“He is certainly an interesting man,” Etta allowed with perfect honesty. “I like him.”
“Most people do. Though God knows why. I’ll consider your offer.”
Etta blinked, bewildered by the sudden changes of subject. She found herself watching his lips on the rim of his cup as he drank, and hastily dragged her gaze free. “Thank you.”
“If the price is very good. And if you ride around the property with me tomorrow.”
“Gladly,” she said. “Though I’m sure you already know it far better than I. Then there is the house, too. This library alone is very fine, if you care for such things.”
“I do. I gather you do not?”
She blinked. “Why would you say that?”
He shrugged. “You’re selling it.”
“That doesn’t mean I don’t appreciate it. Along with the house and the land.”
“And the people who live on it.”
“I imagine they will do better with a landlord who lives here than with an absentee.”
“True.”
She met his gaze, brows raised. “What exactly is it you are accusing me of, sir?”
“Nothing.”
“I inherited this land from my husband. It was not entailed and so does not pass to the new Lord Derwent.” Why was she telling him this? She had no need to be so defensive. She doubted he was even interested, for he was looking about, until his gaze paused on the books and papers on the table.
His gaze returned to her, suddenly, catching her stare. “Why are you selling?”
She shrugged. “It’s the sensible thing to do since I cannot live here.”
“Why not?”
Her lips parted, then she closed them again. He followed the movement without comment.
“My life is in the south,” she said at last. “In England.”
“You have children?”
“Sadly, no.” Derwent had spent his best—in every way—with his mistresses. “But I have other ties of family and friends.”
“Of course. Perhaps you know my sister, Lady Beddow.”
The blood drained from her face. “Lady Beddow is your sister?”
“Is that a problem?” he asked lightly.
“Of course not. Why would it be? But no, I am not acquainted with her, though I know her son slightly,”
“Stepson,” Mr. Ogilvy corrected.
The more distant the relationship, the happier Etta was, although why it should matter was beyond her. It came to her now that one of the reasons she’d been so eager to come to Scotland and attend to the sale of Ardbeag personally, was a desire to leave the silly games of men like George behind her. A civil, sophisticated liaison could be delicious, but with rejected lovers souring things, one could tire very quickly.
“I heard he was in Scotland,” Mr. Ogilvy said.
“I heard he was travelling back south,” Etta returned. “I trust you met him while he was here.”
Mr. Ogilvy smiled as though with fond remembrance. “Briefly.” He set down his teacup and saucer on the table in front of them. “Shall we say ten o’clock tomorrow morning?”
“Of course. Come up to the house and we’ll begin from here.” She rose as he did and once more offered her hand. “Goodbye until then.”
He took her hand in his rough fingers, his gaze once more intent upon her face. “I hear you had some trouble the other night,” he said abruptly. “I’m sorry for it.”
“Thank you, but I cannot believe you were responsible.”
“I can still be sorry you were subjected to such a crime, especially in my country. I’m making what inquiries I can.”
“Thank you,” she said, a little bewildered.
“Goodbye,” he said in his abrupt way and dropped her hand before striding to the door.
Again, familiarity stirred, but this time it had a face. Or, at least, a mask. “Mr. Ogilvy, do you have a brother?” she blurted.
He paused, glancing back over his shoulder. “No. Why?”
“No reason. You just remind me a little of someone I met once. Goodbye.”
He nodded. “Goodbye.”
***
Whether or not Mr. Ogilvy had anything to do with the masked stranger who’d danced with her and kissed her at the Roxburghs’ ball, Etta looked forward to her ride the following morning. Despite the nasty moment when he’d revealed his connection with George Beddow. There seemed to be something mysterious and exciting at work here, almost part of the sylvan beauty that surrounded her. For once in her life, she felt no urgency about anything, either to solve the mystery of the break-in, identify the masked stranger or sell Ardbeag.
After breakfast, Etta went to the kitchen and ordered a luncheon to carry on the day’s expedition.
Mrs. Ross nodded, though she sniffed with inevitable and obvious disapproval. “You’ll take Ross with you?” she suggested. “If you don’t care for the proprieties, he knows the land better than anyone.”
“Yes, he does, and I shall,” Etta agreed amicably. “Which is why I intend to make it a condition of sale that both you and Mr. Ross continue to be employed in your present positions by the new owner.”
Having said what she really came to, Etta departed again with an amiable nod in the stunned Mrs. Ross’s direction, and went to change into her riding habit.
She had just mounted her favorite mare and ridden her around to the front of the house when Mr. Ogilvy rode up the drive on a large, white stallion.
“What a beautiful beast!” she greeted him. “But you need some shining armor to do him justice.”
“Are you in need of a knight?” he inquired.
“No, but I like to keep one in reserve, just in case. Shall we go?”
“By all means.”
“I’ve sent for Mr. Ross, so presumably he’ll catch up with us,” Etta said, leading the way toward the wood and the river that ran through it. “You’ll already know what can be fished and hunted here?”
“Intimately. I poached here as a child. In fact, nearly all the children for miles around have poached here at one time or another.”
Etta cast him a quick smile. “Well you won’t need to poach any more if you buy.”
“That will be a comfort. How much of the estate have you seen? Have you discovered the waterfall?”
“Waterfall? No,” she said, intrigued. “Is it far?”
“Not if you’ve brought food.” Tugging on the reins, he turned his horse toward the hills and broke into a gallop. Etta, never one to lag behind, quickly caught up and they rode side by side at an exhilarating speed until the ground grew too difficult and they were forced to slow, panting from their exertions.
It wasn’t quite how Etta had imagined the day, conducting him decorously around the hunting and fishing grounds, the village and the farmlands, leaving Mr. Ross to answer awkward questions. Instead, Mr. Ross never appeared at all, and it was Robert Ogilvy who did the showing. The villagers and farm servants they met on the way all seemed to know him, addressing him by name in quite unawed manners. They bowed to her, too, gazing at her curiously, as though wondering about her connection to “Himself”. After all, even those who hadn’t met her must have known who she was.
“There are improvements that can be made to the land,” Ogilvy said once, as the horses picked their way uphill from two small farms growing oats and potatoes. “It could yield more than it does, to the benefit of all.”
“When it’s yours, I hope you will improve it all you like.”
He took a deep breath. “Look, I don’t know what Stirling James—Roxburgh—told you, or why, but I really don’t have the kind of money you’d want for Ardbeag.”
She frowned. “Then why are you considering it?”
He shrugged. “Because I like the idea of having it. Because I want an excuse to ride with you. But the truth is, even if I could scrape together enough to buy, it would beggar me, and then I’d be useless to either estate.”
He reined in on a wide ledge where several pa
ths converged, two going farther uphill and two on either side. Etta turned the mare to get a complete view of her surroundings. Farmland, Ardbeag House and the village stretched out below her, the river gleaming in the sunlight as it flowed out of the forest and wound through the undulating land into the distance. Opposite, higher hills graced the scene, rolling and rising into mountains. The sheer beauty caught at her breath.
He said, “Would you like me to escort you back to Ardbeag House?”
Of course. If he couldn’t buy, she had no real reason to be here with him.
She tugged on the reins, turning the mare back to face him. “I haven’t seen the waterfall yet. Lead on.”
Chapter Four
His sudden smile lightened his serious expression, making her only too aware of his attraction. Apparently happy to waste his time riding around her land, which he knew better than she did, he led the way along the right-hand path around the hill and downward into a twisting glen.
She heard the rushing water for several minutes before they finally rounded a hill and came upon the waterfall. It spilled from the hill above in a narrow, glistening sheet over the rocks to the burn in front of them, which in turn flowed a hundred yards or so down to the river.
“Oh, how enchanting,” she exclaimed.
“We used to play here as children, see who could run through it without falling into the burn. And if the wind blew in the right direction, we could play in that little cave behind the water.”
“Show me,” she urged, dismounting before he could offer help.
There was nowhere to tie the horses, but the animals seemed happy to drink from the burn and crop the surrounding greenery. Etta followed her guide closer to the waterfall. Without warning, he bolted forward, tearing off his hat, and leapt through the cascade and over the burn. From the other side, he stood grinning at her while water ran off his hair. He shook himself like a dog.
“Refreshing,” he called to her.
She looked from him to the waterfall. The secret, obviously, was to do it quickly, so that you only got wet without being soaked through. And it was a sunny day.
“Don’t,” he said hastily. “I’ll come back.”
But she was already running at the waterfall, and leapt. The water battered her head and shoulders and then she landed on the other side. Too late, she knew she would stumble on the uneven rocks, but almost before her feet touched them she was snatched up and swung around onto safer ground.
Gasping and laughing at the same time, she clutched his arms to steady herself.
“What a hoyden,” he grinned. “Are you hurt?”
“No, just wet!” She gave her head a shake and smiled up at him. Something twisted within her, snatching at her breath all over again. It is him. The man who kissed me… And he was going to do it again. The smile dying on his parted lips, he bent his head, and her heart turned over.
Hard muscle bunched beneath her fingers. Through her damp clothing and his, she felt only heat.
Dear God, what am I doing? This isn’t some foolish game played by London rules.
Exactly what it was, she had no idea, but there were too many mysteries surrounding this man. Besides which, he churned up feelings in her she didn’t understand.
“Drat,” she said, whisking herself out of his arms. “My cloak—and our luncheon—is with the horses on the other side. One of us will have to cross again.”
He made no effort to recapture her. Deliberately, she looked across the burn at the horses, not at him, but she was sure his intense eyes devoured her face.
“Nonsense,” he said lightly, as if he’d noticed nothing strange in her manner. He emitted a piercing whistle and his white stallion immediately lifted its head and began to walk into the burn. The mare stopped eating to watch. Then, with a restless swish of her tail, she followed the stallion across the burn.
“Well,” Etta observed. “That is a useful skill. Are you hungry? Shall we eat?”
It seemed they were both content to pretend the moment by the waterfall had never happened. And indeed, nothing untoward had actually occurred. They slipped quickly back into their previous bantering conversation.
They sat in the sun on Robert’s cloak, eating the cold food Mrs. Ross had collected and gazing out over the hills and the river. He told her a few funny stories from his youth, when he and other local children had dared each other to various dangerous exploits involving the waterfall. And she described the quieter, flatter landscape of her home in East Anglia.
“I’m sorry you can’t buy Ardbeag,” she said at last. “You would have been kind to it.”
“You can’t know that,” he replied humorously. “I’ve consistently abused and poached it.”
“Perhaps, but you wouldn’t evict the farmers and fill the land with sheep.”
“No, I wouldn’t do that.” He reached for the last crust of bread and snagged a cut piece of cheese to go with it. “Neither would the Roxburghs.”
“You think I should sell to them instead? It was they who suggested you.”
“I think they’d buy to keep the land in local hands.”
She nodded, wondering why the prospect didn’t make her happy.
Having finished his bread and cheese, Robert lay back on the cloak, his hands linked under his head, and let the sun warm his face. “Or,” he said, “you could keep it.”
“It makes no sense to keep it. The income from the estate is too low.”
“Your late husband did not leave you well provided for?”
Etta blinked at such bluntness. But she had no reason not to answer. “I have a house in London and a very respectable jointure.”
“Then there is nothing to stop you dividing your time between Ardbeag and London.”
“Apart from the horrendous journey.”
“You’d get used to that.”
“Perhaps.” Restlessly, she shifted position, gazing out across the land that was hers. Beyond the wood, she could see Lochgarron, Robert’s land. The beauty took her breath away—but so did the sheer isolation. “I could not thrive here,” she said abruptly. “I am a vain, shallow creature and I need company like a flower needs sunshine. I would…wither.”
His gaze burned her averted cheek. “You don’t appear withered to me. You are blooming.”
She smiled. “With my bedraggled hair and my damp habit.”
“It makes no difference.” He sat up again, which brought him just a little too close to her. “You are afraid.”
She could have denied it. In London, she would have. Here, with him, there seemed no point. “Perhaps.”
“Of being alone?”
She didn’t deny that either.
“The pool of men to flirt with is too small,” he suggested softly. “As is the possibility of taking even one lover without creating the sort of scandal you have always avoided.”
Etta smiled and lifted her chin, although she kept her gaze on the land. “I have found widowhood to be the best of states. An unmarried girl is so hemmed in and protected from impropriety that she cannot sneeze without a chaperone to disapprove and smother her in handkerchiefs. A married lady is so dependent on her husband’s whims that she is helpless. But a widow….” She turned her head to meet his gaze. “A widow has financial and personal independence. She is finally free. To make her own friends, her own amusements, her own pleasure. Provided she plays by the rules of discretion, of course.”
“And there is no such thing as discretion here?”
“Of course, there isn’t. And I will not give up my freedom for a new prison.”
“Prison?” he repeated, startled. He flung out his arm, indicating the wide, green vista before them. “There are no walls here. And the rules of discretion are merely…different. For example, we rode out here alone together. No groom, no Ross. No one would know if I made love to you by the waterfall.”
Annoyingly, she felt a flush rise to her cheeks. “But they could already be thinking it.”
“Only if you to
ld everyone where you were going. People might gossip, but no one dogs your footsteps.”
“So,” she said, being deliberately outrageous, “you think my prime reason for keeping Ardbeag should be to facilitate my taking of lovers?”
“Well, you still have the problem of limited choice,” he said, not remotely thrown. “But then, if your choice in London is limited to men like George Beddow—”
“George Beddow was never my lover and never will be!” she exclaimed. “What do you imagine I do? Line up all the men at a ball and take my pick for the night?”
“Something like that,” he said steadily. “Oh, don’t misunderstand me. I doubt it’s so calculated or so distastefully done, but I don’t believe you follow your heart either, for your heart is not engaged, is it? That is the point.”
She stared at him. “Forgive me. I must have missed whatever makes this any of your concern.”
Her haughtiness, clearly, was lost on him, for he smiled. “Don’t you know? I want to be your lover.”
Heat washed over her like a wave. She didn’t know if it was part of the fury building inside her or something else entirely. She curled her lip. “That is not how the game is played.”
“I am not playing a game.”
“Then you are of no interest to me,” she snapped.
He pounced. “You mean I would be, if only I played by your rules?”
“Absolutely not!” she lashed out, wanting to hurt. “I have had my fill of your family with your lies and deceit!”
He frowned. “George hurt you? I wish I’d hit him harder.”
Rob Ogilvy had hit him? Intrigued, where she should have been disgusted, she almost asked for details, but fortunately, sense returned and she said haughtily, “I was not speaking of George.”
His dark eyebrows shot up. “I, then? How have I deceived you?”
“You cannot deny you kept your identity secret when you danced with me at the Roxburghs’.”
“It was a masquerade,” he said mildly. “I thought that was the whole point.”
“But you came to berate me for leading George astray, didn’t you? You even disguised your voice.”
Scandalous Lords and Courtship Page 24
