Aileen was now more convinced than ever that Tara would be making the gravest mistake of her life if she married Mr. Stephens.
He didn’t care for Tara, just as Geoff had not cared for her. If it was within her power to stop this marriage, she would.
And how dare he challenge her? He thought he was so quick, but she saw through him. He didn’t value Tara, not in the way she should be cherished.
Right now, Tara was emotional, afraid. This talk about love had confused her. That is why she needed Aileen’s support. The brain was a far better barometer of the future than something as fickle as a heart.
Filled with a new determination, Aileen set off to find Tara. She assumed her sister was with their father. However, an inquiry of Ingold revealed the earl was in the kitchen. He did not know where Lady Tara was.
Assuming Tara had to be with the earl, Aileen marched down the stairs to the kitchen. Fortunately, she had the good sense to wait on the stairs a moment before charging into the room. Listening carefully, she realized that the earl was in the process of eating Cook’s pork pies by the handful and washing them down with copious amounts of cider. Cook was giggling with glee over his effusive praise of her “good Scottish cooking” while she assured him they were all pleased to have him home.
“So much for planning a wedding,” Aileen muttered under her breath, quietly backing up the stairs. She continued her search.
But Tara was nowhere to be found. Aileen even walked to the stables.
And Aileen began to worry.
Her sister was not acting herself—first running away, then changing her mind this way and that about the marriage. Who knew what she was about now?
Eventually, Aileen looked where she should have started—Tara’s bedroom. Her sister was there. Through the closed door, Aileen heard her crying, low, muffled sobs, as if her heart was breaking.
Aileen knocked.
The crying stopped.
“Tara, please, we must talk.”
There was no answer.
Aileen leaned toward the door. “Please, Tara, let me in. I can help.” She wanted to help.
She waited, expecting the door to open.
It didn’t, nor did Tara say a word . . . and Aileen felt slighted. Her goal wasn’t to make Tara feel worse. They were sisters, and she had Tara’s best interests in her heart—
A door did open, but not the one she had anticipated.
No, the door that opened was to Mr. Stephens’s room only two doors down the hall, and the man himself poked his head out. He had removed his coat and waist coat, and his neck cloth was undone.
Aileen was a bit startled to see him that way, as well as embarrassed to think he might have overheard her pleading.
“Is something the matter?” he asked.
“No, nothing,” Aileen said, a trifle too quickly. “I have a message for my sister.”
“Warning her away from me?” he suggested.
“Of course not,” she lied.
At that moment, Tara blew her nose in the most unbecoming manner. Not even Annefield’s strong doors or thick walls could hide the sound. She’d never been an attractive crier. Even when she was a child, the whole household always knew when she was distressed. She chased her nose blowing with hiccupping sobs.
Mr. Stephens’s brows rose to his hairline even as he tried to stifle a laugh.
A dimple. He had a deep one in his left cheek. Its appearance surprised Aileen, because, well, she didn’t want to notice charming little quirks about him. She wanted him gone, out of their lives.
And he knew it, just as he believed there was nothing she could do about his presence. He nodded toward Tara’s door. “Is she reacting to your warning? Or had you warned her yet?”
Hundreds of years of Scottish pride surged through Aileen’s soul. “Are you mocking us, Mr. Stephens?”
He shook his head at the stiffness in her tone, as if he found it amusing. “Why would I ever think of mocking you, Lady Aileen?”
“For the same reason you feel it is safe to challenge me, but I warn you, sir. I will not be patronized.”
“I shall remember that fact, my lady,” he promised, turning as the door leading to the back stairway opened. A man of slight build and a meticulous air entered the hall. Several garments were draped over his arm, and there was no doubting he was Mr. Stephens’s valet. He glanced at her, then went about his business, entering the room.
“Until dinner, Lady Aileen,” Mr. Stephens said. He followed his man, shutting the door behind him.
“He didn’t offer a bow or a nod of his head or an ‘I beg your pardon,’” Aileen muttered to herself. “The man is as high-handed as a duke . . . or a bastard.”
Her conclusion was punctuated by another bout of Tara’s heartbroken snuffles.
“You will make yourself sick if you keep this up,” Aileen warned her through the door.
The answer was more boo-hooing, and Aileen felt drained.
Even if she could gain admittance, Tara was in no condition to listen to her. Indeed, Tara was probably done for the night. She would take a tray in her room, and Aileen would be forced to suffer through an evening with her obnoxious sire and a houseguest too full of himself.
For a second, she debated asking for a dinner tray herself, but she knew that Mr. Stephens would believe she was avoiding him. He seemed to take a mildly perverse pleasure in goading her. So far, she had held her own, but she’d only known him less than two hours. Undoubtedly he would grow more insufferable with longer acquaintance. Men with an overabundance of confidence usually did . . . but her pride would not let her cry quarter.
She went to her room.
It had been ages since Aileen had “dressed” for dinner. With just herself in the house, she’d had little use for formalities. She wondered where Ellen, the upstairs maid, was. The girl usually checked with Aileen each evening before she left. Tonight was the first time Aileen could truly use help.
She went to her wardrobe and chose a gown of pale peach muslin she hadn’t worn since the days of her marriage. The gown was trimmed in a dark green ribbon that contrasted nicely with the dress and her coloring. It took a few more minutes to find the finely woven stockings she used to wear in London.
In London. Those days seemed so long ago. She had told herself that she had not missed the city, and she hadn’t . . . until now. Yes, her heart was in Scotland, but she also relished life in town. She’d forgotten how much.
Aileen set to dressing, taking more care than was her custom. There was a certain reverence in dressing properly. But she was also honest enough to admit she did not want Mr. Stephens to consider her dowdy. After all, family pride was at stake.
She was dressed and massaging lotion into hands roughened by gardening when a knock sounded on the door.
“Come in,” Aileen called, hoping it would be Tara.
Instead, Ellen entered.
“I’m sorry I’m so late, my lady,” the maid said. She was of Aileen’s age, with pale blonde hair she kept neatly hidden in a mobcap.
“That is fine. There have been so many unexpected changes today.”
“Very true, my lady. Is there anything you need of me?”
“Please help me with my hair,” Aileen instructed, sitting down before the mirror at her dressing table. “It’s been so long since I’ve done anything but knot it at the nape of my neck, I’ve forgotten where to put the pins or even if I own them.”
“You own them, my lady,” Ellen assured her. She took a box of hair fripperies from a draw in the dressing table and set to work. However, after a few minutes of Ellen combing and tugging at her hair, Aileen began to lose patience.
“Don’t fuss overmuch,” Aileen told Ellen. “It is almost the dinner hour, and I need to see to the details. Plus, I should check on my sister before I go downstairs.”
Ellen paused, holding a twisted strand of Aileen’s hair in her hand. “Lady Tara has already gone downstairs for dinner. I came to you as soon as I’d finished with her.”
“She’s gone down to dinner?” Aileen repeated dumbly.
“Aye, my lady. She had me help her dress.”
“But . . . she was very upset,” Aileen protested, trying to reason the matter out. “She was overwrought.”
Ellen thought a moment and said, “She appeared well to me. Well, her eyes were a bit swollen, but you know how it is when you are young. What would linger on our faces disappears from theirs. She told me she wished to please her intended. She wanted to make him feel as if he was marrying the loveliest girl in the valley, and she was a fetching sight when I finished with her, although that isn’t difficult to achieve when one has Lady Tara’s looks.”
“No, it isn’t,” Aileen said, distracted. Her sister was surprising her. She was far more resilient than Aileen credited her for. She also acted as if what Aileen thought was of no consequence—well, unless she was in trouble.
And she was already downstairs.
For some reason that Aileen could not quite define, that last thought annoyed her most.
“Thank you, Ellen. I’ve decided I don’t want much done with my hair after all.”
“Let me gather it up on top of your head and give it a bit of style the way Lady Tara instructed me,” Ellen said eagerly. “She said the fashion is all the rage in London.”
“And I especially don’t wish that,” Aileen answered, waving the maid away and twisting her hair herself into a quick knot at the nape of her neck. She stuck three pins in it and announced, “It shall be fine.” She was uncertain if she was speaking to the maid or to buoy her own spirits.
She rose from the table, forced a smile for Ellen’s benefit, and left the room.
There was no mistaking the matter, Aileen thought as she went downstairs: Tara was avoiding her—and it hurt. They were sisters, yet how well did they truly know each other anymore? The bond was there, but was it strong or a mere thread of memories past?
As Aileen reached the bottom step, she once again had that sense that life was happening somewhere else, to someone else. There had been a time when she’d come down these steps and her family had been waiting for her.
Now they were gathered in the front receiving room, and by the conversation about pork pies and racehorses, no one had noticed she was missing.
Aileen walked to the doorway.
This room was usually the first to greet visitors to Annefield. It was decorated in cream and greens. Portraits of Davidson ancestors looked down from their places on the wall. A pianoforte took up one corner of the room, and the seating was designed for comfort, but with a stately elegance.
The earl, dressed as if for dining at his London club, was pouring a glass of whisky at the table set up for such things. Because of the cool night air, a small fire burned in the hearth. Mr. Stephens, his attire more fitting for a country evening, with tall boots and an excellently tailored green wool coat, stood in front of it. At his elbow was Tara.
She looked especially lovely this evening in a gown of blue gauze the delicate color of a robin’s egg, and a finely woven shawl over her shoulder. She’d had her shining curls styled high on her head so that they fell artlessly down to her shoulders. She looked young, fresh and vibrant.
And there wasn’t one sign of her earlier tears in the way she smiled adoringly up at her betrothed.
Aileen suddenly felt very provincial. Dowdy, even . . . and wished she had let Ellen play with her hair.
Tara saw her first. “Here’s my sister. I am so glad you are here, Aileen. I’m famished, and Cook has promised to serve venison. That’s your favorite dish, isn’t it, Mr. Stephens? I requested it for that reason.”
There was a breathlessness to her voice, a forced eagerness. It was the sound of a woman pleasing a man, and it tugged at Aileen’s heart. Women should not feel as if they had to pretend. That was one of the lessons she’d learned from the horror of her marriage.
No pretense, not for her, not anymore.
A step behind her warned her that Ingold approached. She turned as he formally announced, “The dinner is served.”
This simple formality annoyed Aileen. Even when she had guests, Ingold did not “announce” dinner. They were simple Scottish folk, and Mr. Stephens was a bastard. He might act like the duke himself, but he wasn’t. He did not need dinner “announced.”
She took charge of the room. If they were going to be staid, then she would be the staidest. “Shall we proceed to the dining room?” she drawled out in London formality.
Tara slid her arm into the crook of Mr. Stephens’s. “This way, sir,” she said, her voice cajoling, tempting. “You will escort me, won’t you?”
Aileen wanted to roll her eyes. Of course he would. There were only four of them in the room.
What happened to women when they were around men? Why did they think men couldn’t see through such pandering? And why wasn’t that true? She’d played the game herself, and she’d not met one man who hadn’t wished to be flattered—
“Daughter?” the earl said, interrupting her ranting thoughts.
Aileen tore her attention from the ninnyhammer her sister had become to see her father offering his arm. “Since we are being formal?” he said. He had added his own fawning drawl, aping the tone she had used.
She placed her hand on his arm. “She shouldn’t work so hard to try and impress him.”
“Hard?” her father echoed.
“Yes, having Ingold announce dinner and the like.”
“I’m the one who insisted upon that. You’ve been languishing in Scotland for so long, you’ve forgotten fine manners. Or what is expected of a lady dressing for dinner. Your hair is a mess.”
She wanted to retort that his breath smelled of pork pies. “I didn’t have a choice about ‘languishing in Scotland,’ Father,” she said tightly. “You banished me here, remember?”
“I sent you home.”
She shrugged away his denial and released his arm to walk into the dining room on her own.
The dining room walls were a soft gold so that the carved marble fireplace stood out. The smell of well-prepared food scented the air. The table had belonged to Aileen’s mother. The dishes and silverware had been part of the dowry she’d brought to her marriage to the earl of Tay.
When Aileen was first married, she had been resentful that her father would not let her have these things. Now she was thankful. Geoff would have kept them in the divorce.
The leaves had been left out of the table so that it seated four cozily. The earl took his place and instructed Mr. Stephens to sit opposite him. Ingold saw to the earl’s chair while Simon, who served as stable lad, kitchen boy, or footman as the occasion warranted, pulled out Aileen’s chair. Mr. Stephens gallantly seated Tara himself.
Tara dominated the conversation during dinner. She flirted outrageously, or so it seemed to Aileen. Granted they hadn’t spent any time together for three years, but this false laugh, this coy tilt of the head, this silly banter could not be Tara.
And Aileen wanted to say as much. She tried to keep her attention on her food, to ignore what was happening. It was not her business—even if it did fill her with foreboding. She’d been this foolish once. She’d gone after Geoff. She’d wanted him desperately, and when he’d asked for her hand, she’d been as proud as any hunter who had bagged a rabbit.
Of course that was before she’d learned Geoff’s parents and her father had arranged the whole matter. All she’d had to do was act insipid and obey instructions like a lamb to the slaughter.
For his part, the earl kept signaling for his wineglass to be refilled. The candlelight reflected on the sheen of his face. There was pallor to him, and, for the first time since his arrival, Aileen noticed he was looking a bit unkempt. He had not changed his neck cloth, and it was stained from the pork pies, or perhaps some other eating adventure.
Meanwhile, Mr. Stephens was the epitome of the discreet guest. He answered Tara when necessary, referred a few remarks toward Aileen, and deferred to the earl in the most flattering way possible.
Aileen found him completely intolerable.
The meal finally ended with the earl suggesting, “Why don’t my daughters retire to the sitting room while Stephens and I enjoy our port?”
“Excellent idea,” Aileen said, jumping to her feet, anxious to end this interminable meal.
Her sister held her seat. “Can’t we stay?”
Through groggy eyes, the earl looked at her as if she was daft for making the suggestion.
“Very well,” Tara said with a little pout of her lips. “Don’t linger long.” She placed her folded napkin beside her plate and gracefully rose. “We’ll be in the sitting room with sweetmeats to settle our dinner.” There was a definite purr to her tone on the word “sweetmeats.” “Hurry to join us.”
“I shall,” Mr. Stephens answered, an equal warmth in his voice, and Aileen squelched a strong desire to scream.
Instead, she led the way out of the room. At last she had her chance to speak to Tara. Simon closed the dining room doors behind them.
However, before they reached the privacy of the sitting room, Tara confronted her. “Don’t lecture,” she said, a warning finger raised at Aileen. “Don’t say one word.”
Startled by the attack, Aileen said, “What makes you believe I wish to lecture you?”
Tara made an impatient sound and walked into the sitting room, where candles and a lamp had already been lit for them. The furniture was more worn and designed for comfort, for a family to gather and relax. In one corner was a small table with two chairs and a chess game already in play.
“Your thoughts can be plainly read on your face,” Tara said. “You are so grim, so stiff-necked.”
“I have good posture,” Aileen said, guilty as charged.
Her sister waved her words away. “I know you feel this marriage is wrong—”
“You love another man, enough to run away from this one—”
“Would you keep your voice down?” Tara demanded in a furious whisper. “And my feelings for Ruary no longer matter, because he is marrying someone else. I’ve accepted I must face a different future. It’s been hard—”
“You have been sobbing your eyes out—”
“And I will again. I know it is my fault I lost him. I should mourn. What I don’t understand is your change of heart. When I first arrived, you were scandalized I’d run away.”
“That is because I did not know the full story.”
Tara made an impatient sound. “It is not your life, Aileen. It is mine.”
“And you seem intent on making a muddle of it.”
Tara opened her mouth to retort, but a footstep in the hall warned them that someone was coming. A moment later, Mrs. Watson entered the room carrying a tray with cake, nuts, cheese and sherry.
If she’d heard any of the argument between the sisters, she didn’t let on, but then the housekeeper was a sly one. She knew secrets about the family that Aileen could only imagine.
“Will there be anything else?” Mrs. Watson asked.
“That is all,” Aileen and Tara both started to answer and then exchanged glances. Here, too, was another battle brewing between them, one for authority of the house.
Mrs. Watson gave a small curtsey and left.
There was a moment of silence, then Tara said, “I’m accustomed to being the hostess for Father. That is the way it was in London.”
“Well, I plan the menus here,” Aileen answered, needing to exert her authority.
Tara sat on the settee and poured sherry. “I shall remember that the next time I make a request for a guest,” she murmured, using Mr. Stephens as her excuse to tromp on Aileen’s role at Annefield.
“Perhaps we should discuss the matter with Father?” Aileen dared her, albeit certain the earl would rule in favor of Tara.
Tara flounced back against the settee, holding her sherry. “No, Aileen, don’t. And I don’t want bad blood between us. I won’t be here that long. Mr. Stephens will take me back to London as soon as we are married.” She pushed a loose curl back in place. “I can’t wait.”
And she would leave, very soon, Aileen realized. Life would always take them in opposite directions. She sat in the chair opposite Tara. “I don’t mean to lecture.”
Tara frowned at some point in the far corner.
“I just fear for you,” Aileen confessed.
“You needn’t. Blake is not Geoff.”
“I know that . . . but marriage is hard.”
“For some,” Tara said, bringing her full attention back to Aileen. She ran her free hand over the textured brocade of the settee cushion. “I know what is expected of me. You needn’t worry.”
“But I shall.”
“Only because you choose to do so. Aileen, we are sisters, but you are not responsible for me. Not any longer. You haven’t been for years.”
“There is still a connection between us. There always will be.”
Before Tara could comment, a sound of shuffling feet and the grunts and groaning of their father came from the hall. He sounded like a bawling calf.
Both women hurried to the door in time to see the earl being carried by Ingold and Simon up the stairs. Mr. Stephens stood by the dining room door. He was wiping his hands with a napkin, as if he had helped with the earl.
Aileen looked to him in askance. “The port did him in,” Mr. Stephens said diplomatically to her unspoken question.
Bodily suspended between Ingold and Simon, the earl roused himself enough to slur, “Aileen, I’ve decided we are going to treat Stephens to a hunt. I need it organized.”
“Pheasant? Deer?” she asked, needing direction.
“Fox,” her sire said grandly. “Stephens likes being out with the horses. And what better way for us to introduce him to the locals than a hunt. Plan it all, plan it all. Highland wedding and all,” he babbled before being carried to the top of the stairs and around the corner.
“Pheasant and deer would be fine,” Mr. Stephens said quietly. “Anything, truly.”
“Good,” Aileen answered, more concerned for her parent than hunting.
“He had a seizure,” Mr. Stephens explained. “It was momentary, but not a good thing to happen.”
“Seizure?” Tara asked.
“Yes, he started shaking and then seemed to lose consciousness for the briefest moment.”
Aileen nodded numbly. The eating, the gambling, the drinking . . . the earl’s behavior was not wise. She told herself her alarm wasn’t because she cared for the earl. She wanted to think her motive selfish; after all, if something happened to him, what would happen to her?
His heir was her uncle, her cousin Sabrina’s father. As kind as Sabrina was, he was the opposite. Since the scandal of the divorce, he was one of those in the valley who refused to speak to her.
Then again, the way her father was going, there would be nothing left of the estate to inherit.
Mr. Stephens walked past her into the sitting room. Tara stood to one side of the door, her head bowed and her thoughts her own.
“Thank you for seeing to Father’s welfare,” Aileen said.
“Not a problem.” Mr. Stephens had wandered over to the chessboard. He studied the board a moment, then asked, “Whose game is this?”
But before Aileen could answer, Tara roused herself from her contemplation to say, “I believe I am for my bed as well. It has been an exhausting day.” Without so much as a by-your-leave to Aileen or Mr. Stephens, the man she vowed she wanted, she muttered, “Good night,” and was gone.
And Aileen was left with their guest.
“I imagine with your travel from London you are fatigued as well,” she said.
He looked up from the chessboard with a distracted air. “Ah, yes, well, of course . . . except this game is almost a draw. At least it was until I threatened the queen.”
“You moved a piece?” Aileen’s attention had been on Tara’s leaving and not on him.
“It seemed sensible.”
Aileen felt annoyed. “That is not your game, and moving a player without permission is rude.”
“Ah, rude,” he repeated offhandedly. “You have accused me of that already once today. Or has it been twice?”
“I’ve not spoken those words,” Aileen countered.
“You don’t need to, my lady. Every thought that crosses your mind can be read plainly on your face, especially when you are annoyed.”
“I have not been annoyed,” she retorted, disconcerted by the accuracy of his accusations.
“Irritated then,” he amended, his attention already returning to the study of her chess game, his hand moving toward a piece.
Seeing what he intended, Aileen rushed forward. “If you take the queen, you place the black king in jeopardy.”
“Your game?”
“Yes, on both sides.”
“You are playing yourself,” he said with a touch of respect. “No wonder the board appeared evenly matched. Well, it isn’t any longer. If I follow your thinking, I move this bishop—”
“Unnecessarily risking him,” she pointed out.
“He is worth the risk,” Mr. Stephens said and moved the black player.
“And I take him with a lowly pawn,” she answered in triumph, claiming his piece.
“He’s not a loss. I’m not fond of church members,” he said as he moved his rook.
She smiled, she had anticipated this move—
No, she hadn’t.
Aileen stared at the board, frowning. She started to move a piece and couldn’t.
“Check . . . and mate,” Mr. Stephens said in a low, satisfied voice.
Aileen frowned. “I’ve studied this board for hours. That move was not there.” He had to have moved some of the pieces when she hadn’t noticed.
Then again, all looked as she had left it.
“Playing one’s self is never a challenge,” he observed.
“And you know this because . . .”
“It makes sense. But also,” he continued, resetting the board, “I’ve done it often enough.” He looked up at her, and she realized that in her surprise over losing the game so easily, she had moved close to him. Too close.
Almost without conscious thought, his gaze drifted over her, to her shoulders, her breasts, her mouth . . . and there it lingered.
A bolt of lightning could not have been more devastating to her.
She’d struggled so hard to tame yearning needs—and yet here they were, hungry from a long famine of denial and responding to just the hint of desire from him.
There was a darkness in his brown eyes, a mystery that appealed to something deep inside her. Something best kept buried.
She knew what she wanted, and she knew he was open to her as well. The pull of attraction had been swirling around them from the moment they’d met—but this man belonged to her sister.
The thought brought her to sanity.
She practically fell back, as if needing to physically pull herself away from him.
Mr. Stephens gave a start and reacted as if he was startled by his response as well. Or, at least, that is what she wanted to believe, and she knew she shouldn’t. Men were wolves. She must never forget that.
“You are to marry my sister, sir,” she whispered. “Do not insult me.”
He shook his head as if her charge offended, yet he did not refute it. “I don’t plan seduction. I assure you, Lady Aileen, that was a momentary lapse on my part. I’m as taken aback as you are.”
She denied his words in her own mind. How many men had assumed she would be easy prey? Many had tested her. Of course, that was because they’d all believed the evidence that had been presented at the Crim Con trial. It had never crossed anyone’s mind, including her friends’ and confidantes’, to doubt that which had been presented in court or the adultery to which she’d been pronounced guilty.
Then again, they could never have imagined how far a woman would go to escape a marriage that had become prison.
Aileen backed away from him. He watched her, a question in his eye, but he did not follow. He did not command . . . and, to her incredulity, she was not afraid of him.
At the door, she said, “Good night, Mr. Stephens.” She spoke as a formality, a civility.
Instead of answering in kind, he responded, “I will tell you something, and you will not thank me for it.”
Aileen didn’t know what to do with such a claim. She had one step out the door. She was ready to leave. “Then don’t tell me,” she replied, proud of herself.
“Very well—”
She raised a hand. “Tell me.” She couldn’t help herself. Curiosity was one of her sins. Besides, he’d expected her to ask.
He smiled. He’d anticipated her reaction, but his gaze was serious as he said, “You are not responsible for the world.”
He was wrong. “I know that.”
“No, you don’t—yet. Your sister will do as she wishes. Your father will be who he is. The only person you must please is yourself.”
“And what of the bonds of family, Mr. Stephens? Of clansmen?”
“By all means, continue to worry about everyone else,” he said, raising his hands as if to show he played no tricks. “You obviously have complete power over each and every one of them.”
Of course, he knew she didn’t. Tara had become a willful minx, and the earl was as he’d always been—careless.
“But I must try,” she found herself saying. “Without family, what are we?”
“A bastard,” he commented, the word heavy with self-irony.
Aileen could feel the frown on her forehead. He didn’t understand. He was male, and he couldn’t begin to comprehend the weight resting on her shoulders.
But for a mere second, a part of her wanted to embrace his advice, to allow Tara the freedom to ruin her life if she chose or to even allow herself to forgive the earl for all the things he wasn’t and never could be.
However, if she did that, if she released the tension that had become her constant companion for so long and tossed aside the regrets etched on her soul, who would she be then? A person could not escape her past . . . although Penevey’s bastard had. She’d known the duke had rescued him from the streets. However, the man who stood in front of her was accepted in most of London’s drawing rooms.
“We can’t all be like you,” she replied, sounding petulant to her own ears, although that was all she could offer. She left the room and half expected him to pursue.
Perhaps she wanted him to pursue.
But he didn’t.
No footstep fell in the hallway behind her. And once she reached the sanctuary of her bedroom, she did not have a sense that he was lying in wait, breathing against the door, ready to attack.
Ellen did not wait up to undress her. Aileen never expected her maid to do that, especially in the country. As she unlaced her dress, she caught a glimpse of herself in the candlelight reflecting off her looking glass. Her color was high, her eyes large, wondering.
Mr. Stephens’s advice echoed in her ears. Or was it her own far too passionate nature pushing her toward him and disaster, and consequently giving his opinion more importance than it warranted?
She’d learned the hard way not to trust herself.
Aileen climbed into her bed and pulled the covers over her head. A few moments later, she surprised herself by falling into a deep, dreamless sleep, the deepest she’d had since those days when she had been an innocent girl who had still believed in love.
Blake held the white queen up to the light.
What the bloody hell was the matter with him?
He could be as great a rascal as any other man, but he had some sense of honor and a code of conduct. He didn’t like affairs. They involved too many loose ends, and he was not a rash man. He prided himself on always being in control.
There had been a time in his life when he’d been treated as if he’d been of no consequence. Even now, there were times when he was dismissed as a by-blow, an afterthought. It rankled that the duke’s acknowledgement of his parentage opened doors that Blake felt should have been available to him on his own merit. He was Penevey’s oldest, damn it all.
And a bit of his need to prove himself had been behind his pursuit of Lady Tara.
But it was her sister that captured his imagination . . . in a way no other woman had before.
And he’d just met her.
Blake carefully returned to what he had started, setting up the chessboard, but with one difference. He placed the white queen in the middle of the game.
In the square confronting hers, he positioned the black king.
For a second, he debated moving the two pieces, then he decided to let them stay.
He would not act upon his attraction to Aileen Hamilton. He would marry her sister because that was what was expected of him. He’d fought to be considered a gentleman. A man’s reputation was the most fragile thing he owned.
And no woman should matter that much.
Especially one he’d just met.
Blake went to bed then. What else was there to do here in the wilderness of Scotland?
He expected to fall asleep. He was tired from travel and the weary contemplation of his future. He would have a beautiful wife, and his children, his sons, would be accepted everywhere. Besides, he always slept well, the result of a clear conscience.
Except this night, his peace was broken by fitful dreams of a pair of gray-blue eyes and the possibility of scandal.