The Scottish Companion (8 page)

He needed someone in his life who could laugh, who could enter a room and enliven it with her presence. He wanted a woman who knew how to smile, whose tongue could be occasionally barbed, but someone who could remind him that he, too, was human and fallible.

He had a low tolerance for a great many things: willful stupidity, for one. Cruelty, giggling, insipid comments, boredom, all made him yearn for the si
lence and blissful serenity of his laboratory. Gillian Cameron had not irritated him. Not once, and that singular feat made her stand out as unusual among women.

How odd that he’d been able to consider his death with a great deal of equanimity a month ago. Now the idea of his own mortality enraged him. Perhaps he shouldn’t entirely discount Dr. Fenton’s diagnosis after all. Perhaps he did have a blood disease and his days were ticking away. Had he lived longer than he had left to live? Another thought that didn’t please him, along with the fact that he’d made the choice to share however many more days were left to him with Arabella Fenton.

What the hell had he done?

Gillian thought him charming. No one thought him charming. Oh, perhaps a few women in Italy, but no one in Scotland. He was the Earl of Straithern, unapproachable, arrogant.

She thought him charming.

Where was she?

T
he sitting room attached to Arabella’s bedchamber had been turned into a fashionable modiste’s salon. Fabric swatches and dolls attired in the latest fashions littered the room. No fewer than three seamstresses were engaged in pinning Arabella into a pale yellow silk dress, adorned with puffy sleeves, pearl buttons, and Beeston lace.

Gillian sat on the sofa near the window, present among the chaos only because she was very much afraid that Arabella would banish everyone and return to her books if she left the room.

“I have no desire whatsoever, Gillian, to engage in what I consider a very silly pastime for very much longer,” Arabella announced now, speaking over the head of one industrious young woman. Gillian wanted to warn the seamstress that Arabella would not stay still for much longer, so the pinning on the front of the dress had better be completed soon.

“Being correctly attired is not a silly pastime, Arabella,” Gillian said. “You must wear something to the ball. Everyone will be looking at you.”

Arabella looked as if she would like to protest fur
ther, but Gillian held up her hand. “Please, Arabella, just let these women do what they’ve come here to do. I’ve promised Dr. Fenton that I will do my utmost to see that you are ready for the role of countess.”

“I’m not willing to spend any more than the absolute minimum amount of time required to get this farce of a marriage over and done. I do not want to give the earl the impression that I go into this alliance with any eagerness whatsoever.”

“I truly don’t think he’s under the impression that you’re an eager bride, Arabella,” Gillian said dryly. “All that I ask is that you do not frighten the poor man off before he even has a chance to approach the altar.”

One of the young women pinning Arabella’s hem turned to look at her, an unspoken warning that she was being too frank in the company of others. Gillian felt a flush of embarrassment and sat back, determined to be silent.

“Why do you show such sympathy for him? Do you have a
tendre
for him yourself?”

She turned to look at Arabella. “Don’t be ridiculous,” Gillian said, feeling compelled to respond.

“I wouldn’t mind, truly, although I can’t imagine that you would want that sort of relationship. Being a wife is one thing, but a mistress is something else entirely. You have no protection. You have the censure of society. But then, you already know that, don’t you?”

Was that comment meant to be as cruel as it sounded? Or had Arabella just stated the truth as she knew it? Or even worse, had Arabella meant to shame her? Regardless of the motivation, she’d only stated the truth.

“Yes,” Gillian said, ignoring the curious glances from the other women. “I do know what that’s like.”

Since becoming Arabella’s companion she’d had numerous occasions to moderate her words. There were times, however, as now, when she would just as soon stand, leave the room, and never again set foot in a chamber occupied by Arabella Fenton.

Unfortunately, without prospects or employment, such a decision would be suicide. Many more afternoons like this one, however, and she would seriously consider it.

“Are they nearly finished?” Arabella asked.

Since a woman was pinning the left sleeve into place, and the right one had not yet been started, Gillian guessed not.

“It won’t do, Gillian.” Arabella brought her foot down smartly on the box on which she was standing. Because she was attired in soft leather dancing slippers, the gesture made absolutely no sound, which seemed to infuriate Arabella even further.

She began to extract the pins from the side of the gown, half tossing them to the poor woman kneeling at her feet. The hapless seamstress pinning on a sleeve put up her hands to block Arabella’s destruction, and all she got for her troubles was to be stabbed in the palm.

The resultant blood and cry of pain halted Arabella’s tantrum immediately.

“I am sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean to inflict an injury. Here, let me see it.”

The seamstress was having none of it, drawing back when Arabella would have examined her hand.

“I am a doctor,” Arabella said sternly.

“Begging your pardon, miss,” the seamstress said,
“are you really a physician? I have never heard of a woman doing such.”

“I said I was, didn’t I?” Arabella said. “Now give me your hand.”

The patient stretched out her hand timidly. Arabella examined the palm with great precision, seemingly uncaring that several drops of blood dripped to the floor, threatening the beautiful yellow silk she was wearing. The dressmaker, however, saved the garment by hurriedly draping a length of muslin between the two women.

“It’s not as severe a cut as I thought,” Arabella declared. “Time will heal it well enough. I’ve a salve I’ll get for you,” she added. She frowned at the dressmaker. “If I’m allowed to move.”

“I’ll get it,” Gillian said, anxious to escape.

She entered Arabella’s chamber and retrieved the basket of her medicines, returning to the sitting room within a period of minutes. For the first time since the women had arrived, Arabella looked pleased.

The poor woman would be treated, Arabella would be content, and Gillian would garner a few minutes to herself.

A terrace ran the length of the second floor of this wing, and she escaped to it, drawing the first deep breath she’d taken all day.

Rosemoor stretched out in front of her, the lawn falling away to the woods to the left, and to the right, to the road that led to the Pleasure Palace. How apt a name for the façade of the building, but not for its interior.

“You didn’t come to my laboratory, Miss Cameron. Are you not a woman of your word?”

She didn’t turn, didn’t greet him, merely kept her attention on the vista in front of her.

All in all, she would much rather have concentrated on him. His face was infinitely more interesting than the rolling valley in front of her. But staring at Grant Roberson was not considered proper, and she was trying to be proper, God help her.

“Arabella needed me, Your Lordship. She is being fitted for her ballgown.”

“Did it not matter that I might have needed you?”

Her heart really should not race as it was, and she truly should have been able to breathe correctly in his presence.

“Being Arabella’s companion is my position, Your Lordship. I could not shirk it.”

“Yet I am your employer.”

She glanced at him and then away.

“The moment you arrived at Rosemoor, I assumed all of Arabella’s obligations, including paying your rather parsimonious salary, Miss Cameron.”

She had absolutely no comment for that.

“Would Arabella truly miss you?” he asked.

“The only one who might comment on my absence is Dr. Fenton,” she told him honestly. “I doubt Arabella would even notice I was gone.”

She stared ahead. To the right was the walled garden filled with fruit trees, the countess’s favorite roses, and herbaceous borders. To the left was the original tower house, a structure she’d been told had been erected in the late fourteenth century.

“It must be a wondrous thing to be steward over such magnificence, Your Lordship.”

He didn’t answer.

A footman emerged from a doorway, and Grant waved him off. The man stopped, clicked his heels, and disappeared again as quickly.

“Such obeisance,” she said. “What must it be like to have everyone in the world wishing to serve you?”

“Hardly everyone in the world,” he said. “But it is a great deal of responsibility.”

She glanced at him and then away.

He watched her for a moment.

“That young footman may remain here or go somewhere else, but what he does in his future life may well be determined by these months in my employ.”

“What’s his name?” she asked, guessing that he truly didn’t know.

“James. James Arthur Ferguson. His uncle was my stable master for years before an accident put him in a chair.”

“And you feel a duty toward the nephew?” she asked, turning and surveying him.

“I feel an obligation to ensure that he—or any young man in my employ—comes to no harm,” he said, a small smile turning up the corners of his lips. “I insist that my staff attend church ser vices every Sunday. I also insist they save a portion of their salaries and send it to a bank in Edinburgh.”

“Yet, for all your stewardship, you remained in Italy.”

“I did not abdicate my duties wholly, Miss Cameron,” he said, frowning. “My brother and I maintained ample correspondence. He informed me of important decisions. I was not completely without influence.”

“Forgive me, Your Lordship. I did not mean to annoy you.”

“I am not annoyed,” he said curtly.

“I have the habit of being at odds with you, have you noticed?”

“If you are, you have never conveyed it to me.”

“Perhaps I have only imagined your irritation, then.”

“Let us just say that I’m not used to someone with your candid nature.”

She turned and faced forward again, placing her palms on the balustrade.

“I’m capable of some restraint in speech, Your Lordship. Not an excessive amount, I will admit, but some. Not every thought leaves my mind to travel to my lips. Some things are kept in abeyance.”

“Then I would be very curious to hear what you do not say to me, Miss Cameron. They are, no doubt, very entertaining comments.”

“Perhaps it’s best if I remain silent, Your Lordship.”

“What a pity,” he said. “A beautiful woman’s repartee is worth hearing, even if it results in irritation.”

“Are you attempting a courtly compliment, Your Lordship? If so, I can assure you that the effort is appreciated but not necessary.”

“By which you mean, I take it, that either I didn’t succeed in being courtly, or you don’t believe in your own attractiveness.”

“I hardly think this topic of conversation is suitable, Your Lordship.”

“Which means, of course, that I have failed abysmally at being complimentary.”

“You shouldn’t try. Or is that being too honest?”

He didn’t speak for a moment. She glanced at him
out of the corner of her eye to find that he, too, had turned and was now surveying the view.

She didn’t mind that he questioned her, but what was odd about this conversation was an absence of the proper kind of questions. He didn’t ask Gillian about Arabella. There was no curiosity, as if his future wife were no more important to him than one of the andirons, or the frescoes on the ceiling.

Nor did Gillian immediately furnish him with information that she should have, perhaps. If she were truly a loyal employee, she would have hastened to explain to him that Arabella often had more weighty thoughts on her mind than the whereabouts of her companion. Or she might have gone on to enumerate the reasons that Arabella would make an acceptable wife. Her love of reading, for one—although she preferred only medical texts. Or the fact that she abjured fashion—which might save him a pretty penny with dressmakers. But Gillian did none of those things, only remained as silent as he.

“Do you not like fashion, Miss Cameron?” he asked suddenly.

“I do,” she said.

He glanced at the windows of Arabella’s chamber. “But you deliberately leave a room filled with seamstresses. Why?”

“Perhaps I dislike groups more than I like clothing.”

“I, too, find myself avoiding people,” he said.

Surprised, she glanced at him. “How very unsociable of you.”

He smiled. “Do you think so? People, on the whole, disappoint me greatly. Science rarely does. I can mea
sure what goes into an experiment. What goes into it is what comes out of it. People are rarely so pure.”

“An experiment cannot hug you, cannot smile at you, and congratulate you for a successful day. A scientific equation cannot give you love.”

“But a scientific equation does not bore me, Miss Cameron.”

“You really should leave me,” she said, feeling absurdly lighthearted. “Before I bore you.”

“Now it is I who has annoyed you. Will you tell me? Or will you be restrained in your speech?”

He placed his hands on the balustrade next to hers, so close that she could feel the warmth of his fingers.

What would it feel like to reach out and place her hand atop his?

She stepped away.

“I think it best if I leave, Your Lordship.”

“Why?”

His gaze was direct and penetrating. She held her mouth still against a tremulous quiver.

He knew quite well why.

“You are to be married, Your Lordship.”

“Indeed I am, Miss Cameron, and how wise you are to remind me. Are you always so proper?”

“Always, Your Lordship.”

For a moment they simply looked at each other. He turned and without another word strode from the terrace, leaving her standing there alone, untouched, and unsullied, at least on this occasion. His wisdom had saved her when her inclination would have quite possibly urged seduction.

Three years ago, she’d gone willingly to her downfall, enjoying every second of it. Not for her a shocked
exclamation upon learning of the act of love. She was fascinated, not repulsed. She adored every stroke, every touch, every quiver, and every gasp. She was, as her lover maintained, adept at lust, and instead of finding shame in such a pronouncement, she’d felt only pleasure.

Did she somehow betray her knowledge? Did she have a certain look? Could any man, upon looking at her, know that she was neither virginal nor innocent? Would he suspect that she was ripe for misadventure? Was she more wanton in her walk than another woman? Or did the way she comported herself somehow convey to a man that she wished to be bedded?

Or did any man simply view a woman as a challenge? A wall that he must scale, an impenetrable fortress he must conquer?

If so, then she should be more like Arabella. Perhaps she should study how Arabella acted, moved, and dismissed all male companionship so effortlessly.

Or perhaps she should simply avoid the Earl of Straithern at all costs.

At the door he looked back at her. Gillian stood facing the front lawn. How much he hated that damn view. She’d thought it a pleasure to be steward of Rosemoor. If she only knew the full brunt of the responsibility he bore. But she was not privy to that part of his life, and with any luck she wouldn’t know more than he chose to tell her.