“No!” Flushed and miserable, Agnes shook her head. “Perhaps a hot brick.” Her stomach did hurt, and she could bang the brick against her head.
“Of course. I’ll tell Annag to bring one before I go.”
To the shop. Where someone might march in and tell her that Agnes had been drinking last night, with gentlemen, and then had disappeared with a man.
“Mama!” She sat up in bed hastily, and her head felt like it might pop right off her neck and burst against the wall, like a soap bubble. “I need to return Mrs. Ramsay’s magazine. May I take it back to her?”
Her mother paused.
“I promised I would bring it today,” Agnes added hastily. “I won’t stay.” She had to discover what, if anything, people were saying about her. Agnes barely remembered coming home last night, let alone what she’d done after leaving Felix. But Ilsa would know, and Ilsa would tell her.
“All right,” said her mother, and Agnes tried to find the magazine.
They often met in the morning and read the latest lady’s magazines from London together. Mama couldn’t afford them, but Ilsa took several and Agnes studied each one for helpful ideas for the shop. Normally it was good fun, a small respite from working, a chance to see her friend.
Today Agnes kept her face down as she hurried to Ilsa’s house. She was sure the marks of sin were branded on her skin for the world to see.
Ilsa lived in one of the large old houses in the High Street, fortunately only a short distance from the narrow close where the St. James’s more modest lodgings stood. Agnes intercepted Ilsa on her front step, just setting out. “Good morning,” she said breathlessly. “I’m not feeling well today.”
Ilsa touched her arm in concern.
Agnes waved one hand. “Nothing serious. But…” She lowered her voice further. “Last night…”
A smile crossed her friend’s face. “Yes? Was he charming?”
Her heart froze. “What?”
“The handsome attorney who brings us currant buns.” Ilsa’s brow wrinkled in confusion. “I saw you speaking with him last night… No. I see he is not whom you wish to discuss.”
Her face burned. “No. Yes. What—Last night. I did speak with him.” Ilsa waited, perplexed. Agnes gulped for air. “And I walked out with him.”
Now Ilsa looked wildly curious. “What happened? Was he rude or impertinent?”
It was impossible to be more humiliated than she was at this moment. “We only took a brief stroll. But I’m worried—what people might say—”
“Hush.” Ilsa took her hand. “I heard no one speak of it last night. I didn’t see you again after that. I presumed you had gone home! It was late.”
She calmed a little. “Yes. I did go home.” Too late, as it turned out. “I had too much… punch and wondered if I made a spectacle of myself.”
Ilsa smiled. “No! If you had, I would have rushed to your side—not to stop you, of course, but to join you.”
Agnes laughed, as Ilsa had intended, and it was only half tragic. She bade her friend farewell and went home, relieved that her mother and sisters had left by the time she returned. Annag came to fuss over her, bringing a hot brick wrapped in a flannel and a cup of chamomile tea, and Agnes retreated to her bed.
Perhaps she was worried over nothing. Perhaps no one had seen her drinking whisky, or leaving with Felix Duncan, or noted how long she was gone. It was her very first time attending the Assembly Rooms; perhaps no one had even noticed her.
But it was better to be prepared. If asked about it, what could she say?
She could admit that she spoke to Mr. Duncan; such a dear old friend of Drew’s. If asked, she would admit to drinking more wine that she ought, with deepest penitence and heartfelt promises never ever to do so again. If pressed, she would admit to stepping out with Mr. Duncan for a breath of fresh air. If absolutely, unavoidably necessary, she would admit to exploring the still-unfinished supper room, purely out of idle curiosity, and confess that oh yes, now that you mention it, Mr. Duncan had accompanied her.
She would never, ever admit to kissing him, nor to throwing herself at him, and most especially not to encouraging him to take the most shocking and indecent liberties.
Yes, don’t stop. Why did you stop?
She huddled under the blanket, feeling again the delicate stroke of his fingers on her cheek, the hunger in his kiss, the effortless way he swung her into his arms. Heat flushed through her at the thought of how he’d looked at her in the moonlight, and how he’d made her laugh. Her breath grew short at the memory of his low, rough whispers against her skin: Agnes, my love…
Oh, it had been so wickedly wonderful.
He said he hoped to see her again soon. What would she say to him? Would she spontaneously combust on the spot, in a mixture of awkwardness and desire?
Annag tapped at her door. “There’s a gentleman here,” she said in disapproval. “Insists on seeing you.”
Her throat closed up. “Who is it?”
Lips pursed, Annag gave her the card. Felix Duncan. Agnes’s heart leapt even as her stomach knotted in alarm.
It was too early for a formal call. What did he want? And she shouldn’t receive a gentleman alone anyway. It was safer to send him away.
Then she pictured him returning when her mother was home and curious, and lurched out of bed. “Oh,” she said over the pounding of her pulse. “He’s an old friend of Drew’s. I’ll be down soon.”
At Drew’s name, Annag’s face brightened. She’d been his nurse when he was a child and all three girls agreed that she loved him best. “Aye,” she said more happily, and went out.
Remain calm, Agnes commanded herself, staring at her pale reflection in the mirror. Don’t panic.
After all, perhaps he’d come for a good reason. Hadn’t she hoped he might call? Some of her anxiety faded. Yes, they’d been indiscreet, and a wee bit drunk, but she also remembered him saying he dreamt about her. Warmth filled her. He’d called her beautiful, and held her tenderly, and kissed her so hungrily…
Perhaps he’d come to make certain she was well. Perhaps he’d laugh with her a little more in that warm, teasing way he had, perhaps even confide that it had gone too far the previous evening, but he couldn’t regret it because he’d been nursing a tendre for her and would like to call on her, court her, see if they suited each other when not tipsy on whisky…
Perhaps there was no reason for alarm. Perhaps there was a happy-ever-after ending to this.
She smoothed her hair, pinched her cheeks, and hurried down the stairs.
He rose at her entrance. Agnes paused, startled. His face was dead white, his eyes red-rimmed. He faced her, his mouth pinched, then bowed stiffly. If ever a man looked like he was walking toward death, Felix Duncan did.
“Good morning, sir.” She curtsied, ducking her head to hide her resurgent flare of panic. “Pray sit down.” She took her own seat.
He sank slowly onto the edge of the sofa, as if the action pained him. “I hope you are well today, Miss St. James.”
Oh dear. Not an encouraging beginning. Unable to meet his eyes, she pulled at a loose thread in the hem of her apron. “Yes, thank you.”
He took a deep breath. “I offer my unreserved apologies for last night.” He cleared his throat. “For coercing you to drink the whisky.”
She remembered asking for that whisky. “That was not your fault,” she murmured, blushing. “You do not owe me an apology.”
“No.” He started to shake his head, then hunched his shoulders with a grimace. “No, I most certainly do. I regret every moment deeply.”
Oh dear. Worse and worse.
“Second…” He swallowed. “I believe I committed actions which compromised your honor and could besmirch your good name. Accordingly, I have come to offer you my own name and hand, if you will do me the honor of becoming my wife.”
Her mouth had slowly fallen open through this speech. “What?” was all she could say.
Staring fixedly beyond h
er ear, he repeated woodenly, “Would you do me the honor of becoming my wife?”
“No—wait—you believe—do you not remember?” He had scrambled her wits, apparently.
A dull flush crept up his cheekbones, highlighting the pallor of the rest of his complexion. His face glistened with perspiration. “I know I owe you this.”
For the second time that day, Agnes wanted to crawl into bed and stay there. So much for her hope that he’d come out of concern, or even interest. I owe you this.
“No, Mr. Duncan,” she whispered.
He blinked, then focused his gaze on her for the first time in several minutes. “No? What?”
“No,” she said again. “No, thank you.”
He stared. “But why?”
Anger began to burn away the fog of humiliation. “I do not think we suit each other.”
“What? Bollocks.” He dropped his head into his hands.
She realized what was the matter then. Mortified and furious, Agnes shot up from her chair. “You’re still drunk!”
He raised his head and scowled before rising, slowly and unsteadily. “I am not.” He ruined this flat denial by swallowing heavily and swaying on his feet.
How could she have longed for this man to call on her? He looked grim and miserable, resigned to marrying her because he thought he must. All trace of the warmth and admiration he’d displayed in the coffeehouse—and the Assembly Rooms—was gone.
Agnes would sooner cut off her hair and join a pirate crew than enter into such a marriage, even with him.
“I think you’d better go,” she choked out.
“You’re… you’re refusing?”
Her face burned at his shocked tone. “As incomprehensible as that may be to you, I am. That’s no sort of marriage, and not one I would ever accept. Please go, sir.”
He stared at her, his blue eyes burning. Agnes marched to the door and opened it. “Thank you for coming to call, Mr. Duncan,” she said formally, mindful of Annag’s eavesdropping presence.
Still he hesitated. “Your answer is no? Truly? You can’t mean it. What we did last night—”
She flew across the room and seized his arm. “Get—out!” She pushed him toward the door.
Stumbling over his own feet, he went. Breathing hard, Agnes listened for the door below.
Had that really happened?
Had he actually thought she would accept such a grim proposal?
Had everything he said last night been a lie?
Had she really been half in love with him?
Thank God he was gone, and she would…only have to see him all over town, again and again and again, especially when Drew returned and inevitably spoke to his old friend. Ilsa had teased her about inviting him to tea and golf.
With a moan of distress, she ran to the window.
From a distance, he was as handsome as ever. The sun shone on his copper hair, curling in a queue at his nape. His shoulders were magnificently broad in his dark green coat, and when he paused to glance upward, she caught a glimpse of his face: piercing blue eyes, narrow nose, sculpted mouth set in a thin line. From up here he didn’t look drunk, or callous.
He pulled out a handkerchief and blotted his face—probably in relief, Agnes thought in mortification. He walked slowly away, giving her a good look at his muscled calves. She pressed one hand to her chest, over her hammering heart, and watched him disappear.
5
Felix spent the next four days in bed, wracked by fever and nausea.
In more lucid moments, he acknowledged that he ought to have taken his father’s advice and not rushed to see Agnes. With his head splitting, his stomach roiling, and the first tremors of fever making his eyes burn, he’d made a thorough and complete shambles of that proposal.
And she’d said no. Not just no, but that she’d never accept him. He had been almost delirious by the time he returned to his lodging, but he remembered that part.
In more feverish hours, he dreamt of her in his arms again, but this time she was saying no no no as he kissed her and touched her. And his own voice echoed mockingly back at him: no? But—why?
Because you’re a damned idiot, he told himself.
It was always a relief to wake from those nightmares and find himself alone in bed, the sweat-soaked sheets twisted around his body.
On the fifth day the fever broke. When Callum asked if he felt like eating, Felix nodded and ventured to try a simple oatcake. He even propped himself up in bed and looked through his messages while waiting to see if the oatcake would stay in his stomach or come right back up, as had everything else he’d eaten since That Night.
His father had sent a note two days ago: What is the verdict?
Felix closed his eyes for a moment, then scrawled Refused across the bottom and sent Callum to deliver it. That, he knew, was the last his father would say about the subject. Lachlan Duncan would be pleased he had escaped.
He tried not to dwell on it, either. He’d been miserable with fever, trying not to be sick again, but Agnes had said no, definitively and emphatically. He would have to find a new coffeehouse to frequent. Occupy his mind. Teach himself not to look for dark curls and impish blue eyes and a generous smile around every corner.
Hunter complained bitterly when Felix refused to meet him at Agnew’s anymore.
“They roast the coffee berries to cinders here,” he complained as they sat in Peterson’s coffeehouse by the Grassmarket. “And there’s no Helen.” The woman serving was old enough to be Felix’s mother, with a stern manner. She thumped the dishes down in front of them without a word
“Helen deserves a respite from serving you,” Felix told him.
Hunter glowered. “Why won’t you go to Agnew’s? ’Tis damned inconvenient to walk all the way over here.”
“It’s five minutes’ walk.”
“Then why not walk those five minutes to Agnew’s?” Hunter sipped his coffee with an expression of distaste. “Did you annoy the proprietor and get banned?”
“I prefer it here.” Stubbornly he hunched over the brief and marked another change.
“Well, I don’t.” Hunter pushed back his chair and dropped a coin on the table. “I’m going back. You know where to find me.”
Felix grunted as his partner left. He also missed Agnew’s, where Helen knew just when to pour fresh coffee and brought gooseberry jam for the buns without being asked. He missed the larger windows that brightened the place, and the more comfortable chairs. He missed being able to catch almost anyone practicing law, coming or going from the courts across the street.
And most of all he missed carrying currant buns to a pair of beautiful ladies and making them smile. Did Agnes still go to Agnew’s?
No. He was not going to think of her. She did not want him, and he needed to forget her.
He threw himself into every other pursuit imaginable. He dug out the violin he hadn’t played in several years and tuned it up. He started going to the fencing salon again, morbidly telling himself it could be useful preparation for a duel. He took on more new clients in an attempt to keep himself busy and distracted.
It worked, somewhat, until Andrew St. James arrived in town.
St. James had written to ask if he had a spare bed. He would be in Edinburgh for a few weeks and didn’t relish staying with his family. At the time, Felix had been flush with optimism about his flirtation with Agnes, and it had seemed a splendid idea to have her brother, his oldest friend, to stay. It might offer all manner of excuses to see her outside the coffeehouse. He’d sent his affirmative reply immediately.
Now, obviously, it was the most idiotic idea he’d ever had.
He prepared himself not to twitch at the sound of her name. He schooled himself to avoid mentioning her. He was still completely unprepared when Drew St. James explained what had brought him back to Edinburgh.
Through some dark miracle, Drew was now heir presumptive to his distant cousin, the Duke of Carlyle. He had letters and documents attesting to it, si
gned and sealed by the duke’s attorney. At some point in the future—and Drew said that it would likely be sooner than later—he would be a duke.
Which meant Agnes would be a lady, the sister of a duke, an heiress. She could expect far more than any humble Edinburgh attorney had to offer.
Had she known? Had she refused him not merely because of his clumsy approach, but because she knew she could do much better than the likes of him?
Not that it mattered. He’d been rejected, either way.
* * *
Agnes spent the days after Mr. Duncan’s disastrous visit—she would not even think of it as a proposal—trying to forget it had ever happened. She needed time to brace herself for the inevitable moment when her brother mentioned him, or even worse, invited him to the house.
Her first brilliant idea was to flee. “Mama,” she said to her mother, “Drew will be home any day now, and the house will be quite crowded.”
Her mother smiled fondly. “It will, and in the best way!”
“It seems unfair to make Bella sleep on the floor,” Agnes went on. That was her mother’s plan: to make room for their brother, Agnes would move out of her room into her sisters’, where Bella would make up a pallet on the floor. “You wouldn’t want her to get a pain in her back from it. And Heaven forbid Winnie or I step on her in the night.”
Her mother paused. It was true that Winnie’s and Bella’s room was cramped even for the two of them.
Cautiously, Agnes added, “Mrs. Ramsay has kindly invited me to stay with her, for everyone’s comfort.”
She held her breath. Ilsa had indeed invited her, after Agnes dropped a few suggestive comments. Ilsa’s home was only a few minutes’ walk away. She would barely be gone.
But Mama was not overly fond of Ilsa Ramsay. When Agnes and she were newly friends, Mama had invited Ilsa to tea one Sunday afternoon. It had not gone well. Ilsa had gone golfing that morning instead of to church. She arrived wearing a beautiful bright pink gown, even though her husband had only been dead for eight months; and she came on her own, without a maid or a chaperone. The St. James girls were deeply impressed by this blithe disregard for gossip and convention, but Mama was not. She sternly told her daughters that such things were tolerable in a widow of good fortune, but not in ladies of their station, and they were not to get any ideas about aping Mrs. Ramsay.
How the Scot Was Won Page 5