“No, thank you,” Venetia said in a firm tone. “I would much rather have my usual bedchamber in the east wing, if you please.”
Viola frowned. “Venetia, your grandmother has kindly offered you the Blue Room, which is much nicer.”
“I said no, thank you, Mama. And I mean it.”
The dowager scowled. “Still obstinate, eh?”
Venetia returned her grandmother’s gaze evenly. “I am an Oglivie.”
The dowager’s thin lips cracked into a smile. “Yes, you are, by God. Very well, I will allow your insolence this time. Just don’t expect me to be patient forever. Viola, take these hooligans to their rooms. I don’t nap, but I do like my quiet.”
Viola agreed, though she was disappointed with the dowager’s capitulation. The old bat had no compunction in ordering Viola about—why couldn’t she have done the same for Venetia, especially when it concerned something as important as Viola’s future grandchild?
Viola collected the group, who made their formal (and unappreciated) good-byes to the dowager, and led them into the mazelike, dimly lit corridors of the Dowager House.
Viola was certain they all longed for hot baths and soft beds, neither of which they’d receive. The servants were so old and the rooms so far removed from the main part of the house that the bathwater would be tepid by the time it made it to the respective tubs, and the beds were all lumpy from lack of turning.
Viola kept Gregor and Venetia with her to the last, bursting with curiosity about Gregor’s proposal. They reached the Sun Chamber first, the room Venetia traditionally enjoyed while at her grandmother’s. It was as far away from Gregor’s room in the west wing as possible.
Venetia hugged her mother. “Thank you, Mama.”
“I shall deliver Gregor to his room and return so we can have a long, comfortable chat.”
Venetia’s expression grew guarded. “Not now, Mama. I am too tired. I think I shall sleep until dinner.”
“Won’t you want some tea? Or some lavender water to—”
“No, thank you. I just wish to sleep.” Venetia dipped a frigid curtsey to Gregor, who bowed deeply and winked.
Venetia’s cheeks pinkened, and she disappeared into the room so quickly Viola was left speechless in the hallway.
Gregor eyed the firmly shut door for a long moment, his gaze considering. After a moment, he turned back to Viola. “Mrs. Oglivie, I am going to marry your daughter.”
“That would be nice,” Viola said bracingly, though she couldn’t shake the thought of the sad, determined turn of Venetia’s mouth. Viola patted Gregor’s arm. “I wish you luck.”
His jaw tightened, and it dawned on Viola that perhaps Gregor MacLean was just as hardheaded as Venetia. The thought gave her hope.
“Come, you must be exhausted. Let me show you to the Pink Room. It’s quite isolated, as it’s the more formal part of the house, and the dowager rarely allows anyone there. It’s quite a compliment to you.”
Gregor offered Viola his arm and smiled in such a way that her heart fluttered. “Lead the way, madam. I assure you that I am prepared for the worst.”
Venetia ordered a bath and washed and combed her hair, letting it dry before the fire. Afterward, she donned her night rail and, tossing her robe over a chair, sent word to her grandmother that she had a headache and would not be joining the party for dinner. This impertinence earned her a tersely worded reply that Venetia ignored and a visit from her mother, who arrived carrying laudanum, a cup of herbal tea, a cold cloth soaked in Egyptian milk for her forehead, and a hot brick for her bed.
It soon became apparent why Mama had come. every question she asked had to do with Gregor’s proposal. Venetia refused to cooperate and directed the conversation toward her adventures, how Ravenscroft had tricked her into leaving London, and how the others had come to be at the inn. She left Gregor’s name out of her recital almost entirely.
When the dinner bell rang, Mama gathered the empty tea cup, kissed her on the forehead, tucked her into bed with the hot brick at her feet, and left.
Surprised at her mother’s unaccustomed tact, Venetia snuggled beneath the covers, hoping sleep would come.
Of course, that proved a vain hope. After tossing and turning for a good half hour, Venetia eventually rose and went to sit before the fire.
It was so tempting to think that marrying Gregor would not only save her reputation, but might also bring them closer. Perhaps love would grow between them.
But what if it didn’t? Did she want to start a marriage on such a poor basis? What if, one day, Gregor looked back at their marriage and felt cheated somehow? What if she did?
She couldn’t do it. She couldn’t take the chance that—
The door flew open.
Venetia whirled around, half expecting to face deep green eyes, but found her grandmother, dressed in a formal evening gown of lavender trimmed with black ribbons, a huge red wig on her head that made her seem amazingly tiny, and diamonds winking from pins and brooches, necklaces and bracelets.
The old woman limped in, her butler hovering behind her. She pointed with her cane to the small table before the fire. “Set the tray there, Raffley.”
“Yes, madam.” The butler did as he was told. “Will there be anything else, madam?”
“No. That’s all.” She waved him out.
Venetia blinked at the tray, which held a teapot, two cups, a small dish of tarts, and stiff linen napkins. “Grandmama, this is so nice of you, but I am not hungry.”
“This isn’t for you. It’s for me.” Grandmother limped to the tray and picked up a tart. She popped it into her mouth and said around it, “Couldn’t eat at dinner with that Miss Flat woman yapping like a drunken sailor.”
Venetia had to smile. “I see.” She went to the tray and took a seat across from it. “Come and sit. I’ll pour the tea.”
“Can’t sit; my hip’s been giving me fits. But I will have some tea. Extra cream, please.” She took the cup offered, her bright eyes fixed on Venetia’s face. “Well, Miss West? What do you have to say for yourself?”
Venetia sighed. “I see you know everything.”
“Most of it. From what your mother was able to tell me—which wasn’t easy to understand, the way she mealy-mouths everything—and from what those ramshackle travelers of yours had to say over dinner, I think I pretty well know what’s what.”
“Oh?” Venetia doubted the old woman could know everything.
A brow went up over the shrewd eyes. “That fool Ravenscroft went over the line, and MacLean is willing to throw himself on the fire. You won’t have him on those terms, so you told him no. That about sum it up?”
Venetia nodded, a lump in her throat. “I can’t allow Gregor to do so, of course.”
“Why not? He’s a man. He ought to take responsibility.”
“For someone else’s mistake? No. It would be different if—”
“If what?”
If he loved her. Which he didn’t. The lump in her throat grew. She took a sip of tea, hoping she wouldn’t choke on it.
Grandmama’s gaze never left her. “You are being silly, my dear. If your mother was the woman she should be, you’d be done with these die-away airs and on the way to the altar.”
“I don’t wish to go to the altar with Lord MacLean.”
“Of course you do! He’s a damned fine-looking specimen. Sort of man I went after myself, way back when. There’s nothing shameful in wanting, Venetia. There’s only shame in not getting.”
Venetia set her cup back in the saucer with a loud clack. “Grandmama, every woman in London has thrown herself at Gregor’s head. I won’t be one of them.”
“Forget his head. That’s not the part that’s the most interesting.” Grandmama cackled when Venetia’s cheeks heated. “Don’t play your missish airs on me, young lady. I saw how you were looking at him, and he at you. There’s good, healthy fire there. The kind that makes marriages last and brings big, healthy boys into the family line.”
Venetia almost laughed. “It’s a wonder Mama hasn’t taken to her bed, the way you talk.”
“She takes to it every other day, but I know how to roust her.” Grandmama limped toward the window, her teacup in one hand, her cane in the other.
“Come and sit by the fire,” Venetia said, rising to follow her grandmother. “You’ll spill your tea.”
“I can hold my own cup, thank you,” Grandmama said testily. “It’s hot in here. Open a window.”
“But—”
“I feel a bit faint. Open a window before I drop dead.”
Venetia sighed and opened the window. A cold breeze swept into the room, banging the shutter open.
“Much better!” Grandmama said while Venetia shivered. The old woman limped toward the bed. “What did MacLean mean when he said he’d made a mull of his proposal?”
Venetia rubbed her cold arms. “It doesn’t matter. I won’t marry under such circumstances. If he…if he’d really wanted to marry me, then perhaps—But that doesn’t matter, because it’s not the way things are.”
Grandmama fiddled with the tassel on the bed, the teacup held precariously over the mattress. “I never liked this color. I meant to have green tassels hung from the corners, but that demmed seamstress talked me out of it. Said it wouldn’t go with the yellow.”
Why on earth was Grandmama talking about bed tassels? “Grandmama, why—”
“Oops!” The tea sloshed on the bed, a brown splash hitting the pillows and cover. “Blast it all! Looks as if I ruined your bedding.” There was a faint hint of satisfaction in her voice.
Venetia sighed, suddenly too tired to figure out anything other than the fact that she longed to be alone. “Don’t worry about it. I’ll have one of the maids dry the bed as well as she can. I’ll sleep on the other side.” It was a huge bed; four people could sleep in it without touching one another.
Grandmama hobbled to the bellpull. “My granddaughter will not sleep in a damp bed. You’ll catch your death of a cold, especially with that window open.”
“Really, Grandmama, it’s nothing. I can—”
A soft knock sounded, and Raffley entered.
“There you are.” Venetia’s grandmother made her way to the door. “I’ve spilled tea on the bed. My granddaughter will need a new room.”
Venetia said, “I don’t—”
“Put on your robe, child. You can’t walk through the hallways dressed like that.” Grandmama paused in the doorway. “Raffley knows where to take you. I’d take you m’self, but I’m too tired.”
“Grandmama—”
“Good night, my dear. I will see you at breakfast.”
Venetia sighed. There was no naysaying Grandmama; she wasn’t sure why she even tried. A maid appeared, who briskly repacked Venetia’s portmanteau and carried it to the hallway to a waiting footman. Venetia thrust her arms into her robe and followed the butler down the hallway. They wound past various bedchambers, finally passing the Pink Room, where Grandmama had placed Gregor.
Venetia couldn’t help wondering what he was doing. Had he retired already? She had an instant image of him sliding between the sheets and would wager her last groat that he slept without a stitch on. A delicious tremor went through her at the thought.
Raffley stopped by a set of doors farther down the hallway and threw them open. The room was twice as large as her usual bed chamber and cozily warm, both fireplaces burning brightly. The bed was turned down, the heavily brocaded cover decorated with a mass of blue flowers, a pile of blue and gold pillows luring her forward, candles lit on either side of the bed casting the crisp sheets in a beguiling light.
Chairs and a settee were placed before one of the fireplaces, thick rugs scattered. Wide double doors led to a balcony that overlooked the gardens behind the house. Long, thick draperies of heavy navy silk pooled on the floor, and gold pillows were placed here and there.
Raffley unpacked Venetia’s belongings while a footman brought in a new tea tray filled with fresh strawberries, raspberries and cream, cinnamon scones, and a chilled decanter of sherry. Venetia supposed her grandmother was apologizing for spilling her tea on the bed.
Finally, Raffley took one last look around the room, nodded his satisfaction, bid her a quiet good night, and closed the great doors behind him.
Venetia took off her robe and threw it over a chair, then went to the tray and poured herself a glass of sherry. This would be just the thing to help her sleep. She sipped her way through one glass and naughtily decided to have another.
She stretched her toes toward the fire, wiggling them in the delicious heat. Tomorrow, she’d see what she could do to help her companions. Sir Henry might actually make a good match for the romantically inclined Miss Higganbotham. He was steady and stable and had impressed Venetia with his attentiveness.
Miss Platt was another matter. She would have to find a position for the woman soon; perhaps Grandmama knew someone who needed a companion.
And Ravenscroft needed to return to London and apologize to Lord Ulster. Her mother might be able to help, since she knew Ulster’s grandmother rather well. The old lady held her grandson’s purse strings, so it was entirely possible she could nudge him into accepting Ravenscroft’s tardy apology. Yes, that plan had merit.
She frowned a bit, sipping her sherry. That only left herself. Her companions had to know by now that she wasn’t Ravenscroft’s sister, that they’d been together under improper circumstances, and that Gregor wasn’t her guardian.
Venetia sighed. What could she do? She loved living in London and couldn’t see becoming a recluse, but that was exactly what she’d have to do. She could live down the censure if she married Ravenscroft, but nothing could persuade her to take that step.
She lifted the sherry glass to her lips again and was surprised to find that it was empty. She refilled the glass and stretched, the bottoms of her feet delightfully warm. The firelight played off her skin in the most flattering way, gilding it to match the silk bed hangings.
Venetia let her mind wander to the way Gregor had looked at her that evening. If only she could believe he felt more for her than mere responsibility. Something…significant.
She sighed, so deep in thought that she didn’t hear the handle turn on the balcony door.
Didn’t notice the shadow of a person walking toward her across the thick rugs.
Didn’t realize someone was standing there, watching her, until the faint scent of his cologne made her nipples peak beneath her thin night rail.
She closed her eyes and whispered, “Gregor.”
Chapter 19
The difference betwixt women and men is this: if they’re in love, one will tell ye what ye want t’ hear, the other will do it.
OLD WOMAN NORA FROM LOCH LOMOND
TO HER THREE WEE GRANDDAUGHTERS ONE COLD EVENING
G regor smiled down at Venetia. “Mind if I join you? You look quite comfortable there.” And damned sexy, too. He’d plainly seen the outline of her legs through her night rail as she’d held them to the fire, and it almost stopped him in his tracks. By God, but she had beautiful legs, curvy and sensual. He wanted to trace their length with his hands, rub his cheek over the curve of her hip—
His body tightened uncomfortably. Stop thinking like that, or you won’t be able to talk.
Her gaze flickered to the balcony doors and back, her brows knitted in confusion. “My balcony doesn’t connect to yours.”
“I jumped.” He grinned at the flash of concern he saw in her eyes. “At dinner, your grandmother informed me that you’d be moving to the room beside mine. She also mentioned how close my balcony was to yours; so close that even an old lady like herself could leap between the two without the least effort.”
Venetia’s cheeks heated and she pulled her nightgown closer. “Grandmama is anything but subtle.”
“Almost as subtle as your mother.”
“Oh, no! Not Mama, too.”
Gregor paused beside a small table to pick up a silver t
ray holding a cut crystal decanter and matching glasses and set it on the table before Venetia. “Your mother was concerned I might be afraid of heights. She told me that if she were thinking of jumping between the balconies and couldn’t bring herself to make the leap, it might be possible to pick the lock on the connecting door with, say, a cravat pin.”
Venetia blushed. “I’m surprised they aren’t in here now, throwing rose petals before you as you walk.”
“I would never countenance petal tossing. Too showy.” He took the chair opposite hers, trying to keep his eyes from wandering, which was damnably difficult, as she was wearing the most intriguing night rail. “How did your grandmother get you to move to this suite?”
“She ‘accidentally’ spilled tea on my bed.” Venetia sent him a look from under her lashes. “Gregor, it…it would be best if you would go.”
“Do you wish me to?” He held his breath, not wanting her to see how much her answer meant.
“No.” The word came out in a breath, as if she could no longer hold it. Her gaze traveled over him, lingering on his open shirt. She closed her eyes, then opened them with a rueful smile. “I’m sorry for staring. It’s just that I’m tired and…” She gestured lamely.
He laughed softly at her blush. “I’ve never seen you wear so little…or look so lovely.”
Her cheeks were truly flaming now. She crossed her arms over her chest. “This is Mama’s night rail. Mine isn’t as revealing.”
“More’s the pity.” He wanted to lift her into his lap and sit with her sweetly rounded behind nestled against him. His manhood stirred at the thought. Not yet, he told himself. He’d come to see what could be done to persuade her to marry him. Keep focused, he told himself.
He lifted the decanter and filled a glass, then handed it to her before pouring one for himself. He took a sip and grimaced.
She sipped a bit herself. “I’ve never had such delightful sherry.”
He set his glass back on the table. “I prefer my sherry dry.” He let his gaze drift over her delicious form. “It’s my women I like sweet.”
To Scotland, With Love Page 24
