Gwendolyn’s dimple appeared with her genial smile. “Except for my hair color, I’ve been told I resemble my grandmother when she was my age.”
“Aye ye do, that’s for certain. I can see them both in ye.” Miss Dolina cocked her bird-like head, her gaze astute. She wasn’t as frail as she first appeared, nor as old as Dugall had initially thought either.
“Venora was in line to inherit a title in her own right when she came of age, ye ken. She and I attended finishin’ school together. For two years, she accompanied me home to celebrate Hogmanay, stayin’ a month each time.” Staring into the roaring fire, Dolina sighed, the sound rather forlorn. “She was the sister I never had.”
Gwendolyn exchanged a soft glance with Dugall. “That’s very touching.”
Miss Dolina didn’t seem to hear her. “But when Gawyn came home from university that last time, they fell in love and eloped while everyone was at the Hogmanay celebration.” Her face took on a faraway look. “Can you imagine that kind of love? Willin’ to sacrifice everythin’ to be together?”
“It sounds like such a romantic tale. You’ll have to tell me all the details one day.” Gwendolyn finished buttoning her cuffs and sent Dugall an almost shy glance.
Miss Dolina’s expression pinched for a fleeting instant, so brief Dugall wasn’t sure he hadn’t imagined it.
The next moment, she gave a short shake of her cottony head. “I’m nae sure how romantic a story it is. Caused a terrible stir, it did. Some never recovered.”
“Och, but the union produced our beautiful Gwendolyn, Julia, and Jeremiah,” Dugall said, trying to lighten the mood.
A wide smile wreathed Miss Dolina’s papery face as her faded tea-toned gaze swung between Dugall and Gwendolyn, as if noticing him at last. “That scamp, Lloyd. He didna’ tell me ye were married, lass.”
“Oh, heavens, we’re not married,” Gwendolyn rushed to assure her while spearing Dugall a contrite look.
Because she’d denied the charge so quickly, or because Miss Dolina had jumped to the wrong conclusion? Why did the former rankle rather more than the latter?
Gwendolyn’s surprised start and the rush of color blooming across the delicate planes of her face would’ve been comical, except Hollingsworth chose that moment to saunter by.
Or had he been lurking nearby all along, eavesdropping?
From the stern look he impaled Dugall with, there wasn’t a doubt he’d heard the elderly woman. And formed a wholly inaccurate assumption.
Damnation.
He probably thought Dugall had some sort of scheme up his sleeve, because that was exactly the type of thing Hollingsworth would’ve done.
Dolina chuckled a papery rasp, and shook her head. “Och, lass. I may be in my dotage and half-blind, but I ken when sparks fly between a man and woman. And fireworks to rival Vauxhall Gardens be goin’ off in here when I entered.”
Chapter 10
The next afternoon, after having been introduced to the stable hands, grooms, gardeners, and drivers, Gwendolyn stood in the largest Suttford House stable and shook her head.
“I’m afraid I don’t ride sidesaddle, Sam.” She indicated her split skirt. “I ride astride. Would you please saddle me another horse?”
“Astride, Miss McClintock?” Sam’s voice rose in incredulity as he scuttled Dugall a desperate glance. As if to confirm he’d heard the outlandish request.
Mounted on Bran, a slight smile tipped Dugall’s mouth. He’d never hinted to her what he thought about her unorthodox riding practice or her heretical attire.
“Yes.” Gwendolyn nodded, tapping her riding crop against her calf. “Since I was six years old. The only time I tried sidesaddle, I nearly broke my leg. Never again.”
The flustered groomsman looked to Dugall once more.
He simply raised a sympathetic midnight brow.
No help there, my good fellow.
Sam scratched his head, hemmed and hawed, and finally led the gelding bearing the sidesaddle away before saddling Marigold, a spirited, but gentle blond chestnut.
He kept casting Gwendolyn doubtful looks, as if she’d requested something entirely immoral.
Best he get used to it. This was how she rode.
Twenty minutes later, sitting atop the mare, as they followed the barouche carrying her family, Gwendolyn slid Dugall a sidewise contemplative glance.
He stared straight ahead, more reserved than she’d seen him in the . . . what? Twenty-some odd hours since they’d met?
My, it surely seemed a longer spell than that.
Last night, after Miss Dolina mistook him for Gwendolyn’s husband, he’d exited Gwendolyn’s chamber so swiftly, amusement had wrestled with annoyance in her breast ever since. All through last night’s awkward dinner and this morning’s stilted breakfast, too.
Both of which Hollingsworth most conspicuously skipped.
Fine froth he’d whipped himself into, it seemed.
Aunt Dolina had stirred Gwendolyn’s curiosity about her grandparents’ elopement. Could that have been why Grandpapa never spoke of his family?
Gwendolyn had invited Aunt Dolina to accompany them today, but after giving her an odd look her aunt admitted she already made plans for the day.
Aside from brief, polite responses to the questions she put to him, Dugall had little to say since they’d departed Suttford. For the duration of the ride to Craiglocky, she opted for silence rather than endure the strained conversation.
True, she didn’t know him well—at all if she were totally candid—but one of the things she’d most appreciated about him from the onset, was their ability to easily converse.
How were they to work together, managing Suttford, if he remained distant and uncommunicative? He was the one who insisted on staying on. Now because of an innocent remark by a dafty old woman who didn’t have the sense God gave a goose, he dared have his feathers ruffled? Had gone all stoic and offended?
Why did men always do that?
Instead of communicate, retreat behind a barricade of sulky silence? By all the saints in heaven, did they expect women to read their pea-picking minds?
Gwendolyn had supposed him made of sterner, more gallant stuff than that. Or maybe, she wanted to believe that of Dugall.
Hadn’t she learned her lesson about men yet?
Unfair. Your first two affianced were wonderful men. The second pair, however—
The barouche, its top down, rumbled before them, creaking every now and again from a particularly deep rut in the well-traveled road. Jeremiah or his sister repeatedly poked their burnished heads over the barouche’s side before their saint of a nanny dutifully towed them back onto the seat beside her.
This time, when Jeremiah thrust his head out, he made a comical face and waved.
Gwendolyn waved back and Dugall also lifted a hand.
Unlike the children’s father had most of their young lives, he didn’t ignore the children or treat them like nuisances. She hated to speak ill of the dead, but since his wife had died, Markus had basically turned the rearing of his children over to Gwendolyn and Kandie while he drowned his sorrows in alcohol.
Gratitude welled within Gwendolyn that though something clearly vexed Dugall today, he still demonstrated kindness.
Jeremiah rested his head on his bent arm atop the barouche’s glistening ebony side. Rubbing his fingers along the shiny edge, his doleful features revealed the pensiveness that lay heavily on his thin shoulders.
He’d tried to be brave, but when she’d stopped in to kiss the children goodnight, she’d found him weeping into his pillow.
Not altogether considerate of Gwendolyn to bundle her family into a conveyance again so soon, either. Even with the vehicle’s top lowered, the trip was a fairly short jaunt, and there’d been a promise of children to play with at Craiglo
cky.
That had been enough incentive to entice Jeremiah and Julia aboard the barouche. A glint had entered Aunt Barbara’s eyes when Dugall mentioned luncheon with his French mother. Since breakfast, Aunt Barbara had gone about muttering French phrases beneath her breath.
Shifting in the saddle, Gwendolyn set her attention to the azure sky. Streaked with wispy clouds, it looked like a giant, chalky hand had brushed the heavens.
Circling above the treetops, her feathers gleaming in the stark afternoon sun, Coronis kept pace with them. She’d release a hoarse caw every so often to let them know she still followed.
The crow rather fascinated Gwendolyn, and she hoped to become friendly with the bird. Dugall claimed he could feed her by hand, and that she was partial to shortbread.
From beneath her lashes, she considered him again.
He rode with the ease of a man accustomed to long hours in the saddle. A man possessing callused hands and familiar with physical labor, too. Not soft, privileged gentlemen such as Benjamin Hampton or Lance Eggleston—fiancés three and four—had been.
As if sensing her perusal, Dugall slid her a swift, unreadable glance and offered an even briefer smile.
His indifference pricked far more than it ought. She’d asked—no, demanded—precisely this distance between them. Theirs was a dispassionate, business association, nothing more. And his compliance ought to gratify rather than trouble.
Given her past, perhaps she’d become a mite overly-sensitive to men’s rebuffs. Surely that explained her discomfiture.
Fiddle sticks and horse feathers.
She was embarrassed about her numerous troths, plain and simple. Any woman in her situation would’ve been.
Dugall had been keen to know more about her failed betrothals, but to his credit, hadn’t pressed her.
Pride, self-preserving or misplaced, had kept her from telling him the whole of it. Rather degrading to have less carnal experience than a man over four years her junior.
Less? She snorted softly. How about none?
But then again, men had always abided by one set of rules while women were expected to adhere to a second, more severe and less fair list of protocols.
Her guardianship was proof of that. She’d been questioned repeatedly about the appointment, most stringently by Uncle Gerard’s solicitor via numerous letters.
Honestly, why he was so bent on uncovering every detail of the guardianship, vexed. The situation was very simple. She was the children’s closest remaining relative. On his deathbed, frail and barely able to hold the quill, Markus had scribbled one sentence naming her guardian. Then, weak as a too-soon-born kitten, he’d slashed his illegible signature. Barely legal, and easily contested.
It really stirred Gwendolyn’s stew that anyone should presume her incompetent or incapable based solely on her gender.
She fretted, hopefully without reason, that a male relative might try to wrest the guardianship from her in order to control Suttford’s lands and monies.
A crafty, greedy guardian—someone of Hollingsworth’s caliber—could bankrupt the estate before Jeremiah was of age, which made it all the more important that Dugall remain for the interim at least.
If they could arrive at a comfortable accord. She wasn’t so certain that could be accomplished now with the current awkwardness between them.
His kisses had been nothing short of divine. However, for the children’s sake, she must control her baser urges. Must not surrender to desire.
One would expect such troublesome immoral tendencies and lascivious inclinations would’ve manifested sooner. Before this—before Dugall—she’d never considered herself wanton or fast. Much easier to resist if the object of her fascination wasn’t so very scrumptious to gaze upon.
“I’ve been betrothed four times.”
Oh, for mercy’s sake. Just blurt it out, why don’t you, Gwendolyn? You have the finesse of a hound in heat.
Dugall slowly turned his head, regarding her with his usual tranquil consideration that immediately calmed her jittery nerves.
“It be none of my business,” he said, matter-of-fact. “As ye made clear last night.”
She had, hadn’t she? Most emphatically, too.
But she didn’t want him thinking she was a flighty flibbertigibbet that couldn’t make up her mind. Or that she was defective in some manner, and men couldn’t abide the notion of actually exchanging vows with her.
“I know.” Lifting a shoulder, she transferred the reins to one gloved hand and scratched above her eye. “Still, I’d not have you think ill of me. I didn’t call an end to any of the arrangements.”
Did that make her sound more moral, or desperate to be married?
She didn’t make commitments flippantly.
Why was she so set upon appearing in a good light to him? Did she seem as pathetic and anxious as she felt?
He angled his head, and his familiar smile worked one side of his mouth. “Just how shallow do you think me, lass?”
Oh, peach tarts and fried okra.
She’d insulted him again.
Disappointment more than anger or annoyance creased the fine lines around his hooded eyes.
Barehanded, his tan skin contrasting with his shirt’s not-so-white cuff, he fingered his coat’s only remaining button.
His face was much improved today. At least the swelling had decreased. But now, ugly purplish-green bruises and scabbed-over scratches marred his complexion on one side.
Still, the injuries couldn’t hide what she’d suspected all along was a face too handsome for words.
Gwendolyn could unequivocally say, she’d never gazed upon a more beautiful man. He outshone her by far. Surpassed most everyone she knew.
A wonder he wasn’t a conceited jackanape.
How do you know he isn’t?
“I apologize if I offended you, Dugall. Honestly though, if our positions were reversed, I confess my interest would be greatly stirred.”
Yes, but would any woman end a betrothal to him? Not unless she was a dafty thing and was missing chairs in her parlor.
He’d piqued more than Gwendolyn’s interest, truth be known. Not that she wanted a catalog of his previous conquests. Horrid notion, that. She’d feel even more inferior, for she didn’t doubt his list would contain more—many more—than four names.
Marigold pulled on the reins, and for at least the fifth or sixth time, Gwendolyn guided the insistent mare away from Bran while giving Dugall a repentant smile.
Was Marigold’s season close? Or did she simply find the stallion as tempting as Gwendolyn found his master?
“My wish,” she said to steer her wayward thoughts from risky territory, “is that we proceed with our professional arrangement with the albatross of my troths out of the way. That is if you still want the position.”
Something, she wasn’t sure if it was annoyance or surprise, flashed in his keen gaze for a fleeting instant, then disappeared with the next blink of his thick-lashed eyes. “I’ll no’ desert ye or yer family. I’ll stay as long as I’m able. Unless ye tell me otherwise.”
Their small entourage emerged from the woods, and a stag bolted from the pines bordering the road. He darted behind the barouche, his sinewy muscles bunching and flexing as he flew past. Gwendolyn stood in her stirrups.
His magnificent canopy of antlers gleaming in the sunlight, he dashed down a grassy slope, gracefully loping to a stop where a bashful doe awaited.
Still standing, she shot Dugall a swift glance. “What kind of animal was that, Dugall? A deer of some sort? I’ve never seen the like.”
Dugall’s mouth skewed into a wide grin, and he rubbed his nose. “Aye. A red stag. They abound around here.”
“He’s beautiful.” She sat once more and returned his smile. �
�I’m rather liking Scotland more than I anticipated I would.”
“I’m glad, lass. And I do want to continue with our arrangements. I didna tell ye last night, but Hollingsworth was eavesdroppin’ outside yer chamber. I don’t know how much he might’ve seen or heard.”
Heat, hotter than the gates of hell scorched her, immediately followed by a spine-rattling chill.
“Do you think he saw us?” She pinched the reins. All she needed was a scandal straightaway.
Dugall shrugged. “I honestly canna say.”
“You’ve slipped into Scots again,” she said with a droll smile.
“Habit, lass. It comes much more naturally to me.”
“Then why not just talk that way? I’m from the south, and I’d find it near on impossible to talk like a Northerner. Having to watch the pronunciation of every word. It seems unnatural.” She gave him a cheeky grin. “I give you permission to speak Scots in my presence. But not Gaelic. I don’t understand most of it.”
“Thank ye.” Brow elevated, he laughed, a rich, warm sound.
She drew in a bracing breath. “Now for that other matter.”
Chapter 11
A wave of uncertainty snarled Gwendolyn’s emotions. Trusting didn’t come easily to her.
“Gwenny, ye dinna have to tell me. Ye dinna owe anyone an explanation about your betrothals.” Kindness emanated from Dugall.
“Oh, I was referring to Hollingsworth listening to our conversation. How much do you think he heard, anyway?” Had she been aware of his existence before today, she’d have taken precautions to make sure he couldn’t easily wrest the guardianship from her. Now it was too late.
Why hadn’t Mr. Christie mentioned Hollingsworth? The other residents at Suttford House? Odd, that. Suspicious even, if a person were of a pessimistic bent. Which she wasn’t. Until recently.
“I canna say, but I’ll guarantee he’s no’ beyond usin’ anythin’ against ye if it gives him the slightest advantage.”
Seductive Surrender (Highland Heather Romancing a Scot Series Book 6) Page 9
