The Scottish Companion
Page 13
Gillian didn’t know whether to laugh or to be shocked, so she opted for the most proper course. She left the rose garden.
“What was that demonstration all about?” Grant frowned at his friend. “Are you and Elise no longer together?”
Lorenzo smiled. “We will be together until the day one of us dies, and then, no doubt, the other will cock up his toes as you English—Scottish—say. But I cannot push aside my curiosity, my friend. I have a great deal of curiosity. What is it with you and the little Scottish kitten?”
“There is nothing between me and Gillian,” Grant said. “Although I would appreciate it if you would leave her alone. Your devotion to Elise notwithstanding, I don’t like that you are flirting with the women in my household, Lorenzo.”
“That is another thing, my friend. Why is she among your household? And why is it that I have met her, and not your soon-to-be bride? Where is the woman who has so ably trapped my friend?”
“Miss Fenton did not trap me, Lorenzo. It is a marriage of convenience, nothing more.”
“Sometimes those unions turn to love. Although the tone in which you said your beloved’s name was not quite so loverlike.”
“And sometimes they don’t,” Grant said. “Witness my own father’s aversion to my mother.”
“Which surprises me all the more,” Lorenzo said. “You have told me infinite times, my friend, that you are a practical man. I have never believed it as much as I do this moment. Your future is at stake, yet you seem to have no part of it. I do not understand this Scottish compulsion to marry for lands and riches.”
Grant smiled.
“Miss Fenton has neither. What she does have is an excess of practicality, a certain way of looking at the world. She has no requirements of me, and I have none of her. It is simply enough that we marry and produce sons. Nothing more. When I say that it is a marriage of convenience, Lorenzo, you must understand that’s exactly what I mean. I have no time to seek out a wife, and Miss Fenton has no inclination for a husband. The situation fits us both perfectly.”
Lorenzo’s shrewd gaze seemed to peer beneath Grant’s words, but he forced himself to return the other man’s look.
“I am honored to be your friend, Grant,” the other man said surprisingly. “Because I do not think you have many.”
What the hell did he say to that?
“Would you like to examine me today? Or tomorrow?”
“You wish, do you not, to change the subject? It is painful for you?”
“Have you been able to do any research into poisons?”
Lorenzo smiled. “Very well, my friend. We will talk death and not women.”
Grant nodded, feeling a sense of relief out of proportion to the circumstances. His future was not something he wished to discuss, even with a friend. He was well aware of the leanness of it. Either someone was going to succeed in wiping out the last of the Roberson males, or he was going to be tied to Arabella Fenton for the rest of his life.
Neither prospect seemed palatable.
“Gillian!”
She heard Grant’s voice behind her and didn’t turn. However, she did glance around to see if Dr. Fenton was in earshot.
“Were you ignoring me again?” he asked when he reached her side.
“Yes, Your Lordship, I was. Are you trying to get me dismissed?”
There were times when she didn’t mind his aristocratic tone. In fact, it was so much a part of him that she rarely noticed. Today, however, it was grating on her nerves.
“Who would do that?”
“Dr. Fenton.”
“He has no power at Rosemoor, and certainly not if I decree it.”
She glanced at him out of the corner of her eye. “That would be unwise, Your Lordship.” Foolish woman. Foolish man.
“I am your employer, Miss Cameron. I thought we had established that.”
Until you know my past. Until you are as shocked as the rest of the world, and then you will dismiss me without a second thought.
“What has he said to you?”
“He thinks me too familiar.”
“Too familiar?” he asked.
“We converse more than you and Arabella do, Your Lordship. He has, no doubt, seen us talking.”
And if he knew we’d kissed, I would have been dismissed for certain.
“Your Lordship,” she said as she kept walking, “please go away.”
“It won’t do you any good to barricade yourself in your room. I have a key to all the chambers at Rosemoor.”
Finally she turned back and glanced at him. “Has no one ever told you that you can be insufferable sometimes?”
“I believe you have, on more than one occasion. If you have not exactly said the words, they were certainly there in your expression.”
She was silenced by that comment. Unfortunately, he wasn’t. “If you wish to converse further with Lorenzo, then by all means do so. But he is very happily married, despite his charm.”
He turned and began to walk in the direction of his laboratory.
“Are you daft?” she called out, ignoring the interested gazes of the gardeners.
He glanced over his shoulder at her, stopped, and turned.
“I have no interest in your friend. I was merely admiring your mother’s roses.”
He slowly walked back to her.
“Why have you been hiding?”
She ignored that question, asking one of her own. “Who is he?”
“A friend from Florence.” He regarded her impassively. “A scientist.”
“He doesn’t seem like a scientist.”
“One would think that he hadn’t a brain in his head that didn’t somehow involve women, but he’s very intelligent. And very much devoted to his wife.”
“I haven’t a scintilla of interest in your friend or his wife.”
He continued looking at her in that way of his, his eyes betraying nothing. What was he thinking? Sometimes she wanted to goad him into speech, simply to learn what he had to say.
“He’s a very charming man.”
“So are you, Your Lordship. When you wish to be. Did you leave many women pining in Italy? Or were you known for your haughty disposition?”
He didn’t smile, the stern expression on his face didn’t lighten, but she had the impression, however odd, that her question had pleased him in some manner.
“Would it matter to you if I had?” he asked.
“No. You’re to be married soon. Two weeks, is it not?”
He didn’t answer her, only asked a question of his own. “Why is Arabella afraid of me? I have not, to the best of my knowledge, attained a reputation for being a brutal man. While it’s true that I’ve been out of Scotland for a number of years, there are people in Italy who can attest to my affable nature.”
She glanced over at him.
“Very well, not affable,” he corrected, “but not cruel, either.”
“Arabella has never liked the touch of others, Your Lordship. It does not matter if you are male or female. Arabella does not like touch in any form. A hug, a kiss, an accidental contact, it’s all the same. She stiffens and trembles.”
Was there no one in Italy he might have chosen? He was an earl; he might have his choice of hundreds—thousands—of women the length and breadth of Scotland and England. Arabella would make his life miserable.
He took a few steps toward her. “It would not matter if I left a score of women in Italy?”
“Your Lordship,” she said, “please go away.”
“Not at all?”
Wisely or not, she gave him the truth. “Not one whit. I’ve found that the past is better left there. It has little bearing on our actions of today.”
“I lied,” he said. “I would not want you involved with Lorenzo.”
“Because you don’t want my heart broken.”
He kept approaching her, slowly, like a large, predatory animal stalking a much more defenseless one. She was not, however, without resources. If she scr
eamed, anyone might come running. Rosemoor was filled with people.
“Because you care for those in your safekeeping. I am a female in your household, and you’re responsible for me.”
“To my great shame, I cannot even claim that. While it’s true I do care about your happiness, it is not because you are in my employ. Or even a guest at Rosemoor.”
He stopped only inches away from her.
“There is a footman at the end of the walk,” she cautioned him. “And a maid brushing the urns at the gate.”
“What do you think I’m going to do, Gillian?” he asked softly.
She answered in a whisper, “Kiss me.”
“As I did before?”
“A very unwise move, as I recall.”
“Very unwise. It would be foolish for me to do such a thing again,” he said.
“Yes, it would.”
“I can’t help but think of it, however.”
She looked away, down the long path. The rose garden was built upon a slope of land near the house. Beyond was the view of the Pleasure Palace, and even farther, the road to Edinburgh.
“Please.”
He stepped back.
“I would not shame you, Gillian. Such is not my intent.”
“Then what do you wish of me, Your Lordship? To play some sort of game, again? To pretend we know each other better than we do? That we are of the same rank? You are the Earl of Straithern, and I am your betrothed’s companion. What do you want of me?”
He didn’t answer her, and she didn’t remain behind to hear an explanation for his silence.
Dr. Fenton looked perfectly at home in his father’s library, a fact that Grant did not share with the physician. They were not dissimilar in appearance, although his father had chosen to dress befitting his rank and wealth, and Dr. Fenton often looked as if he had forgotten what clothes he donned in the morning. His appearance was not, evidently, of primary importance to him, but Grant did not hold that against the man.
“Do you have a moment, Doctor?” Grant asked.
“I did not mean to be presumptuous, Your Lordship,” the older man said, standing, “but the countess said that I might take advantage of the space.”
“I use this room only when I must, Doctor,” Grant said, closing the door behind him. “If you’re able to do so, then I’m glad of it.” Grant waved him back into position. “Please sit.”
Dr. Fenton did so, folding his hands on the desk in front of him, his bearing erect, shoulders squared, for all the world like he was a student in school, and Grant his headmaster.
Grant took a chair in front of the desk, remembering when he’d been summoned to this room as a youth. His father preferred London to Rosemoor. When the 9th Earl of Straithern did come home, it was with an entourage, a dozen or so men who elected to remain in the palace during the month-long visit. Grant was never punished by his father, and the few times he’d been called to his library had been to simply show himself. Once his father was assured that his heir was alive and well, he proceeded to ignore Grant once again.
If there was a disciplinarian in Grant’s life, it was the headmaster of the school to which he was sent as a young boy.
“Do you supervise Arabella’s treatment?” he asked now, pushing his memories away to address the matter at hand.
Dr. Fenton looked startled by the question, but he answered quickly enough. “I do, when there is a need for it. Are you talking generally, Your Lordship, or is there some particular case that you have in mind?”
“A particular case,” Grant said, leaning back in the chair and stretching out his legs. He surveyed his boots, and made a mental note to have his valet send his measurements to Edinburgh. He needed a new pair, and it was easier just to buy a half dozen of the damn things rather than be concerned about something as mundane as shopping. “The gardener’s boy. I understood from Arabella that he has a wound on his hand. I’ve been to see him myself, and I’m not satisfied that he’s healing as he should.”
“I have not seen the injury,” Dr. Fenton said. “There wouldn’t be a reason for me to see it, Your Lordship, unless Arabella has questions. I have the greatest faith in my daughter. She knows nearly as much about medicine as I do.”
“She didn’t seem very positive about the outcome. I would like you to supervise, at least until I am assured of the boy’s welfare. I don’t want his fingers cut off just because Arabella wants to practice her skills.”
Dr. Fenton looked shocked. “I can assure you, Your Lordship, that she would do no such thing. Why, I’ve often put her in charge of my surgery when I’m forced to stay with a patient overnight.”
“All I am saying, Doctor, is that I would like you to see the boy. Assure yourself that everything is being done for him that should be done. That you would do no differently.”
“Your Lordship, she is a good girl.”
“I’m not questioning her character, Dr. Fenton. I am questioning her ability.”
“Very well, Your Lordship, I will see to him.”
Grant hesitated. “There is one more item we need to discuss, Dr. Fenton.”
The other man looked vaguely uncomfortable, as if he had some inkling of Grant’s words. There was nothing to be done but to say it.
“Arabella does not appear to be acquiescent with this arrangement.”
“Nonsense,” the doctor said. “She is simply shy. She will make you a good wife.”
“She doesn’t seem all that eager to be a bride.”
Dr. Fenton began to speak, but Grant interrupted him. “I don’t know your daughter. Part of that is my fault. Part of it is regrettably hers. A month seemed like long enough when I proposed the marriage, but perhaps I was hasty. Do you think another month will give her enough time to become accustomed to the idea of being a wife?”
“Would you be willing to delay, your lordship?”
A delay of a decade did not seem long enough, but Grant nodded.
Dr. Fenton’s smile was one Grant could only call relieved. He stood and studied the doctor for a moment. “One more thing, Doctor, if you will.”
The other man looked up, the expression on his face one of earnest acceptance.
“Leave Miss Cameron alone. Do not threaten her with dismissal again.”
Fenton stood. “Your Lordship, there is much you need to know about Miss Cameron.”
“Then I shall allow her to tell me, Doctor.”
He left the room before Dr. Fenton could comment further or before Grant could launch into an impassioned defense of Arabella’s companion. That wouldn’t be prudent, would it? Nor would voicing the thought that an additional month was not likely to change Arabella Fenton into a warm and caring woman.
Chapter 14
Attending dinner that night was mandatory. Not only were Grant, Arabella, Dr. Fenton, and the countess present, but Lorenzo was in attendance as well.
Gillian had tried to claim illness and request a tray in her room, but the countess was having none of it. That august personage actually came to Gillian’s chamber to ensure that she would be there.
“I truly do not think that I would be missed, Your Ladyship. I am only the companion.”
The countess did not answer, but the look she sent Gillian was sharp, and almost condemnatory.
“You will come to dinner, young woman,” the countess said. “I will have no argument about it.”
And that, it seemed, was that.
Should she simply be honest with the countess? Her thought lasted the length of time it took for Gillian to close the door behind the older woman. What would the countess say if she told her the complete truth? She’d learned some very difficult lessons in the past two years, but one lesson evidently had not been strong enough.
Her emotions would be the ruin of her.
Perhaps now she would be able to speak to Lorenzo, and to learn something of Grant’s life in Italy. That would be infinitely better than trying not to betray her envy of Arabella or her interest in the earl.
“Would you like to entwine some flowers through the curls, miss? Several of the spring roses would look lovely.”
“No,” Gillian said. In all honestly, she wished she had diamonds or pearls or rubies, something to sparkle and attract the attention. Instead, she should be circumspect, companionlike, the nondescript woman whose sole purpose in life was to accompany Arabella, the future countess.
Why Arabella and not her?
Gillian stared at herself in the mirror, seeing the blankness, the hopelessness of her own expression. Arabella’s life was not hers. Nor did Arabella have her experiences. They were two separate people, with two different pasts, and two entirely different futures.
Whenever she was tempted to feel the least bit sorry for herself, she should lecture herself sternly. There was no one to blame but herself for the situation she was in. She had dared convention; she’d been a rebel, she had defied those who loved her and cared for her. She had demanded her own way, and she’d received exactly what she wanted.
She’d gotten Robert only to realize that she really didn’t have him. Did anyone ever possess another human being? Robert had done nothing but take advantage of the situation. She was the one who had given up the whole of her life for love, only to understand that love was not an infinite emotion. Instead it grew or shrunk according to the attention it received. If love was returned, then it flourished and prospered. If it was never reciprocated, it was like a plant left arid or a rose bush that never saw the sun.
Yet she had paid with more than regret, hadn’t she?
Whom do you mourn?
“You look lovely, miss,” the maid said, interrupting her reverie. “As pretty as any guest to Rosemoor.”
“Thank you, Agnes,” she said. Perhaps it would have been wiser to wish she were ugly, but she found it very difficult to wish for such thing, especially tonight.
How utterly foolish she was.