An Unexpected Gentleman (36 page)

“I don’t know the first thing about purchasing a horse. Do stop waving your hand about, George. It’s food, not a sailboat.”

“The stable master will advise you.”

“Where’s the map?” Gregory asked.

“The stable master has advised me. He suggested I ride the nag.”

Connor pushed a paper toward Gregory. “I’ll speak with him.”

“I don’t wish for you to speak with him.”

“Not that map. The other one.”

“There is no another one,” Graham put in.

“I wish for you to speak with me about what sort of horse I ought to buy.”

“I’ll be happy to, as soon as I’m done here.”

“I would rather you set this aside—”

“This one has black ink. I want the one with blue—”

“George, will you
please
—”

Too late, she recognized her error in bringing George into the study. His fingers squeezed the half-eaten pastry, and an enormous glob of pudding shot out of the center. Adelaide watched in helpless horror as it sailed toward Connor’s desk and a piece of paper she was almost certain Gregory had referred to a moment ago as “the key.” It landed with a thick splat, and Adelaide swore she could feel the force of its impact under her feet. Or perhaps that was the shock of her heart colliding with her toes.

Oh, no. Oh,
no
.

She stared, unblinking, at the mess, and knew with awful certainty that everyone else in the room was doing the same. The men said not a word, moved not an inch. Even George seemed to understand the enormity of what had just occurred. He’d gone stiff and still as a tin soldier in her arms.

Slowly, and with great reluctance, she dragged her gaze up to face Connor, but he was still looking at the desk. She searched for something to say, some way to fill the terrible silence, but nothing seemed adequate. What if the damage was irreparable? What if the paper was irreplaceable? It had to be important. It wouldn’t have been on top otherwise. Her heart threatened to beat its way out of her chest. Revenge was Connor’s world; it was all he wanted, everything he had worked for. And she’d let a toddler drown it in pudding.

“Connor, I—”

She broke off with a start when Connor moved. Very quietly, and very deliberately, he dipped his finger into the center of the goop, taking away a sizable amount. His eyes lifted to George’s. And then, to her absolute astonishment, Connor stuck the finger in his mouth and pulled it out again with a small pop.

“Manna from the sky,” he said and winked at her.

George couldn’t have understood the words, but he knew that eating fallen food—with one’s fingers no less—was the height of silliness, and a definitive naughty. Or he simply liked the popping noise. Whatever the cause, he threw his head back and roared with laughter. He trembled and shook in her arms, his small body struggling to contain the magnitude of his glee.

That alone was enough to turn Adelaide’s heart over, but what struck her deepest, what took her breath away, was the expression on Connor’s face. He looked enormously proud of himself. Proud, delighted, and a little bit stunned. All because he’d made a little boy laugh.

And in that moment, Adelaide fell hopelessly, irrevocably in love.

The realization was stunning, and for a woman already contending with a considerable stun, it proved debilitating. Her heart galloped, the air backed up in her lungs, and her mind turned to mush.

She could do nothing more than look at Connor and make the patently absurd offer of, “I’ll clean it.”

Connor shook his head and pushed the paper to Michael. “I’ll send a letter to Lord Gideon at Murdoch House today, and we can visit tomorrow. I wager he has a horse to suit you.”

Horses? He wanted to speak of horses?

“I . . . Thank you. I’ll just . . .” She backed away, hiding a wince when Connor came around the desk to gently take her arm.

“I am sorry,” she whispered, as he led her to the door. “Truly, I am. I know how much this matters to you. I’ll get you another.”

“You don’t know what it is.”

“It’s the blue map,” Gregory muttered from his seat.

Oh, she wanted to sink into the floor and take what remained of George’s pastry with her. “I am sorry. So very—”

Connor gave her a gentle nudge, gently propelling her over the threshold. She’d have taken the opportunity to bolt, but his next words, spoken softly, stilled her feet.

“Do you know the real reason I didn’t make you my mistress, Adelaide?”

Was there a false one? She shook her head.

“For the same reason I’m not angry about the pudding. You matter.”

And after imparting that astounding bit of information, he closed the door.

Adelaide stared blindly at the wood grain in front of her until George grew impatient and began to fuss. Slowly, she began to walk down the hall.

It was hardly a declaration of love, and heaven knew, she could have done without having it punctuated with a door shut in her face—but still . . .

It was lovely. The initial panic she’d felt in realizing her feelings for Connor slid away. Uncertainty remained, but it was tempered with hope. Connor might not love her, but she mattered, and that was a fine start. It wasn’t foolish to believe a fondness might grow into something more. It wasn’t imprudent to have fallen in love with a man who cared for her. It was dazzling and exciting.

She felt bold and reckless and brimming over with hope . . . Until she spoke to the housekeeper nearly eight hours later and discovered no missives had been sent to Lord Gideon at Murdoch House.

Connor had forgotten. She’d tried not to draw any conclusions from the news. After all, he was not the first person on earth to have forgotten something. Life was rife with distractions. Only last year, she’d carried a squirming, squalling George halfway back from the village before remembering she’d left Isobel waiting at the butcher’s. In truth, she’d only remembered then because she’d reached into her pocket for something with which to distract George and pulled out one of Isobel’s hair ribbons.

Everyone was susceptible. Everyone needed a reminder now and again. She’d remind him when he came to bed, he’d be suitably contrite for having forgotten, the letter would be sent, and that was that.

She fell asleep waiting for him, and she awoke alone the next morning with only the vaguest memory of him crawling into bed with her during the small hours of the morning and crawling out again at dawn.

It was disappointing, but she refused to give up faith. Connor would remember, she was sure.

But as the hours passed and Mrs. McKarnin began to deliver the news—in increasingly sympathetic tones—that still no missives had been sent to Murdoch House, Adelaide’s patience began to wane.

She found reasons to pass—or to be perfectly accurate, stomp—by the study door. But her efforts were for naught. All she heard were voices pitched low in anger and the single phrase, “The bugger’s run off to devil knows where!”

Oh, she hoped he had. She hoped Sir Robert had fallen into a bog somewhere or taken it upon himself to emigrate to Australia. She was tired of the shadow he cast over their lives and more than ready for Connor to let go of the past and see what was right before him.

It was high time they all ceased tying themselves into knots over Sir Robert.

By noon, when it had become apparent that Connor did not intend to take her to see Lord Gideon’s horses, she decided it was also high time she stopped waiting on Connor Brice to remember she mattered.

T
he bugger had run off to Edinburgh.

Connor left his study with the thrill of the hunt still coursing through his veins. It had taken the better part of thirty-six hours to track down Sir Robert. Nearly two days of frustration and a fortune spent on bribing Sir Robert’s new housekeeper. The woman wouldn’t think of betraying her new master . . . for anything less than a hundred pounds.

Connor couldn’t help but admire the woman’s gall, and he’d paid the price without bothering to barter. Now everything was set, and with a perfection that he could not have planned. Sir Robert’s flight to Edinburgh was a welcomed bit of serendipity. The man sought refuge amongst his own kind. He would dine and dance with Scotland’s elite, gathering his peers around him like stones in a defensive wall.

What a sight it was going to be, to watch those boulders come crashing down on his head.

Connor grinned. Almost,
almost
he had reached his goal. A few more weeks and he would be done with Sir Robert . . . Maybe two months . . . Six at the most . . . He’d revisit his timeline after Edinburgh.

For now, he wanted to savor the pleasure of impending victory with a glass of brandy and the company of his pretty wife.

The first could be had without difficulty. The second was nowhere to be found—a state of affairs Connor had trouble accepting. How could she not be home? What the devil was she doing, running about the countryside by herself? Granted, she wasn’t alone in the strictest sense of the word. According to his butler, Mrs. Brice had taken a maid, a driver, and a pair of footmen. But she wasn’t with
him
, and that was the pertinent point.

Connor had grown accustomed to knowing where she was every minute of the day. Even when he sequestered himself away with his men, all he needed to do was inquire after her whereabouts.

He liked that. He liked knowing he need only look out the window to see her or walk down the hall to speak with her. He liked having her at hand. And wasn’t the convenience of having a lovely woman at hand supposed to be one of the benefits of taking a wife?

She bloody well wasn’t at hand now. And it was damned inconvenient. Worse, not a soul was willing to tell him where, exactly, she’d run off to or how long she intended to be gone. That they
knew
was obvious. That they were unwilling to tell him was equally clear.

This last came from Isobel, who then proceeded to shut her chamber door in Connor’s face.

He stared at the wood, torn between bewilderment and a rising temper. Eventually, the latter won out.

Enough was enough. He lifted a fist and pounded. “I damn well know she’s gone out! Where? What the devil is going on here?”

The only response was the sound of a key turning in the lock. It sent his blood to boiling. Damn if he’d be locked out of a room in his own bloody house! He spun on his heel, intending to find the nearest bellpull and ring for assistance in taking the door off its hinges, but the soft jingle of keys snagged his attention.

“Mrs. McKarnin!”

The housekeeper stepped out of a nearby room and eyed him with poorly concealed distaste, as if he’d stuck his foot in something foul and, like a good and loyal servant, she was doing her utmost not to notice.

Had
everyone
turned against him? “It’s a bloody insurrection.”

“Beg your pardon, sir?”

“Nothing.” He stuck his hand out and wiggled his fingers. “The key to Miss Ward’s chamber.”

She took her sweet time, retrieving her enormous ring of keys from her apron pocket, flipping through the keys, studying each one individually.

Connor tapped his foot, ground his teeth, then tapped his foot some more. “Before nightfall would be—”

“I don’t appear to have it on my person, sir.”

He dropped his hand. “What do you mean, you don’t have it?”

“I remember now. I put it away for safekeeping. What if someone should get hold of the ring, I thought? What if that someone should have wicked intentions?” She sniffed and gave him a long, pointed look. “All precautions must be taken to protect a lady’s virtue.”

“Oh, for the love of . . . I’m not going to ravish my sister-in-law. I merely want a word.”

“I shall look for the key.”

He’d wager a thousand pounds she intended to look for it until Boxing Day. He’d wager a thousand more the damn thing was on her ring.

“Mrs. McKarnin!” He counted to ten as she turned around, then ground out, “Where is my wife?”

“She’s gone out, sir.”

He counted to fifteen. “Where?”

“It was not my place to ask, sir.”

Twenty. “Did she give any indication as to when she might return?”

So help him God, if she failed to answer—

“Before dark, sir.”

His jaw relaxed, just a little. “Thank you. I’ll take the
Review
in my study, now . . . No, the parlor.”

The parlor had more comfortable seating. It also happened to have windows facing both the front drive and the stables, but he refused to acknowledge this as his reason for the change of plans. A man had a right to sit and read the
Edinburgh Review
on his own damn settee.