Page 11 of Lyon of Scotland
“A pleasure, miss,” he repeated. He felt a strong, instinctive urge to ask what was wrong. But just then the door opened and a gentleman entered, beckoning to Sir George.
Dare noticed that Hannah Gordon’s eyes widened in alarm. She sat quickly, turned her back, and picked up the pen to resume her work.
“Miss Gordon,” Dare murmured, “is something amiss?” She only shook her head.
“Lord Lyon, sir! Let me introduce you to our lawyer,” Sir George said. Dare joined them by the door. “Lord Strathburn is the new Lord Lyon, King of Arms in Scotland,” Naylor explained to the other man. “My lord, this is Sir Frederic Dove, who watches over some important matters, as you can imagine. You met his son, Charles Dove, just now.”
“Ah. Pleased to meet you, Sir Frederic.” Dare tipped his head.
“Lord Lyon, a privilege. Welcome. I am sure you can learn something here in the College of Arms to benefit your northern office.” The big gray-haired fellow had a decided sneer in his voice, which Dare decided was either by habit or simply reserved for Scots.
“Our office is small compared to this one. Everything seems well in hand here,” Dare said. “I am familiar with a lawyer’s duties, sir, as I served as solicitor in the Scottish heraldry office for several years before my current appointment.”
“Perhaps I can aspire to a greater rank here.” Dove laughed and looked at Naylor.
“You are too valuable in other ways, Sir Frederic,” Naylor chuckled.
“Solicitor, eh?” Dove went on. “I thought you looked familiar. Have we met?”
The man did look familiar. Dare narrowed his eyes, but the thought eluded him. “I believe we met a couple of years ago when Lord Kinnoull and I came here.”
“There is another interesting coincidence,” Sir George said. “Lord Lyon and Miss Gordon are acquaintances in Edinburgh.”
“Ah.” Dove nodded, then glanced at Hannah Gordon, his gaze curiously dark and flat. Assessing, somehow. And something about it made the girl uncomfortable, for she tensed her shoulders high and lowered her head as she worked.
A chill of warning slipped down his spine. As he left the art room with the others, Dare could not shake a lingering unease. Only when Dove bid them farewell did he relax.
Over the next few days, Dare met with Naylor in the College of Arms and accompanied Sir Walter Scott and his son-in-law, John Lockhart, on outings. He was pleased to see his close friend, Arthur Hay-Stewart, Lord Linhope, a Scottish physician and friend from school days and the war on the Continent as well. With Scott and Lockhart, they visited the newly organized British Museum to see the ancient artifacts that formed the bulk of the collection, and attended a few suppers among Scottish acquaintances in London.
Yet in keeping with his work in London, Dare spent hours in the dusty archives at the College of Arms studying armorial books and rolls of arms preserved in old, fragile documents and hefty bound volumes. Taking notes and making small sketches as he went, he considered asking Hannah Gordon for help in adding her precise hand to the notes he needed to bring back to Scotland.
But he suspected that too much attention just now from Lord Lyon might cause issues with Naylor. Dare would not jeopardize the girl’s position here—and he hoped to discover what bothered her. Perhaps he could help in some way. Remembering what he had seen of Dove and the girl, he felt sure something was amiss there.
Each time he encountered her, she was in conversation either with Charles Dove, the young artist, or with Naylor over some detail. Passing them in a hallway or elsewhere, he murmured a greeting and felt his heart gave a little lurch. He was always looking for a chance to speak with her, until finally, he decided to do something about it. The time had come to step past whatever barrier he had placed around himself for years, find out ifthe lass had indeed ended her engagement, and if she would welcome his interest.
As he folded a few pages of notes with his basic pencil drawings and scribbled notes, he paused. What held him back? He could have discovered three years ago if the girl returned his feelings. But he had always been reserved, a man who restrained his feelings on the surface, who stayed as cool and unruffled as possible, while emotions grew and were either shelved somewhere in his heart or head—or demanded attention.
His feelings for Hannah Gordon demanded not just attention, but action. Now that he seen her again and sensed some problem, he felt compelled to act.
Leaving the archive room with his notes tucked in a pocket, he met Naylor in the corridor and walked beside him, discussing the current process of approving a new coat of arms—when he saw Hannah Gordon approach from the opposite direction. Her arms were full of large, unwieldy books, her chin lifted as she walked, trying to see. When one of the tomes tipped out of her grasp, Dare strode toward her.
“Allow me, Miss Gordon,” he said, lifting the books from her before she could protest, and, in fact, catching one just before it dropped on the toe of her boot.
“My lord, thank you,” she said breathlessly.
He piled the books in his arms, his hands grazing hers. That simple contact felt like a shock of soft lightning. The time had come, his heart, his body told him. “Where should these go?”
“To the workroom, if you will,” she said as they walked.
While Naylor walked beside her, asking about a new design, Dare followed, feeling like an infatuated schoolboy, wishing Naylor would go away and leave him with the Gordon girl. He wanted to ask if she was happy in London, or troubled, as he suspected. Other questions came to mind questions too.
Miss Gordon, would you consider working for the Scottish heraldry office?But he would not encroach on one of Naylor’s artists, even if he desperately wanted to.
More thoughts occurred without warning.Miss Gordon, would you walk with me, chat about nonsense, ride in the park, attend a stuffy concert—would you take my arm, kiss me in the moonlight? Travel north with me, go home with me, bed with me, marry me—
Where had that come from? Yet he could easily imagine marrying Archibald Gordon’s middle daughter, just as Sir Walter had hinted. If he wanted that—and he felt the whirl in his gut, the tightening of truth that said he wanted it very much—then why had he held back?
When Naylor asked to see some new sketches, Hannah obliged. Dare stretched out the moment, righting the books stacked on the table—and suddenly the truth of it came to him, as if his mind and heart had decided then and there that it was indeed time he sorted this.
