“To what?” she asked when he hesitated.
“To what might have happened if I’d handed off the flask of whisky and led you out to dance that night.”
It was so like what she herself had wondered and wanted that Agnes was struck silent.
She had also spent too much time wishing they’d merely danced That Night.
The morning he came to see her, she had hoped he’d come for a good reason.
And he had looked terrible—was he truly ill, and not sick with dread?
If she hadn’t been so mortified by his grim appearance, would she have been poised enough to ask why he was proposing?
They were still moving through the maze, turning left again and again, even though she wasn’t paying attention and had no idea where they were going.
“You were ill?” she asked at last.
He nodded. “Hideously. My valet deserves extra wages, I was so wretched. The fever lasted five days.”
She thought about that as they headed down yet another left turn. It felt like they were going in a circle, driven by the tall hedge that surrounded them and hid everything else from view. There was only one choice to make, even if she found it unsatisfactory.
Just like with Felix.
She stopped. He also stopped, right in front of her. He regarded her seriously, not joking, not annoyed, not drunk or ill. Just…waiting.
She had liked him—very much.
She had wished things hadn’t gone so horribly wrong.
She did still find him unbearably attractive, and if he really had been in the grip of fever…
“When you say ‘begin again,’ what do you mean by that?”
His eyes brightened with cautious hope. “As it was in Agnew’s. And at the start of… that evening.”
She bit her lip. “What do you hope will happen this time?”
“A stroll.” He put up his hands innocently. “A friendly conversation.”
“Friendly?”
Some of the color came back into his face. “To begin with, aye.”
“And then?” It felt rude to ask, but Agnes didn’t want to risk another misunderstanding.
“If all goes well… We’ll see.”
She looked at him uncertainly. That sounded…risky.
He exhaled, hands on his hips. “I wish… I want…”
“What?” she whispered. “Can you not just tell me? I never know what to think.”
He looked at her. “And then this,” he said, and stepped forward, taking her face in his hands and brushing his lips over hers.
It was light, quick, a surprise. It was wonderful. It was everything she’d replayed in her mind over and over, the way he kissed her That Night before they both went mad.
He was already releasing her and starting to step back when Agnes seized the front of his jacket and pulled him back to kiss him again.
His arms went around her and he kissed her back, so stunningly sweetly she didn’t want to back away. And then the kiss deepened, and her arms wound around his neck and his hands moved over her and she lost all sense of time and place as he made love to her mouth.
By all the saints, he could kiss. Agnes had thought so at the Assembly Rooms, but had convinced herself she didn’t actually remember it, that her mind had been so hazed by drink she was no judge of anything.
Today, she realized she’d got it backward. She didn’t remember how good it had been.
“Agnes,” he breathed when it finally ended. “Agnes. My God.” Head spinning, Agnes rested her forehead against his shoulder as he brushed more kisses over her temple. His hand was on her back, his fingers tangled in her hair. She liked the feel of this too much—his arms around her, his body against hers, his low voice in her ear.
Suddenly it was obvious why she’d been so wicked with him. It wasn’t the whisky’s fault at all—it was her, and the way she lost all sense every time he touched her.
With a jerk she stepped back. “I accept your apology,” she said breathlessly. “Any of them—all of them. We can try to make a new beginning.”
“Good,” he rasped, his chest heaving. His face was sharp and focused with—with—desire, she realized. It made her feel hot and giddy and frightened all at once.
“We’re going to lose,” she blurted. “The race.”
His gaze didn’t waver. “Does it matter?”
Her blood seemed to be fizzing inside her veins. If she took a step forward, he would sweep her back into his arms, kiss her senseless, caress and hold her until she lost her mind again. And she would let him, because she wanted him to.
Panic stirred inside her at how much she wanted him to do that. She had to save herself, from herself.
“It matters to me!” She turned and bolted down the path. Felix called out, but Agnes didn’t stop.
Shrieks of glee and frustration sounded over the tall hedges. Left and right she went, until she was hopelessly turned around and alone and glad of it. She hated to lose, but her heart was pounding and her hands trembled and she couldn’t quite believe what she’d done—let alone what she would have done if she hadn’t run away. She didn’t know how to control her response to him.
She had to figure it out, though, because he kissed like the man of her dreams and made her laugh and had the finest legs any man was ever born with. She felt warm just thinking about his hands, strong and elegant and so very capable and wicked… How would she ever keep her composure over the next few days, seeing him every day, staying under the same roof?
She shivered, half in exhilaration, half from nerves. This was going to be a harrowing visit.
8
That night Winnie almost tripped over herself to tell Agnes and Bella what she’d seen when she and Mr. Monteith reached the center of the maze. As Agnes had foreseen, Ilsa and Drew won the race, but that was not the exciting part.
“Drew was kissing Ilsa!” Winnie reported in eager whispers. “Like he meant to eat her up!”
“And she let him?” demanded Bella.
Winnie nodded. “Clung to him like a barnacle.”
Bella looked at Agnes, wide-eyed. “Did you know he fancies her?”
Agnes squirmed. She’d noted her brother’s attraction, and Ilsa’s corresponding interest, in Edinburgh. “I suspected, a little…”
Bella smacked her arm. “And you didn’t tell us?”
“What was there to tell?” Agnes defended herself. “Some flirting. It could have meant nothing.”
Winnie’s mouth was hanging open. “After we tried so hard to find Drew a wealthy Scottish girl! How could you not tell us he’s already found one?”
“He hasn’t!” Agnes frowned at her sister. “Ilsa doesn’t want to go to England.”
“But if she’s in love—“
“And Drew thinks he must marry a proper English lady,” Agnes interrupted. He’d told their mother that the Duchess of Carlyle wanted him to settle down, and meant to introduce him to suitable ladies when he returned to England. Mama worried he’d given the duchess too much control of his life, but she was helpless to stop him.
“But if he’s in love,” exclaimed Winnie forcefully, “why can’t it be?”
Her sisters were such romantics. “It’s not always that simple.”
Bella expelled her breath in an exasperated sigh. “But sometimes it is! If Drew can’t figure out how to marry the woman he loves, he’ll be a sad sort of duke.”
“Aye,” agreed Winnie. “And as for Ilsa, why, taking on Drew can’t be more scandalous than making up a pony stall inside her house.”
Bella giggled. “Who but Drew would find that amusing? Really they are perfect for each other!”
Agnes jolted. “Really?”
“Of course,” said Winnie. “Imagine how dull he’ll become if he marries a prim English girl. With Ilsa he has a chance to be happy.”
She was still thinking about that when they visited Perth a few days later. Everyone but Drew—who had to study the ledgers—and Mama—who wanted a quiet res
t—went to see the town. Winnie and Bella were eager to visit the millinery shop, ostensibly so Ilsa could choose a new bonnet as her prize for the maze race.
After the shop, they stopping for tea and cakes, and then Ilsa suggested a walk. Alex and Mr. Monteith begged off, wanting to visit a local landmark, leaving Felix to accompany the ladies to the park.
Winnie and Bella were chattering away about Ilsa’s beautiful new hat, while Ilsa listened with a smile. She always indulged their chatter, whether it was about gossip or fashions or an exciting event. Agnes was more likely to scold them for chattering when they should have been sweeping the shop floor. Ilsa would make a better sister to them than she did, she thought with a pang. Perhaps that’s why they wanted Drew to marry her.
Felix was watching her. She hesitated, then bent her head in silent invitation. Since their new beginning, he had treated her with polite ease. It calmed her nerves and gave her a chance to remember how very much she liked his attention. And the few times she caught him watching her with heat in his gaze… the sparks of attraction were stronger than ever.
He walked forward to join her. It felt as though a hundred eyes must be upon them, but a stealthy glance around showed none. Behind her, her sisters were still raving over the lovely gloves Bella had bought and discussing the perfect angle of Ilsa’s new hat.
“Did you not find anything to suit you in the shop?” asked Felix as they walked. “Kincaid and I expected to be staggering under a load of parcels.”
Agnes smiled. Drew had given each girl some money, but as usual she saved hers while her sisters spent theirs. “No. I’m not such a fine lady as that.”
“Ah.” Another few paces, then he said, “Perhaps a cricket bat would be more to your taste.”
She was startled into a laugh. “I never could bat! Some golf clubs, though…”
His head snapped around. “Clubs!”
“I like golf,” she said even as her face grew warm.
“Aye, aye,” he murmured. “I do as well.”
“I remember you and Drew used to play all the time as boys.”
A faint smile curved his mouth. “Still do. We played a fortnight ago.”
“Of course.” Because they were such good friends. She took a deep breath. “Mr. Duncan, may I ask you something?”
His face went still. They were walking briskly along, she holding her shawl around her and he with hands clasped behind his back. “Anything,” he said. “Always.”
Agnes glanced back. The other three had fallen behind. “Do you think my brother fancies Mrs. Ramsay?”
He stumbled, almost falling on his face. “What?”
“You heard. Do you?”
“That’s not what I expected you to ask,” he muttered. “I don’t think it’s my place to talk about that.”
“Why not? He’s my brother.”
His face was deep scarlet. “It’s not something gentlemen discuss.”
At that Agnes snorted with laughter. “Please! I used to play cricket with you gentlemen. I know you used to talk about which girls had prettier bosoms or daintier ankles—“
“Stop,” he growled.
“I can’t believe any of you have changed so much since then—“
“No!” He put his hands over his ears. “I beg you!”
Still laughing, she gave his shoulder a push.
“What?” Now he was laughing, too, his face still crimson. “It’s a matter of honor between gentlemen!”
“Is it? Hmm.” She tapped her chin. “So unlike ladies.”
“What?” He glanced sideways at her in startled interest. “Ladies discuss…?”
“Gentlemen? Of course.” She smiled, remembering how she and Ilsa had discussed him.
“Pray tell, Miss St. James.”
“Tell?” She raised her brows at him. “When you won’t share even a word? Never!”
He laughed.
“All right,” she said. “Don’t repeat anything he told you. Do you suspect he likes her?”
“Confidentially, between us?”
“Of course.”
He glanced back at the other three women, now admiring Bella showing off her new gloves with elaborate poses. “Aye, I do.”
Agnes nodded thoughtfully. She also suspected Ilsa was falling for her brother, but Ilsa kept insisting she wasn’t looking for another husband. Her first one had been strict and cold, refusing to allow her to go out or do things she enjoyed. Despite living in the same town for years, Agnes had never met Ilsa before she was widowed, and Ilsa had once confided that it was the first time she’d been allowed to go wherever she wished. What would Ilsa do, if Drew fell in love with her?
Drew, on the other hand, was almost a stranger to Agnes. In the last twelve years he’d been home only a few weeks. Agnes had no idea what her brother felt and thought.
“Does she care for him?” Felix asked.
“Mr. Duncan,” she exclaimed in exaggerated indignation. “You said a gentleman would never discuss such a thing!”
“And see how easily you persuaded me to do it,” he shot back, smiling.
She grinned. “Such an effect!”
“Aye,” he said lightly, but his gaze was fraught. “You do have a wondrous effect on me, Miss St. James.”
Pleasure bubbled inside her. She had missed this; she didn’t feel ignored or uninteresting when talking with him. “That could be taken many ways.”
“Please answer the question,” he said. “Don’t attempt to change the subject.”
Agnes laughed. “Fair enough. Aye, Mr. Duncan, I believe she does.”
“I thought as much.”
“And now that we’ve concluded that line of inquiry, what did you think I was going to ask when you agreed to answer? You did say I could ask anything, always. I wish to exercise that prerogative.”
His high cheekbones were awash with color again. “Lord above, Miss St. James, do you perchance read law books under your blankets at night?”
“Women aren’t allowed to read law.”
“And I know why,” he retorted. “Every man at the bar would be routed, if they admitted ladies.” Agnes laughed. “I thought you might ask something… er… related to more personal matters.”
She raised her brows and waited.
“Something pertaining to… That Night.”
Now her face was red. “Such as?”
“I don’t know,” he said softly. “There’s plenty I wonder about.”
Her heart skipped about three beats. She had to clear her throat to speak. “I can’t imagine why.” His brows snapped together. “I mean—perhaps it ought not to be examined too closely, because it was not planned or intended by either of us, and there was nothing behind it except—“ Lust. Attraction. Desire. She bit her lip. “Whisky,” she finished awkwardly.
He stopped walking. “You think that’s the reason?”
“Well—obviously…”
He was stared at her as if she’d said something rude and offensive.
Agnes looked down, feeling stupid again. And while she stood there, flummoxed and unsure, Bella rushed up. “What are you discussing so somberly?”
She flushed scarlet. “Nothing!”
Her sister inhaled loudly. “Is it… you know what?”
“You know what? No, I don’t know,” said Felix with a rueful laugh. “I don’t know anything at all. Enlighten me.”
“Bella!” Agnes glared in threat. “We’ll talk about that later.” Ilsa was right there and would be mortified if she overheard them discussing how attracted she might or might not be to Drew.
“All right,” exclaimed Bella defensively. “It looked like a very cozy conversation, though, and I wondered if—“
“Mr. Duncan doesn’t want to be drawn into your intrigues.”
“Intrigues!” Bella looked between the two of them. “What were you talking about, to be in such a mood?”
Felix looked at her, one eyebrow quirked questioningly.
Flustered, heart ha
mmering, her mind awhirl, Agnes blurted out, “Nothing important. I’m going to walk with Ilsa.” And she turned on her heel and hurried back to her friend, leaving Felix to watch her go with a sudden frown.
9
Felix Duncan lay in bed, arms folded behind his head, and stared at the dark canopy above him.
All his life people had told him he was a clever lad: tutors, his father, professors, grateful clients, even judges. Tonight, he was fairly certain those people had lied to him.
But he was a good lawyer. He’d been taught to make logical arguments at his father’s knee before he was out of shortcoats. Think before you speak, Lachlan had lectured him; speak before you act, and when you do speak and act, do it decisively.
Too late for that, Da, he thought darkly.
Tomorrow they would return to Edinburgh. His golden chance to repair the rift between him and Agnes was almost over. Things had been going well, until Perth—and she’d barely spoken to him since.
It was time to analyze the situation with the logical side of his brain. Think, he commanded himself.
It was shocking—and lowering—to learn Agnes believed he’d only made love to her because he was drunk. Whisky hadn’t made him want to kiss her and hold her and lay her across his lap so he could feast on her and pleasure her. Whisky had made him forget that he wasn’t supposed to do it, no matter how much he wanted to, but the desire to do it had preceded the whisky by weeks.
But it was a marked departure from his earlier behavior. Before, he’d been a gentleman, charming and flirtatious yet strictly respectable. And she no doubt thought he would continue to behave like a gentleman when she took his arm at the Assembly Rooms. Which he would have done, probably, if she hadn’t asked if he meant to kiss her.
The memory of that was enough to make him hard again. He could still hear her voice, gasping yes as he cupped her breast. Could still taste her skin, so warm and soft and flushed with desire. Could still feel her arms around him, her fingers digging into his shoulders, urging him on. Could still remember how hot and wet she was when she climaxed around his fingers—
With a curse he flung himself out of bed and opened the window, letting in the cold wind.
How the Scot Was Won Page 8
