Page 27 of No One's Bride
“Helen is likely with child,” he countered, “and doubtless Gladys has taken a fancy to Jenkins and means to hug his arm as we navigate the bends.”
“Has Helen told ye she’s with child?”
Excitement warred with inadequacy. All her friends were in love and married and would soon be the proud parents of many children. Ailsa had always been the odd one. The bluestocking. The spinster. The Scot. The fool.
“No, it’s merely an assumption.”
“Being an uncle might make ye reconsider yer oath nae to wed,” she teased.
“I didn’t make an oath not to wed. I made an oath to delay the inevitable. For the next ten years, I shall be a free man.”
He made duty sound like a shackle around his neck, one that tightened with each passing year. Did he not want a companion? Did he not yearn for a woman’s love?
“Did ye have dreams and aspirations when ye were a wee boy?” The lord possessed a strictness of mind. Had it always been the case?
A compelling twinkle in his eyes hinted at a hidden passion. Like a star in the night sky, had his dreams burned brightly only to fade with the morning sun?
“I would have liked to sail the seas and travel to distant lands. Eat exotic food. Mingle with the locals.” The light inside him quickly died. “But the heir to a viscountcy must be sensible, and my brother’s demise proved there is nothing romantic about perishing from a tropical fever.”
“I cannae imagine how hard that must have been.” Ailsa’s parents were alive, and she had no siblings. Seeing the destructive nature of grief did not make it easier to comprehend. “But ye cannae presume yer experiences will be the same.”
Five words left his lips.
Five words shrouded in finality.
“It’s too late for me.”
“’Tis never too late.” Perhaps if she could convince him to travel abroad for a time, it would break the spell and save them both a wealth of misery. “There’s an old Scottish proverb. Time and tide for nae man bide.” Her father used it every time he tried to persuade her to marry. “While ye’re more fortunate than most, we’re all waiting to meet our maker. When taking yer last breath, ye want to have lived a full life.”
An unspoken pain filled his eyes as he scanned her face. She could almost hear his silent plea. The real man crying for someone to unlock his chains, to free him from his prison.
Lord Denton glanced out of the window, realised they were still stationary and rapped on the roof. “We’ve an appointment and cannot be late. And you seek to distract me at every opportunity, madam.”
“Says the man who peeks through the keyhole then grumbles because he sees something vexing.”
The carriage lurched, and Ailsa slipped forward on the polished leather seat. The lord came to her rescue, his strong hand gripping her arm, steadying her balance.
Their gazes locked.
Heat infused every fibre of her being.
Confusion marred the lord’s brow before he snatched back his hand and resumed a rigid position.
“I didn’t peek through the keyhole,” he said as they journeyed along Oxford Street. “You left the front door open. And I recall making no complaints about what I found beyond.”
No, he had not demanded she make herself presentable and had been most relaxed when standing in his shirtsleeves discussing their dilemma. The man was a monument to contradiction.
She knew the argumentative fellow.
The one who broke his fast with a hearty plate of sarcasm.
“Ye do enjoy taking control of a situation,” she said, knowing powerful men liked to grasp the world in their palms.
“Yet you strive to make that impossible.” He narrowed his gaze. “Why is that? Do Highland maidens keep their men in manacles?”
Aware his derisive tone was an attempt to lighten the mood, she decided to play along. “Highlanders dinnae belittle women to make themselves seem stronger. To survive in the wild, a man needs a courageous lass who doesnae crumble when the weather turns.”
“One who wields scissors to tackle an intruder?” he teased.
