Romancing the Scot (The Pennington Family)

by May McGoldrick

  “Lady Josephine is a messenger of mercy, as was Lady Aytoun before her. Why, I was just married, hardly more than a girl, but I remember her ladyship carrying you into that ballroom, wrapped as you were in a muddy blanket.” She paused, relishing the memory. “But as I was telling you, Mrs. Douglas, this darling young woman here is an uncommonly generous benefactor of the glorious help we here in the Borders are giving to those unfortunate fallen women. I showed you the tower house . . .”

  Jo walked away under the pretense of ringing for tea to be brought in, even though she’d already arranged for it. She couldn’t listen to any of this. She wouldn’t elaborate on the work that for years had been largely shouldered by Violet Truscott. Jo herself never asked for support from the Nithsdales or anyone else. Lord and Lady Aytoun continued to bear the expense.

  At the same time, Jo resented the insinuation lurking beneath Lady Nithsdale’s words. How many times did she need to hear the story of her own entrance into Baronsford? And she hadn’t missed either the mention of fallen women or the smug look the two visitors exchanged. She wondered when, after all these years, people would grow tired of referring to her birth mother. Never, she supposed angrily. The feeling of moral superiority was too gratifying.

  Swallowing her feelings, she returned to the guests.

  “But about your surprise,” Lady Nithsdale continued. “I cannot believe you hid such astonishing news from me. Why, we were here for dinner the very same week the crate arrived, and neither you nor his lordship made any mention of it.”

  Jo decided she wasn’t about to make it easy for them. She turned to Mrs. Douglas. “Is this your first time in the Borders, ma’am?”

  “No, no, no!” Lady Nithsdale cried, stopping her friend from answering. “Tell us about the woman in the crate.”

  “Pardon me, Lady Nithsdale, but I’ve just met your guest,” Jo objected, focusing her attention once again on Mrs. Douglas. “If you’ll excuse my curiosity, I find it surprising to see a lady of your celebrated talents in the country at the height of the Season. How is London to get on without you?”

  Mrs. Douglas exchanged a look with her friend and then turned her cool gaze back to Jo. “Town is a whirl of activity, m’lady, as you know, but we all need time away from it.”

  “She’s always overwhelmed with offers,” Lady Nithsdale broke in. “If she’s not in Brighton with His Royal Highness’s party, she’s in . . . well, she’s at all the very best places! I’ve been begging her for years to join us here in the Borders. She could never schedule the time. Isn’t that right, my dear? But can you imagine how delighted I was to receive her letter last week telling us she’d come?”

  The countess patted her friend on the hand, obviously satisfied at having taken over the conversation again.

  “I do recall you mentioning it at dinner here,” Jo said.

  “Yes, indeed I did. Well then, that’s settled. Let’s talk of your unexpected houseguest.”

  Jo glanced at the open drawing room door, hoping the tea would arrive soon.

  “I know you must be wondering how it is that I know so much.”

  Jo raised an eyebrow. She didn’t have to say more. Lady Nithsdale inability to hold back anything was well known.

  “Mrs. Namby’s servant told his sister about the doctor being called out in the middle of night. The girl told her cousin. Her cousin is one of my cook’s helpers.” Her voice rose in volume with each successive step. “A nearly lifeless woman arrives in Baronsford in a shipment intended for the viscount. Imagine that!”

  Jo didn’t know which of the two women was getting under her skin more right now, Lady Nithsdale with her prattling nosiness or Mrs. Douglas with her unfaltering stare. The latter had not once removed her eyes from Jo’s face. At first, she knew the woman was appraising her. Now, it was as if she was trying to read her mind, like the old woman in the gypsy troupe that passed through Hertfordshire every year.

  “Why should it be that I was the last one to find out about this exciting news?” Lady Nithsdale wailed.

  The combined effect of the two women was straining Jo’s patience. “If the shipment had arrived at Nithsdale Hall, m’lady, then you would have been the first.”

  “That won’t do. I’m not satisfied.” The countess wagged her finger. “Who is she?”

  “You appear to know more than I.”

  “I know far too little. I know her first name is Grace and that she had no memory of anything else. And she’s been ill, but is recovering. Surely, you have more to share with your friends.”

  Too late, but Jo now saw the wisdom in Hugh’s suggestion that they should have sent for an Edinburgh doctor. Not so much for better medical care but to avoid gossip. Dr. Namby was a kindly man, but clearly what he knew had been conveyed to his wife. And now it was fresh on this woman’s tongue. For Grace’s sake, Jo was relieved that the good doctor had no knowledge of the diamond they’d found in her dress. She didn’t want to imagine the feast these two would make out of that information.

  “Has there been a change in her condition since the last time Dr. Namby was here? What has she told you of her origins? Her family?” Gossip-mongering had turned into an interrogation.

  Just as Jo was about to cave in to a nearly overwhelming desire to tell the woman to mind her own business, the tea arrived.

  “Lady Nithsdale,” she said, lowering her voice and gesturing meaningfully toward the servants. “Pray be so kind as to curtail this conversation.”

  As a footman and a maid passed trays of brioche with butter and jam, Jo stood and prepared the tea. While they ate, Lady Nithsdale nattered away about the opera and plays she’d attended in London, and Mrs. Douglas sat sipping tea in silence, only occasionally responding when called upon. But Jo knew the conversation would turn the moment the food plates had been cleared.

  She was correct. The servants had no sooner left the room when Lady Nithsdale—unable to wait another moment—switched the topic back to Grace.

  “Finally. As I was saying, Mrs. Douglas could provide brilliant assistance to you regarding—”

  “Would you care for more tea, m’lady?” Jo interrupted, holding up the pot for her.

  “No, thank you. Where was I? Oh, yes. She could solve the entire mystery of this stranger for you.”

  Jo’s gaze uncontrollably was drawn to the silent guest. Her face was a mask. The same unchanging hint of a smile etched across the woman’s features.

  “More tea for you, ma’am?”

  “Thank you. No.”

  “Mrs. Douglas travels extensively through the Continent,” the countess continued. “She knows everyone who is anyone. She’s told me herself she has several friends she visits in Antwerp. If your guest is of any consequence there, my friend will surely recognize her.”

  “And are you to be here for the ball? Or are you too desperately needed by the ladies in Brighton?”

  Mrs. Douglas’s cool expression didn’t change, but before she could answer, Lady Nithsdale pushed her tea cup and saucer away from her.

  “Really, Lady Josephine. You must allow us to meet with this young woman before we go.”

  “Oh, must you go?” Then, smiling as sweetly as she could manage, Jo rose from the table. “But of course you have so many calls to make, I’m sure. Oh, look at the time.”

  “No, I didn’t mean that we need to—”

  “Of course you didn’t. You’re too kind to hurry your visit, but I’m certain our other neighbors would feel neglected if you were to deprive them of Mrs. Douglas’s company. I wouldn’t feel right, keeping you both to myself. Ladies?”

  As Lady Nithsdale reluctantly rose from her seat, Jo glanced at the other guest, who was eyeing her with the same inscrutable expression.

  “But about your guest . . .” Lady Nithsdale huffed.

  “No, m’lady. I won’t keep you another moment. We’ll save that for another visit, shall we?” Jo ushered them toward the door. “And the next time you call, we can tour the garden. The aza
leas are lovely this year.”

  Chapter 13

  The disaster was well under way before they even left the stables.

  Instructions were flying at her from Hugh and the two grooms. The gelding she was now to ride was younger and more energetic and needed a strong hand to stand still while Grace was helped up onto his back. She was nearly tossed before she was even seated.

  The situation didn’t improve at all once they started. Grace knew from experience that all horses, even the most docile, try to show their independence when ridden by a stranger. She’d had no chance to befriend the new mount. They’d given her a riding crop to make up for the absence of a leg on the off side; but it was useless. The gelding constantly sprawled about, requiring continual pulling together. She couldn’t lower her hands, positioned as she was. And without the use of her right leg—which was hooked uncomfortably around the saddle’s crutch—she lost an invaluable tool for controlling the animal. Everything she’d been taught before was for nothing. She might as well have been perched atop a camel’s hump.

  Clearly, she thought, she’d never given enough respect to those who’d mastered this dangerously awkward method of riding. The few times she’d been offered the chance to try, Grace never accepted. Her father wouldn’t allow it. And as a perfectionist, she’d never liked that “less capable” feeling when she was learning something new.

  As their horses walked past a kennel and a number of barns, Grace leaned to the right to keep her balance, but her leg was quickly falling sleep. This wasn’t riding. There was no joy in it. This saddle had obviously been designed to torture women.

  She enjoyed riding astride. She always had. To race across a meadow or down a country lane with the wind in your face, to sail through the air over wall or ditch, to move as one with the powerful animal between your legs was a joy unparalleled. Fashion be damned, she’d often worn men’s breeches while doing it. Today, she had no choice in the dress she wore, but she didn’t think it would all go this badly.

  Despite everything, her pride wouldn’t allow her to appear weak. She wouldn’t complain. She would be the master of the situation. When they left the buildings behind and Hugh commanded his massive steed to “trot on,” she pushed her horse to a canter in an effort at looking proficient. Nearly falling off a half-dozen times before slowing the gelding to a trot, Grace shuddered to think how ridiculous she must have looked, lurching and swaying ahead of him like a drunken hussar.

  There was no point in suggesting that they go to the village rather than the loch. Whatever she’d wanted, her plan changed when Hugh showed up instead of his sister.

  Thankfully, the torture being inflicted on her legs and arse soon came to an end. After riding for a short time through what appeared to be an ancient forest of oak and fir groves, they reached a clearing of meadow grass dotted with wildflowers of yellow, white, and violet. Beyond a line of pines, she espied a glimpse of a narrow loch.

  She was exceedingly relieved when he reined in his horse and suggested they dismount and walk a bit before heading back.

  Grace watched her companion’s smooth dismount and looked down at the contraption she was clinging to. She had no idea how the blazes was she going to get down.

  Hugh left his stallion and approached. “This will be easier than mounting.”

  “That isn’t saying much.”

  Her dignity called for her to make easy work of it. She’d dismounted from horses, saddled or bareback, thousands of times. She could do this. But she quickly realized she was to be foiled by a leg and a buttock that had lost all feeling.

  “If you gather your skirts and release your knee, I’d be happy to assist you.”

  He was standing very close, his hands extended, ready to help.

  “I can handle this,” she said, sharper than she’d intended. She wanted to leap down with no assistance, but the gelding was becoming restless. Gathering the voluminous skirts in her hand was turning out to be a serious obstacle as she tried to free her leg from the saddle crutch.

  “Before you do that, first release your foot from the slipper stirrup and loop.”

  The skirts were beginning to frustrate her. Giving no thought to modesty, she hauled them up to her knee and kicked her foot out of the stirrup.

  “Now remove your right leg from the crutch.”

  Her leg wouldn’t cooperate.

  Hugh waited as she made one last attempt to manage it on her own. Finally, he reached up and grasped her by the waist. Lifting her from the saddle, he gently lowered her to the ground.

  Her right leg, dangling like a broken willow branch, collapsed under her as he set her down. As she struggled to balance on her other leg, the restless gelding, relieved of his rider, bumped her, and she fell into Hugh.

  Grace’s lips pressed against soft wool. Her arms were around him, clutching his riding coat. She smelled the fresh air and the man, and her mind emptied of all complaints. Her body filled with a feeling as old as womanhood. Time stood still. She brushed her cheek against his shoulder and allowed herself to savor the moment, fancying a dream that could never be. The pins-and-needles sensation in her leg hindered her from stepping away from him. He didn’t complain.

  When she felt able to put her weight on that limb, she started to back up but the slight pressure of his hand on the small of her back made Grace pause.

  Her gaze moved slowly up past the strong chin to his lips. She wanted him to kiss her. She looked up and was relieved to see a similar need in the depths of his gray eyes. He was staring at her lips.

  His fingers softly traced the line of her jaw, and a delicious tremor rippled through her.

  “Step away and I won’t kiss you.”

  His voice was deep, inviting her to play. But the decision was hers. He was leaving it to her like last night. She could walk away . . . and for the rest of her life regret not experiencing this moment.

  Grace rose on her toes and brushed her lips ever so softly across his.

  She felt every muscle in his body stiffen. Emboldened, she looked up into his eyes and placed feathery soft kisses on his lips.

  His mouth fell on hers, hard and fast, and when her lips parted in wonder and delight, he thrust his tongue deep into her mouth. He kissed her hungrily and without restraint, erasing any memory of the chaste kisses of her youth. Her body responded to the play of their lips. Desire like she’d never known erupted within her, racing like fire through her veins. She wanted more.

  Grace found herself short of breath. Her heart hammered like the pounding of cannons. Hugh’s kiss was undoing her, melting her. She was like clay in his embrace, her mouth yielding to his mouth, her body molding to his body. She raised herself higher, and her arms encircled his neck. She felt rather than heard his groan of pleasure as her breasts pressed against his chest.

  Fast. Think. Wrong. Inside of her, a battle raged. Now. Desire. Right.

  She wanted the fires of passion to rule this moment, but it could not be. It was wrong. Hugh didn’t know the truth about her, and she was adding to her wrongs with what she’d started. It had to stop now.

  Grace forced her trembling fingers between their bodies, and she pressed against his chest. He immediately ended the kiss and stepped back.

  Her legs threatened to give out beneath her. Everything around her was a blur of colors. Her lips tingled with pleasure.

  “I shouldn’t have kissed you,” she finally managed to whisper.

  “No, it was I,” he said, his gaze still setting her body aflame even from two steps away. “But I don’t regret it, and I don’t think you do, either.”

  Grace turned and faced the loch and pressed her hands to her fevered cheeks. She’d never imagined such a burning, explosive desire for someone. She’d never initiated a moment like this, and when she was in his arms, she would have given him far more than that kiss. Closing her eyes as a wave of mortification took hold of her, she searched her mind for a way to justify this sudden error in judgment.

  Hugh moved away,
leading the horses to a low shrub where they could graze on the meadow grass. She watched him secure the mounts and then stand gazing at the sparkling waters of the loch. He’d lost control for a moment, and she was surprised that she’d done that to him. Torn by conflicting desires, she forced herself to stand still and not go back to him and throw herself again into his arms.

  When he finally turned and came back to her, he was the controlled and serious host she’d known.

  “People find the path along the edge of the loch to be quite picturesque. If you’re not overtired, perhaps you’d like to stretch your legs.”

  Grace resented the loss of the man who’d kissed her with such passion, but she was grateful for the gentleman who had retained a semblance of reason. She was a whirling dervish of contradictions, spinning crazily, unable to fathom whom she’d suddenly become.

  The answers she searched for were not easy to find, at least not right now with the object of her longing standing beside her.

  Hugh pointed out the way, and as they walked down through the trees toward the water, Grace forced herself to focus on her surroundings. If she talked, she wouldn’t dwell on what she’d done. She wanted to find something to steer any conversation away from her brazen behavior.

  As they came out to a wide fringe of grass along the fore shore of the loch, her eyes took in the green forest rising from the opposite bank. The place was quiet, protected, peaceful.

  “This is beautiful. I didn’t expect the woodlands to be so full of flowers.” She pointed to a blanket of bluebells that spread around them.

  He looked at them as if seeing them for the first time.

  “It’s a good time of year for that, I should think.” He indicated the path that ran along the water’s edge. “We can walk this way, if you like.”