The Lass Wore Black (21 page)

Anne made a quick gesture with her right hand, and Marjorie stood, bobbed her head at him, and skirted the tables to leave the room. Where would she go? The kitchen, where Sarah would no doubt ply her with more tarts and drain her of details? Or to the carriage, where she would wait in frozen anticipation? For her sake, he hoped it was the kitchen. For his sake, the carriage would be better, as long as she had a blanket for her lap and warm mittens.

He stood there, reluctant to approach Anne.

She believed him to be leaning toward marriage. Once, he might have felt the same way, but his sudden reluctance was a ten-foot brick wall. He might have been able to scale it if he truly wished, but he didn’t.

Yet he needed to be honest to one woman, at least.

He’d fought his parents every day for years as he studied to be a physician. Although his father had been more verbal in his attacks, his mother also expressed her disapproval. Should he be so interested in disease? After he’d begun his visits to Old Town, he’d been questioned at length by some of his wealthier patients. Should he be spending his time in such a profitless and gruesome activity? He’d been assaulted twice in Old Town and acquitted himself well enough, only to be scolded by Sarah. What had he been thinking, to venture into that neighborhood?

In all those endeavors, he’d stood his ground, knowing that he was doing the right thing, both for his patients and himself.

This confrontation was different. He had no moral high ground on which to stand.

He sat in the chair Marjorie vacated, waiting. He’d seen the flash of anger in Anne’s red-rimmed eyes. First, however, she’d weep some more, pressing her lace-trimmed handkerchief to the corner of each eye. Then she’d delicately dab at her nose and sigh. She’d look away, then back at him, to ensure he was paying enough attention.

Catriona would have lambasted him immediately, even in the presence of her maid.

Not a good idea, comparing two women.

“You’re upset,” he began, deciding the frontal approach was best.

She looked indignant. “Yes, I’m upset,” she said. “I planned the party with you in mind, Mark. I reminded you more than once. I wanted you there early to greet the guests with me.”

He stared at her blankly.

“You don’t remember?”

She allowed a few more tears to fall.

He shook his head.

“I told you at your grandfather’s birthday. I told you that my parents were having a few friends over for dinner and wanted to introduce you. Except you didn’t appear. How could you?”

“When was this?”

Her eyes narrowed. “Last night.” She wadded up her handkerchief, realized what she was doing, and spread it out between her hands. “I’ve never been so embarrassed in my entire life.”

“I wasn’t here, Anne.”

“I know that. Your housekeeper told me. Why didn’t you tell me? Where were you? Why didn’t you tell me you were leaving Edinburgh?”

“I didn’t realize I was required to inform you of my whereabouts, Anne.”

She frowned at him. Was she annoyed because he’d missed her party or because he wasn’t apologizing to her?

He sat back in the chair, stretching his feet toward the fire. Sleet pinged against the windows. The wind was rising, the sighing becoming a presence in the silence of the room.

She blotted at her eyes.

“We aren’t going to be married, Anne,” he said.

Perhaps he should have regretted the bluntness of his statement, but she needed to realize the nature of their relationship. Once, he might have given some thought to marrying Anne. He wasn’t sure exactly when his opinion had changed.

She fisted her hands, pulling on the handkerchief with such force that he was certain she was going to tear it in two.

“I’m certain I gave you that impression,” he said, knowing he had. “I regret that.”

“You regret that?” Somehow, she managed to instill intense loathing into those three words.

He nodded.

The two spots of color on her cheeks seemed oddly out of keeping with the overall paleness of the rest of her complexion. He wondered if she was feeling well, then realized his concern would not be welcome.

Her brown eyes were not flashing at him now. Instead, they seemed dull and flat, as if she were attempting to conceal what she was feeling. Or perhaps ladylike rage made them appear that way.

“I see you as a friend, nothing more.” Was he making the situation worse with each word? From her look, it seemed he was. “I apologize for forgetting the event, but my patient came first.”

“You were gone because of a patient?” she asked.

Perhaps it wouldn’t be wise to continue that lie.

“I’m not going to explain where I was or why. The nature of our relationship does not mandate that I tell you my whereabouts or ask your permission.”

“What is the nature of our relationship?” she asked, her voice brittle.

“I consider you a friend,” he said.

She stood, impatiently twitching at her skirts.

“You are wrong, Mark. We are not friends. We are, from this moment on, no longer even acquaintances. I shall not greet you in public and I will tell my parents of this meeting, as well as your shameful behavior.”

“Do what you think is best,” he said, watching as she grabbed her cloak and made her way to the door.

Instead of following her, as a proper host and a gentleman, he sat back in the chair, staring at the fire. That was a relationship consigned to the bin.

He hadn’t thought about Anne at all in the last four days. In fact, he’d rarely thought of Anne with any intensity in the last few weeks. Instead, his thoughts had been filled with Catriona.

Stretching out his feet again, he felt the languor that came from fatigue. He needed to go and check on a few patients who concerned him, see Christel, perhaps. If nothing else, he should go and mollify Sarah. Instead, he sat there thinking of his errand and what he’d learned.

Not as much as he wanted, to solve the enigma that was Catriona. Or maybe he was seeing this all wrong. Perhaps she wasn’t the puzzle as much as his behavior was. He’d acted in a way that was alien to him. For the first time, he’d put medicine aside. He’d lost his dispassionate observation. He’d been a fool around her.

The time for his ruse was over. He needed to tell her who he was and get back to his practice full-time.

His reluctance to do so was curious and unsettling.

“I
t was nice for you to come to visit me, Your Grace,” Catriona said. “Especially since the weather is brutal.”

“I would have done so earlier had I known you were still convalescing. I am no stranger to injury, you know.”

The duke had fallen off his horse once, a tale he’d embellished so much that the horse had been portrayed as a wild and unruly beast. Of course, he also explained that he’d been extraordinarily brave during the setting of his broken leg.

“When you didn’t answer my letters, and wouldn’t respond in any way to my man, I knew I had to see you myself.”

“Your man?” she asked.

“I sent a footman to be my eyes. I gave him strict orders to see how you were doing. I even gave him a note to deliver into your own hands.”

For a frozen second in time she wondered if Mark was the duke’s spy. Then she immediately discounted that suspicion. Mark was so arrogant he would have told her. Or he might have even bragged about his position. Or, perhaps he was simply such a good spy that he was intent on discovering how injured she’d been in the accident.

Enough to bed her?

How convenient that Mark disappeared for a few days just before the duke’s arrival.

Her stomach clenched.

“I apologize for not responding to your correspondence sooner, Your Grace.”

“That is as it may be, my dear. We shan’t talk about it any further. Instead, may I beseech you to come out from behind the screen so that I can see your lovely face once more?”

He was evidently under the belief that she was playing coy or not looking her best, and for that reason had chosen to address him from behind a screen.

If he only knew the truth.

“I have come all the way from London, you see.”

“Have you? Is your footman from London as well?” Or was he blessed with a thick Scottish accent?

She could still feel his lips whispering against her skin.

“I regret, my dear, that the majority of my servants are from London. I would have felt better with Irish servants, but my countrymen don’t wish to be gone long from home.”

“Yet you, yourself, do not have such territorial restrictions,” she said.

He laughed merrily at that.

“I have missed you, my dear. When will you be returning to London?”

Never.

“Tell me about this footman of yours, Your Grace.”

“My footman? Dismiss the man from your mind.”

“I don’t remember him calling on me,” she said, determined to silence the little voice whispering in her mind.

“He called upon your aunt, I believe, who informed him that you were not receiving. He left and returned to my side, chagrined that he’d failed at his task.”

“He’s been at your side ever since?” she asked.

“I cannot say, for certain. I have a great many servants, you know.”

Now he would tell her how wealthy he was, a conversation they’d had on numerous occasions. She’d been taken with him because of his wealth, yet now she knew that wealth could not turn time backward. Wealth could not make her beautiful again.

What good was money when it couldn’t buy anything she wanted?

“I want to see you, my dear.”

“Please honor my wishes, Your Grace. I would be more comfortable behind the screen.”

“As you wish, but are you certain?”

“I am.” Perhaps he would leave with memories of her from London, attired in a new frock, laughing at some old and tired jest. Perhaps he would remember the girl she’d been and carry that tale around Edinburgh.

“Are you in Scotland for long, Your Grace?”

She didn’t for a minute believe that he’d come to Scotland simply to see her. The Duke of Linster was too selfish a personage. Once, however, it would have been easy to convince herself otherwise.

“I’ve friends in Edinburgh.”

“It’s hunting season, isn’t it?”

“Is it? I believe you might be right, my dear.”

She smiled.

Was she an afternoon’s interlude? A mystery to solve, inserted into a blank space of time? Just what tale would he tell at the country party?

Just a short time ago she would have been thrilled to be an object of gossip. Now she cringed at the thought.

“Again, Your Grace, thank you for visiting.”

The screen both shielded her from view and hid the doorway to the dining room. She would slip away before his curiosity grew. Aunt Dina would be the apologetic hostess, offer him whiskey, some biscuits, and perhaps even solicit a donation for one of her causes.

But she would not reveal herself to the Duke of Linster.

She could just imagine the tale he’d spread of the monster she’d become.

Chapter 19

I
t was early afternoon by the time Mark instructed Brody to pull in behind the MacTavish residence. Before he saw Catriona, he wanted to speak to the coachman.

He’d never paid much attention to the bay where the carriage was stored. Now, as he walked to the opening, the smell of paraffin oil and wax was heavy in the air.

Johnstone, the coachman, was short and stocky with broad shoulders, the type of physique that made him think the man would be an admirable opponent in a fight. His face was florid and full, with jowls that nearly obscured his neck. His eyes were brown and unfriendly, narrowing as Mark entered the bay.

In the time he’d been here, he’d seen the man twice, and both times they’d nodded to each other, neither going out of his way to further the acquaintance.

He regretted that lapse now.

The coachman stared at him for a long unblinking moment before returning to his work.

He moved around the carriage, inspecting it. The vehicle was in perfect condition, dust free, the body polished to a high shine. Brody maintained his own carriage with matching diligence.

“Is there only one of you here?”

The coachman looked over at him. “I’ve a stable boy to help me.”

“Does Mrs. MacTavish attend a great many functions?”

“Enough.”

“You drive her to Old Town, don’t you?” He trailed his fingers over the leather of the guiding reins, an action that garnered him a frown.

“If I do?”

He shook his head. “I know a driver. He says that Old Town is dangerous, and he worries about his carriage.”

“I’ve much the same worries.”

“Mrs. MacTavish is a kind woman. Very generous.”

The coachman frowned at him but nodded. “Aye, that she is,” he said, continuing to rub down the driver’s seat of the carriage, even though it was so well polished that he could see the reflection of the timbered ceiling of the carriage house.

“Is that why you came back to Edinburgh after the accident and continue to remain in her employ?”

“I work for the Earl of Denbleigh,” the coachman said. “I came back to Edinburgh because it’s my home. I’d no objection to taking them to London, but I wasn’t going to live there.”