing he needed.
When he’d stepped outside the boundaries of sanctioned behavior, he’d made himself too vulnerable.There was reassuring protection in the rules—or so he told himself.
Hearing the creak of an approaching vehicle, he peered into the darkness. A wagon emerged from the shadows, and two men sat on the bench.
Duncan’s hand immediately went to the pistol he’d tucked into his waistband. You could never be too cautious when journeying at this hour, especially if you were a solitary traveler.
Then a voice called out, “Can we offer you a ride somewhere, stranger?”
Duncan frowned at the familiar voice. But that couldn’t be possible—he was on the road in the middle of the night, far from London. Impossible that he’d encounter anyone he knew.
The wagon drew closer, and a stunned laugh burst from him. “Rowe? Curtis?”
“Is that... McCameron?” Rowe pulled on the reins, and the vehicle came to a stop. “What the deuce are you doing on this stretch of road at one o’clock in the morning?”
“Could ask you both the same question.” Even in the darkness, Duncan saw how Rowe’s thigh was pressed close to Curtis’s. There was plenty of room on the bench. His friends sat close to each other because they wanted to.
“Rowe gave his paper,” Curtis said and added with pride, “and fucking obliterated his naysayers.”
“Well done.” Duncan grinned, though it physically hurt him. “That doesn’t explain how you came to behere.”
“We’d had enough of life on the road,” Curtis continued, “and wanted to get back to London and our own bed.”
It did not escape Duncan’s notice that his friend had usedbedsingular. But, given the pause and meaningful looks from both Curtis and Rowe, that had been intentional.
Rowe had told him that he and Curtis had crossed the boundary between friends to lovers. Now he had his proof that the bond went further than a few nights’ pleasure.
The way they both gazed at him now, wariness in both their eyes, they feared what he’d think.
