To Scotland, With Love Read online

  His gaze immediately flickered to Venetia and ran down her from head to toe, leaving the oddest trail of prickly heat and a delicious tickle. Her cheeks suddenly hot, Venetia looked away and found herself facing a rather plain, thin woman wearing a drab gray dress and lackluster pearls.

  The woman immediately dropped into a deep curtsey. “Good evening,” she said in a rather breathless voice. “I am Miss Platt.”

  Venetia curtsied in return. “How do you do? I am Miss Venetia O—”

  “Miss West!” Gregor’s deep voice came from across the room.

  Venetia forced a smile and managed a nod to Gregor, though her heart was still galloping like a shied horse at her near blunder. “Lord MacLean.”

  He bowed. “Miss West, I am sorry to interrupt you, but your brother and I were just making the acquaintance of Mrs. Bloom and her companion, Miss Pl—”

  “Miss West,” Mrs. Bloom said in a loud voice that boomed like artillery fire. “Your guardian just informed me that you live in London. Might I ask what part?”

  A rather superior smirk crossed the woman’s heavy jowls. “I know most of the town, as I’ve lived there for more than twenty years now. I believe I know about everyone, don’t I, Miss Platt?”

  The companion nodded immediately, her gaze darting nervously toward her employer, then away. “Oh, yes,” the lady said in a breathy voice, “Mrs. Bloom knows absolutely everyone in town! I am forever saying that dear Mrs. Bloom is related to half of London and on the guest list of the other half!”

  Venetia’s heart sank. If the woman was indeed an accepted member of society, which was vaguely possible, then they could run into each other at some later time, and the game would be up.

  She sent a cautious glance at Gregor, to see if he recognized the dangers as well, but his urbane smile did nothing to alleviate her fears. He was completely impervious to the situation and the possible outcome. Heart heavy, she mustered a smile and kept her head high. Good God, I shall be ruined after all.

  Chapter 5

  It takes a patient woman to handle an impatient man. Unfortunately, there’s naught that can handle an impatient woman.

  OLD WOMAN NORA FROM LOCH LOMOND

  TO HER THREE WEE GRANDDAUGHTERS ONE COLD EVENING

  R avenscroft cleared his throat, sending Venetia an apologetic glance. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Bloom, but my sister and I spend more time in, ah, Yorkshire than elsewhere. I doubt you would have seen us in London.”

  “Which is entirely my fault,” Gregor said in a serious tone. “I do not approve of the frivolity associated with London. I prefer that my charges spend their time in a more worthy manner, such as reading devotionals or studying Greek.”

  Mrs. Bloom waved a hand. “I am sure that is wise.” She sent a significant glance at Miss Platt. “Like your brother, my dear. There are many as would be led astray in a place like London, if they are not cautious.”

  Miss Platt turned a bright red. “My brother Bertrand was not led astray; he was taken advantage of. That is quite a different thing!”

  Suddenly, Gregor, who had been staring at a far wall, visibly started.

  Everyone turned to look at him.

  He pointed to a painting by the window. “Mrs. Bloom, pray look at that painting and tell me if you think it might be a Vreeland. I daresay with your London experience, you are more familiar with the arts than anyone else here.”

  Venetia frowned. Here she was, on the verge of ruin, and Gregor was discussing art?

  Mrs. Bloom swelled with importance. “Like the prince, I adore the Dutch masters. My late husband, God rest his soul, bought a lovely picture from the king’s own collection just two years ago. It’s hanging in my library even now.”

  Gregor nodded. “You must be an expert, then.” At Mrs. Bloom’s tittered agreement, he added, “Would you be so kind as to examine that picture and give me your opinion if it is a Vreeland?”

  “Of course.” She turned and squinted toward the wall. “But, ah…what picture?”

  Venetia blinked. The picture was as large as a platter. If Mrs. Bloom couldn’t see it, she must be as blind as a bat. Relief flooded Venetia; even if she ran into Mrs. Bloom again, there was a very good chance the older woman wouldn’t recognize her. That was why Gregor had not been upset.

  Mrs. Bloom squinted until her eyes were almost closed as she walked toward the wall. About three feet from it, she straightened. “Ah! That picture! It could indeed be a copy of a Vreeland. He has a light touch.”

  Breathing easier, Venetia sent Gregor a thankful look that caused him to smile slightly and shrug.

  “It’s a lovely pasture scene,” Mrs. Bloom said, returning to their group by the fire. “As peaceful as it looks, I, for one, cannot imagine why anyone would like to live in the country when London has so much more to offer. I spend at least seven months of each year in town, for I cannot abide the countryside more than that.”

  “Oh, I love the countryside,” Venetia said brightly. “Miss Platt, which do you pref—”

  “I only like the Lake Country,” Mrs. Bloom said, not even sparing a glance for her companion.

  As Miss Platt sent Venetia an apologetic smile, Venetia seethed at the older woman’s rudeness. Mrs. Bloom seemed determined to cut poor Miss Platt at every corner. Well, she wouldn’t put up with such nonsense.

  She smiled gently upon Miss Platt. “I do hope you’ll sit by me at dinner, for I’d enjoy speaking with someone who has the same love for country life.”

  Mrs. Bloom gave a rather heavy laugh. “Really, Miss West. There is no need to encourage Miss Platt. She is a town dweller and has frequently said she cannot stand being locked away in the country, either.”

  If Venetia was simmering before, she was boiling now. “Mrs. Bloom, you are the most—”

  “Ah! I hear someone in the passage outside,” Gregor said, placing a hand under Venetia’s elbow and literally strong-arming her away from Mrs. Bloom and toward the table. “Dinner must be coming.”

  Venetia glared at him, but before she could answer, the door opened, and Mrs. Treadwell entered carrying a large tray, followed closely by a large-boned girl with a ruddy. freckled face, an upturned nose, and flaxen curls. “ ’Tis dinner!” the landlady called, setting the platter on the table set for five.

  The girl placed a large soup tureen near the head of the table and grinned broadly. “They’s thick-sliced ham hock, a dish of pickled eggs, a small platter of quail breasts, kippers, some candied pears, and a basket of warm bread. Oh, and there’s soup, too. Parsnip soup, which me mam told me was good fer keepin’ the digestion.”

  Mrs. Bloom peered at the tureen. “I have never heard of parsnip soup.”

  Mrs. Treadwell’s smile faded, a wary look in her eyes. “Elsie made it. Mr. Treadwell says it’s the best he ever ate.”

  Elsie beamed. “Me mam taught me how t’ make it when I was but knee high to a flea!”

  Venetia took her place at the table. “I am quite looking forward to the soup. Nothing could be better in this weather.”

  “Exactly!” Ravenscroft said, rallying to Venetia’s aid.

  She rewarded him with a bright smile, which made Ravenscroft beam at her. Gregor caught this exchange and his gaze narrowed. For a long moment he held Venetia’s gaze, then deliberately turned away. He spoke very little for the rest of the meal and Venetia felt doubly alone. What was wrong with the man? As soon as the meal was over, she was going to find out.

  Dinner was a horrid affair. Mrs. Bloom seemed determined to discover more about Mr. and Miss West, despite Venetia’s best efforts to steer the conversation to safer topics. Though Ravenscroft tried to help, he was simply overwhelmed and far too tired to be of assistance, which left Venetia on her own.

  As the hour progressed, Venetia’s temper grew thinner, especially when Mrs. Bloom began to remind Miss Platt in an arch tone of “the sewing” that waited to be done in their room. Every time Mrs. Bloom mentioned the sewing, some of Miss Platt’s glow faded. Venetia began to i
magine baskets and baskets of neat work waiting for Miss Platt, who was forced to slave away by the light of a single candle late into the night.

  When dinner was finally finished, Mrs. Bloom stood, announcing in a loud voice that she and Miss Platt would be retiring forthwith. Miss Platt did not look happy but obediently put down her fork and rose.

  The moment the door closed behind them, Ravenscroft stretched his arms over his head and yawned. “Thank God they’re gone! I’ve never met such a prosy bore in my life.”

  “Oh, I have,” Gregor said, looking directly at Ravenscroft.

  The youth didn’t notice. “Lord, I was about to fall on the floor in a stupor!” He yawned again, even more mightily. “Excuse me, but the day has caught up with me. I should go to bed.”

  “An excellent idea,” Gregor said. “I will be along in a few moments. I want to check on the horses one last time.”

  Ravenscroft turned to Venetia. He lifted her hand to his lips and placed a gentle kiss on her fingers, smiling at her rather shyly. “I dare not hope that you’ll dream of me.”

  She pulled back her hand, thinking he looked absurdly youthful, far younger than his twenty-two years. Venetia’s heart softened a bit. He was young and very naive. And he looked at her with such hope in his eyes that she couldn’t help but be affected. She smiled. “I’m so tired that if I dream at all, it will be of sleeping.”

  His smile faded, and he added, “I am sorry about this morning. I should have told you what was occurring. I am afraid I didn’t think things through as I should have.”

  She shrugged. “It’s over now. There’s nothing more to be said.”

  Ravenscroft’s eyes darkened. He took an impetuous step toward her, catching her hand once more. “Venetia, I—”

  “That’s Miss Oglivie when the other guests are not present.” Gregor’s voice chilled the room despite the fire blazing in the fireplace.

  Ravenscroft turned a bright red, releasing her hand. He ignored Gregor to say in a stiff voice, “Miss Oglivie, I will speak to you of this later. Meanwhile, I bid you a good night.” With a deep bow to Venetia, followed by a chilly nod in Gregor’s direction, he turned on his heel and left.

  Venetia sent a hard glance to Gregor, who now stood beside the fireplace, one arm resting across the mantel, one hand deep in his pocket. “There was no need for that.”

  He shrugged, his eyes hooded. “The puppy was mauling you.”

  “He was not.” Venetia sighed. “You really should stop teasing Ravenscroft so.”

  “I treat him as he deserves to be treated.” Gregor turned to the fireplace, grabbing the poker and stirring the fire. “Have you forgotten that just this morning he absconded with you?”

  “He is aware that he made an error.”

  “In getting caught.”

  “In thinking I cared about him enough to agree to such a harebrained scheme. Italy indeed.”

  “That got your goat, I noticed.”

  “Especially the part about washing clothes. Oddly enough, I might not mind doing it, provided I wasn’t expected to do it.” She smiled tiredly. “If that makes any sense.”

  “I suppose it does.” He replaced the poker. “You’d do it for love but not for duty.”

  She gave him a wondering look. “Exactly! I can’t believe you understand that.”

  “Why? It’s not so unusual a thought.”

  “Because in all the years I’ve known you, I’ve never once heard you mention love except to say you didn’t believe in it.”

  “I believe in it. For other people.”

  She crossed to the fireplace and held out her hands to the warmth. “But not for you?”

  He gave her a lopsided smile. “One day, perhaps. But I see no use for it now, while I’m young enough to wipe soup from my own chin.”

  She shook her head, laughing a little. “So, to you, love is for the infirm.”

  “And those who are too lazy to make their own happiness.”

  “I don’t know that I agree with you.” She shrugged. “But it won’t be the first time we’ve disagreed.”

  His eyes crinkled with laughter. “And I hope it won’t be the last.”

  “You enjoy arguing?”

  “With you. You have more sense than most.” He crossed his arms over his chest and leaned back against the mantel. “Usually.”

  She smiled, and a warm, comfortable silence fell. The flames crackled merrily, the scent of woodsmoke mingled with the savory aroma of their dinner. It was delightful, standing there with Gregor. After that moment this afternoon of painful…should she call it awkwardness? Or awareness? Whatever it was, it was nice to have things return to normal.

  “I wonder if Ravenscroft will ever write his book,” Gregor said in a musing tone.

  “I wonder if we’ll be in it,” she returned with a rueful grin. “I think I’d make a delightful heroine, but you…” She tilted her head and regarded him thoughtfully. “I’m not sure you have hero qualities.”

  His brows snapped down. “Why do you say that?”

  “You’re anything but a knight in shining armor. Of all the people I know, you’re the last one to move yourself to do something for others.”

  His eyes sparkled, though he shrugged and said, “I rode hell-for-leather through some horrid weather to rescue you, didn’t I?”

  “Yes, but that’s very unusual for you. For a real knight, rescuing maidens would be an everyday event.”

  Gregor bent down until his face was even with hers. The firelight cast a line along his jaw and traced his scar with silver, shadowing his green eyes until they appeared almost black. “Perhaps a true knight saves himself for the right maiden.”

  Venetia’s heart skipped a bit. Why on earth had he said that? Could he mean—She shook herself mentally. This is Gregor. He talks like that to every woman.

  The thoughts calmed her thundering pulse, and she turned away, saying in a breathless tone, “Do you think we’ll be able to leave tomorrow? Or will we be stuck here for another day?”

  Gregor’s brows drew together. He hadn’t meant to say such a thing, but Venetia had looked so appealing, the firelight dancing red across her hair, her face soft as she watched Ravenscroft leave. He didn’t understand her fondness for that fool, but she made an appealing picture when she flashed that reluctant smile.

  He’d never noticed the way she dipped her head a bit when she asked a question or how her lips quivered just before she laughed. In all honesty, he was beginning to notice a lot more about Venetia than he should. But was that such a bad thing? Why shouldn’t he appreciate her unique beauty?

  Perhaps it was because he’d known her since she’d been five and he eight. They’d been guests at a tedious birthday party held for a self-important son of an earl, a spoiled bully who Gregor had been ordered not to challenge to fisticuffs, though he longed to do just that. Miserable, Gregor had been sulking in a corner when he’d found himself standing beside Venetia.

  At five, she was already precocious and just as mutinous as he at being ordered to behave. Her gray eyes had sparkled from beneath a mop of brown curls, her pretty white dress torn and muddied from a scrape she’d fallen into earlier. When the guest of honor had mocked her unruly hair, she’d calmly lifted her foot and kicked him squarely in the shins with such grace and accuracy that Gregor had been left speechless with admiration. The two fell instantly into a deep, lasting friendship that neither time nor the determined efforts of Venetia’s parents had been able to dissuade.

  Twenty-nine years later, Venetia was the same confidante and companion he’d always known, but now he caught a glimpse of the woman who seemed to have enthralled Ravenscroft. It was intriguing, to say the least.

  Perhaps it was a result of discovering Venetia missing and thinking her in danger. That had certainly made him realize how much she meant to him. He smiled at her now, glad she was there and safe. “Are you so tired you must rush up to bed? Or are you awake enough to stay and talk a bit?”

  She
blinked as if surprised, a faint color touching her skin. “I suppose I could stay for a few more moments.”

  “Good.” He reached out and lifted a loose curl that rested on her shoulder.

  She grimaced. “No matter how many pins I use, it never stays where I put it.”

  Her hair slipped between his fingers, silky and soft. “It’s too fine to be held by a mere pin.” His elbow on her pillow, though, that might hold it in place. He had a sudden image of her nude, her hair rippling over her pillows. That would be a sight to enjoy indeed.

  As if his errant thoughts had been spoken aloud, he found himself looking into Venetia’s remarkable eyes. The air around them grew heavy and thick, the heat from the fire seeming to expand to fill the space between them.

  Somehow, he was no longer standing a respectable arm’s length from her. He wasn’t sure who had moved closer, though he suspected it might have been him, drawn like a moth to a flame. She was bare inches from him, her skirts brushing his legs, her eyes wide, her lips parted as if she knew the banked fire that simmered within him.

  Venetia didn’t know what had changed, but something had. She found herself looking up at Gregor, at his mesmerizing green eyes, his firmly carved lips. It would be heavenly to kiss him—heavenly, tantalizing, and forbidden. Yet her body seemed to have silenced her brain and was now leaning precariously toward the rocky cliff that was Gregor.

  One single, slim thought held her back. If she crossed this line, she could very well lose him forever as a friend. She’d seen him go through too many women. He dallied, and the second he thought his current lover was beginning to care too much, he moved on.

  No, she decided reluctantly, trying not to stare at the sensual line of his bottom lip. No matter how beguiling the thought might be, she would not be just another.

  Her entire body suddenly ached, and the events of the day seemed to weigh her down. “I am more tired than I thought; I should go to bed,” she said in a husky voice.