“The lad’s coat.”
Ravenscroft stiffened, his gaze jerked from the icicle. “Thish coat?”
“You have another?”
“Not with me.”
“Then that one’ll do.”
“But…what if I win?”
The groom scratched his chin. “I’ll give you my rum toddy recipe.”
Ravenscroft frowned. “That’sh not much of a win.”
“You can lord it over all your friends when you make it fer them in your apartments,” Chambers said with a faint grin. “They’ll come from miles around to try it.”
Ravenscroft’s expression expanded into a blissful grin. “I will be in much demand.”
“Everyone will want to be invited to your lodgings,” Chambers assured him. The groom smiled then and looked at the heavy, wool, multicaped coat that adorned Ravenscroft’s narrow shoulders.
“It’s not going to fit you,” Gregor said.
“I’m not goin’ to wear it meself. With this weather, I should be able to sell it back to the lad at a handsome profit.” The groom grinned. “That icicle ain’t going to make it. It’s almost half gone now.”
Ravenscroft hunched a sulky shoulder at Gregor. “That’s because you two started talking.”
Gregor set aside his mug and held his hands toward the fire. “Ravenscroft, you’d do well never to bet against Chambers.”
Ravenscroft eyed the groom with a suspicious glare. “Does he cheat?”
“Lud, no!” Gregor said, grinning. “But he never wagers unless it is a sure thing.”
“There are no sure things in this world,” Ravenscroft said loftily.
Chambers looked up at that. “Yes, there are, and a good hot toddy is one of them.”
Ravenscroft looked wistfully at his mug. “That was heavenly. But other than a hot toddy, there is nothing else.”
“Oh, I can think of other sure things,” Chambers said. “The sun comes up every morning, don’t it?”
“It’s not up right now.”
“Yes, it is. It’s just hidden by clouds.”
“Oh.” Ravenscroft leaned on his knee and plopped his chin in his hand. “Perhaps.”
“And then there’s women,” Chambers added in a thoughtful tone. “They never change.”
Ravenscroft gave a short, bitter laugh. “Women are never predictable! Just look at Mish Venetia. Not two weeks ago, she was flirting madly with me—”
“Flirting?” Gregor said, looking up from where he’d been contemplating the tips of his boots. “Venetia doesn’t flirt.”
“She told me I wrote wonderful poetry, better than that Byron fellow.”
“That’s not flirting. Even I could write poetry better than that Byron fellow. More likely, Venetia took pity on you and made you one of her projects.”
Ravenscroft’s eyes widened. “Like Miss Platt!”
“Exactly. I’m not sure why Venetia has been pushing that little game, but she has a plan of some sort.”
“I’ll tell you what it is,” Ravenscroft said miserably. “Venetia asked me to pay attention to that Long Meg because she thought it might strengthen Miss Platt’s sense of self-worth and give her the courage to speak out for herself with Mrs. Bloom.”
“So that is it. Miss Platt certainly seems to enjoy having you about.”
“That’s just it,” Ravenscroft said gloomily. “This afternoon, Venetia warned me that Miss Higganbotham told Miss Platt that if a man looked at her a certain way, then he wanted to marry her.”
“Looked?”
“Yes. Can you imagine how dreadful if at dinner you happened to catch a woman’s eye, and she began to tell everyone in town that you fancied her, when you were just looking for the salt?”
“A pity,” Gregor said in a brutal tone. “But that’s what you get for listening to one of Venetia’s schemes.”
“But…she asked me to do it. How could I tell her no?”
“Like this: ‘No, I will not become involved in your mad schemes.’ You might want to practice before you see her again.”
“I couldn’t tell her no!”
“How on earth did you find the sand to abduct her, then? You make no sense.”
“I didn’t think of it as an abduction; I thought she loved me!”
“Had you truly thought she was interested in you, you wouldn’t have had to lie to get her in the carriage.”
Ravenscroft considered this. “Do you think if I’d asked her to marry me in a more romantic way, she would have agreed? Perhaps if I’d given her flowers and gotten down on one knee? Women like that, you know. Especially women like Venetia.”
“Baldercock!”
Chambers paused in stirring the toddies and sent him a curious glance.
Gregor swallowed a knot of irritation. “I need more to drink.”
Chambers refilled Gregor’s cup at once.
The liquid burned Gregor’s mouth, but the harshness of it crystallized his thoughts. “You are foolish if you believe Venetia is affected by romantic drivel. She is not like other women. She never has been.”
“She is different, I’ll grant you. But that doesn’t mean she doesn’t like the niceties. Women are very susceptible to such things as flowers and poems and—”
“Not every woman sets such a ridiculous store by such things.”
“Yes, they do,” Ravenscroft insisted. “Ask Chambers.”
Gregor turned to his groom to find the man nodding.
“I’m sorry, my lord, but the lad has a point. Women find such things of vast importance—far more than you’d think.”
Gregor scowled. “Some women. But not Venetia.”
Ravenscroft tilted his head to one side, holding on to the barrel as if afraid it might tilt with him. “Why wouldn’t she like those things if other women like them? What makes her so different?”
“Many things,” Gregor said. “You don’t know Venetia the way I do.”
In the back of Gregor’s mind, a little voice whispered that he didn’t know Venetia as well as he’d thought, either. Her reaction that morning was evidence.
His chest grew unaccountably heavy at the thought, and he finished off the rest of his toddy in an effort to wash away the bitter aftertaste.
But there was a damnably knowing light in Ravenscroft’s eyes. What if…what if Ravenscroft was right? What if Venetia did like such drivel as poems and flowers? Could he have misjudged her so much?
It was unthinkable.
Chambers scratched his nose. “I suppose ’tis possible that Miss Oglivie is a mite different from other women. She’s a bruising rider and I’ve never seen her fall into a crying spell or seem upset the way other women do. Although her mother—” Chambers shuddered.
“Exactly,” Gregor said. “Venetia has seen the price of such excesses and is immune to them.” He lifted the poker and used it to open the woodstove door, then tossed a thick hunk of wood into the fire.
He turned to find Ravenscroft staring at him, outrage in every line of his face. “What do you think you’re doing?” the young lord demanded in a tight voice.
“I added wood to the fire. It was dying.”
“You are making it hotter.” He turned to Chambers. “This is unfair. I demand a new wager! He just made it hotter in here!”
Chambers added some cloves to the toddy pot, where it gently simmered. “Aye. He did. And a good thing, too, fer I was growin’ cold.”
“But the icicle will melt faster now!”
“Perhaps.”
“Then I demand a new wager!”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“When Lord MacLean came in, he had to open the door, and that cooled it down some. So it makes things even if he warms it up a bit.”
“Oh.” Ravenscroft squinted as if trying to visualize this. “I see what you mean.” He caught Gregor’s gaze and said, “I suppose I am not mad at you after all. Well, except for what you said about Venetia.”
“All I said was that she was
different.”
“I used to believe that, too, but now…” Ravenscroft frowned. “Lately, it has begun to dawn on me that perhaps she only seems different because she doesn’t know she’s not.”
Gregor stared at Ravenscroft. “What in the hell does that mean?”
The younger lord flushed. “It means that she, like every other woman, wishes to be swept off her feet. She just doesn’t realize it yet.”
“Where do you come up with such nonsense?”
“It’s not nonsense! No woman is immune to a man who would bring her flowers, whisper compliments in her ear, and tell her she is lovely.”
Chambers rubbed his chin. “You know, my lord, the lad has something there.”
Gregor didn’t know which irritated him more, that his own groom was naysaying him or that Ravenscroft thought he knew Venetia better than he did. How to get Ravenscroft to see the error of his thinking?
Gregor’s gaze fell on the barrel where the icicle lay melting, and a rumbling chuckle burst from him. “Ravenscroft, I will wager you a hundred pounds that Venetia is immune to such frippery as gifts and flowers.”
Ravenscroft sat up straight. “Did you say a hundred pounds?”
“Yes.”
“Careful there,” Chambers murmured. “The lad cannot say nay to a wager.”
Gregor ignored him. “Well? Will you take the wager?”
Ravenscroft nodded. “I will! Only…where will you get flowers and poetry and such?”
That was a problem. “I might not be able to find flowers, but I can find a gift for her.”
“Such as?”
Good God, did he have to think of everything himself? “I can give her my pocket watch.”
“There’s nothing romantic about that,” Ravenscroft scoffed.
Chambers cleared his throat. “I happen to have a gold neck chain I was takin’ to me sweetheart. I could let you have it, my lord. Fer a price, of course.”
“Done,” Gregor said.
Chambers rose immediately to fetch a small packet from his bags and handed a velvet sack to Gregor in exchange for some coins.
Gregor pocketed the sack. “What else?”
“Poetry,” Ravenscroft said. “I have a book.” He fumbled in his pockets, then came out with a small leather-bound volume. “Here.”
Gregor winced. “It’s that Shelley fellow, who writes such horrible drivel.”
“Women love his horrible drivel, I promise you.”
“Do you have anything else?”
“No. It’s Shelley or nothing. I marked some passages, though. You can read any of those, and she’ll swoon for it.”
Gregor slid it into his pocket. “Very well. I am now armed with poetry and a gift. I will go begin this silliness and then report back to—”
“Waaaait a minute,” Ravenscroft said, eyeing Gregor narrowly. “You can’t just say you read poetry to Miss Oglivie and give her a gift. We have to see you do it.”
“I am not going to read love poetry in front of you two fools.”
“Of course not,” Ravenscroft said in a lofty tone. “We will watch from outside the window.”
Gregor scowled. Perhaps it would have been simpler to just challenge Ravenscroft to a duel and be done with it. “I am going to feel like an idiot.”
“You’re going to look like one, too,” Chambers said. At Gregor’s dark look, the groom added hastily, “But you’ll be the richer by a hundred pounds. That’ll take some of the sting out of it.”
Being right would take a lot of the sting out of everything.
“Well?” Ravenscroft asked. “Are we agreed?”
“Hell, yes.” Gregor straightened his cravat and ran his fingers through his hair. “I will prove to you both that Venetia Oglivie is not like other women. And when I’m done, pup, prepare to pay.”
Chapter 12
Oft times, love comes t’ visit whilst ye are sleepin’. It creeps in on wee fairy feet and nestles in the quiet of yer heart. Ye might not even know ’tis there ’til someone wakes ye.
OLD WOMAN NORA FROM LOCH LOMOND
TO HER THREE WEE GRANDDAUGHTERS ONE COLD EVENING
V enetia was blissfully alone in the common room. Mrs. Bloom had whisked Miss Platt off to work on some sewing, while Elizabeth had decided to go upstairs to read a novel.
Venetia stayed downstairs with her own book, an improving work detailing the fall of the Roman Empire. With a sense of purpose, she settled into a chair and opened her tome.
She hadn’t seen Gregor since he’d left in such high dudgeon, and Ravenscroft had been conspicuously absent since breakfast. She wasn’t certain where the squire was, though she could hear his voice in the distance; perhaps he was in the wine cellars with Mr. Treadwell. The squire had commented several times on the quality of brandy kept at the inn.
Venetia turned a page and found a print of two women beside a marble pool. The rather supercilious matron reclining on a sofa reminded Venetia of Mrs. Bloom, which made Venetia frown. Just this morning, on hearing Miss Higganbotham complain yet again of the cold, the older woman had gone to her room and retrieved for Elizabeth a sumptuous cloak trimmed in fur. The girl had squealed in delight and impulsively hugged Mrs. Bloom, who had looked quite uncomfortable at being thanked. Venetia had been shocked at the older woman’s generosity, though surprisingly Miss Platt took it in stride, commenting that it was Mrs. Bloom’s way.
Venetia stretched out her feet toward the fire, letting the welcome heat soak into her gown and slippers. She found herself wondering where Gregor might be, then resolutely pulled her mind from that tantalizing question.
It was a pity she didn’t care for Ravenscroft. Though he wasn’t the ideal man, one always knew how he felt. He wore his emotions on his sleeve for the entire world to see, which was a refreshing change from some men she could name.
Gregor was a man of secrets, capable of great emotion yet never showing the slightest hint. Oh, he got angry, though never so much as he had this past week.
Venetia frowned. Would they ever smile at each other again without wondering if that smile meant something else?
Her hands tightened on her book. How could he suggest they explore their passion, as if it were a meaningless experiment of some sort? The thought made her blood boil. It was a good thing she didn’t cause the weather to gather when she lost her temper, or it would be storming like mad now.
She glanced out the window. The skies were clearing, with large, fluffy clouds breaking apart to reveal snow-washed blue skies, and a faint breeze stirred the trees. It made her think of their walk in the woods, of the kiss that still made her lips tingle. One moment, they had been snarling at each other, and the next, they were in a passionate embrace. It had been heavenly. And confusing, too.
Venetia took a calming breath and shut and opened her eyes, the book forgotten. She had to maintain her sanity, despite the feelings that burned through her every time he was near. The thought of her wanton response in the woods made her press her hands to her face. Her body ached with an odd restlessness. Blast it, everything was different now! She couldn’t just—
“Venetia.” A voice as deep as the sea, flavored with a smoky Scottish accent, ran over her like two warm hands.
She stood and whirled, her skirts flaring, her heart in her throat.
Gregor filled the doorway, one hand in his pocket, a small book in the other. His black hair, slightly damp from the melted snow, curled around his neck, and a sensual smile rested on his lips.
Venetia sucked in a breath, aware that something about him was different.
Whatever it was, it didn’t make him any less appealing. She had to press her fingers into her palms against the desire to touch those errant curls.
I have to keep my wits about me, and—oh, heavens, have his eyes always been such a deep green?
Venetia forced a polite smile. “Good afternoon, Gregor.” She cast about desperately for something to say, her gaze lighting on the book he held in his hands. “What do you ha
ve there?”
Gregor looked at the small book, an expression of distaste in his gaze. “Shelley.”
She blinked. “The poet?”
“Is there another?” he asked in a scoffing tone, a bit put out at her disbelieving tone. “I do read, you know.”
“Yes, but…Shelley?”
Gregor straightened from where he leaned against the doorframe. For an instant, the room tilted to one side, making him suddenly aware of how much rum he’d had. Until he’d entered the warmth of the inn, he hadn’t realized he’d finished most of that blasted mixture by himself.
If he didn’t have the doorframe within easy reach, he might actually stumble, which would be deadly to his wager. And this was an important wager, a true wager of honor, his hundred pounds to prove that Venetia was not an ordinary woman but an extraordinary one.
He glanced past Venetia to the window. The curtains weren’t open all the way; someone in the innyard would be able to see only the front of the room. He’d have to throw the curtains wide, or Ravenscroft and Chambers wouldn’t witness how wrong they were about Venetia.
It would take a master’s touch to reach the window without giving away his condition, though. Venetia would not appreciate his coming to visit her while bosky.
No, that was what other women might do. Venetia would just laugh at him and then make jokes about it the next two thousand times she saw him, which was far, far worse than being scolded or condemned. Venetia really knew how to hurt a man.
Gregor looked down at the book in his hand, wondering dimly what he was supposed to do with it. Oh, yes. That fool Ravenscroft thought Venetia would swoon at this drivel.
Let the games begin! Gregor grinned, looking up at Venetia, wanting to share his thoughts, but as she crossed before the fire, her lack of a petticoat again became painfully obvious. For one instant, Gregor had a clear view of Venetia’s legs and hips through her skirts, the light outlining each dimpled knee, each smooth thigh, each rounded hip.
Then she was on the other side, the skirt once again demure. Gregor opened his mouth but could not find a single word. All he could do was look at her, his body taut with desire.
To Scotland, With Love Page 15
