How the Scot Was Won

by Caroline Linden

  Today, though, the argument about Bella’s comfort outweighed that concern. Mama finished her notations in the ledger before looking up. “I would hate for you to impose on Mrs. Ramsay.”

  “She assured me she would welcome my company,” Agnes hastened to say. “And it would only be for a month, aye?”

  Drew, as usual, had written only the one letter, scant with details of any kind. But he could hardly stay very long. He would have to return to his regiment.

  “A month only,” said her mother with visible reluctance.

  Agnes beamed in relief and genuine delight. Ilsa’s house was much larger and more comfortable, and no one there would scold her about taking too much time at the mirror. “Thank you, Mama!”

  She packed a trunk and moved to Ilsa’s the next day. She still went to the shop, and she would obviously return home to see her brother, but just this slight distance let her breathe easier.

  Ilsa asked only once about the handsome lawyer who used to bring them fresh currant buns and tea, when Agnes suggested they go to a different coffeehouse than Agnew’s. “Oh! I’m sure he’s off flirting with someone else,” Agnes managed to reply lightly. “I’ve forgotten all about him.”

  That was a lie. Agnes had to stop herself from looking for him every day in the streets, and then she had to cope with the mingled relief and disappointment when she didn’t see him.

  She didn’t understand herself. Rationally she should never want to see Mr. Duncan again; irrationally she kept hoping for a glimpse of his broad-shouldered figure, his teasing smile. Rationally, it was best for both of them if he kept out of her way; irrationally, she wished they might run into each other and go back to the easy flirtation they had shared before That Night.

  There had been no gossip about her disappearance in his company, and she should be on her knees thanking God and all the saints for that. Instead she was tormented by vivid memories of that evening, both waking and sleeping. A man’s laugh in the street would sound like his, and start an answering smile on her face, before she remembered. From time to time she had to walk past Agnew’s, and the mere scent of currant buns baking would bring back the flush of pleased excitement that he was going to bring them to her table.

  How had it all gone so wrong? Perhaps if she had listened to Ilsa and treated him like a real suitor, she wouldn’t have lost her mind the first moment she was alone with him. Those memories were the ones she wished desperately to forget: the giddy feeling of being swept up in his arms, the stark awe in his face when he looked at her, the catch in his voice when he breathed Agnes, love as his wickedly wonderful fingers stroked her…and most of all, the look he gave her at the end, when he called her darling.

  She lay awake at night wondering if she had crossed an invisible boundary that she could never uncross, from respectable young lady to secret wanton. She hoped not. She prayed not. Every day she told herself the longings and urges would go away, along with her incessant feeling that he was just around the next corner, and the small jolt of anxious eagerness that wrought within her.

  It was her brother who finally managed to blow away thoughts of Felix Duncan from Agnes’s mind. He reached Edinburgh armed with a thunderbolt of news: through the most amazing chain of circumstances, he now stood next in line for their English cousin’s dukedom of Carlyle, with a castle in England and hundreds of acres of land all over Britain. The Duchess of Carlyle had given Drew a healthy income and sent expensive gifts for them. And Drew meant for them all to go live near the castle, so he could prepare to assume the title.

  Agnes was horrified. Leave Edinburgh—their home, Papa’s grave, her shop? It was unthinkable. What would they do in England? None of them would inherit anything. Drew would be off learning how to wear a ducal coronet and preside over an enormous estate, while she and her sisters would be… nobodies. They could not even petition to become ladies until their brother inherited, which wouldn’t happen until the current duke died. They would be the poor Scottish relations, for heaven only knew how many years, and Agnes wanted none of it.

  Drew, oblivious man, inadvertently delivered a coup de grâce trying to portray it positively. “I intend to settle a proper dowry on you,” he told her, walking her back to Ilsa’s house.

  Thank goodness it was dark. Her face burned at that word, dowry. A dowry was meant to help a woman elicit a marriage proposal, and she’d already done that. Received it, rejected it, and had to take it to her grave, even though it felt like she might explode from keeping it to herself.

  There was literally no one she could tell. Mama would be horrified that she’d been meeting a man at the coffeehouse. Her sisters would find it dashing and romantic and pester her to explain why she’d rejected it. Ilsa would suspect something terrible had happened at the Assembly Rooms, because she’d seen how Agnes flirted with him. And Drew would probably demand answers from his friend, which could lead to a duel or at least a fight.

  It was too much. She fled into Ilsa’s house, wishing she had never set eyes on Felix Duncan.

  6

  Felix’s intention to keep his distance, physically and mentally, from Agnes St. James was taking hits from all sides.

  “I saw your lady the other day,” said William Hunter.

  “What?” His mind was on the case they were to argue. He had agreed to return to Agnew’s coffeehouse but only after a certain hour, when Agnes was unlikely to be there. To atone for his absence he drank multiple pots of coffee and left lavish tips for Helen.

  “Miss St. James.” Hunter tapped the side of his nose.

  He flinched and tried to hide it by reaching for his cup. “She’s not my lady.”

  “No? How’d you spoil that, then? I thought you’d got the inside lane, being such friends with her brother.”

  His mates knew Andrew St. James was staying with him; the pair of them had gone out to an oyster cellar with Adam Monteith and Will Ross for an evening of revelry. Thankfully, they knew nothing else.

  “If you think being friends with her brother is the way to a lass’s heart,” he replied, “I see why you’re still unwed.”

  Hunter laughed, but let it go.

  St. James, on the other hand, presented greater difficulties. Not only was he staying in Felix’s own home, he’d become infatuated with Ilsa Ramsay. She had been at the oyster cellar, and had danced with St. James.

  Felix had watched his friend steal glances at the beautiful widow all night. He had also scanned the room with wholly inappropriate hope, to see if Agnes might possibly be with Mrs. Ramsay. Which he knew was unlikely, and irrelevant to him anyway, but St. James’s open interest was like a stone in his shoe.

  When St. James invited him three days later to come along to fetch his sisters from Calton Hill, Felix was on his feet and at the door before he remembered he was keeping his distance. It was a sickness, he told himself, this yearning for any chance to see her. And it went as expected: Agnes turned white, then pink, at the sight of him, and she determinedly ignored him before hurrying away with her sisters. They did not exchange a single word.

  St. James was too moon-struck over Mrs. Ramsay to notice. Felix made an excuse and strode home, telling himself it was time to get over her.

  But…ah Lord above, she looked so fine in the sunlight with her color high and the wind ruffling the dark wisps of hair at the nape of her neck. He recalled how exquisitely soft her skin was there, that night she’d kissed him and held him close. Just seeing you makes me hungry… If only there were some way he could fix things with her…

  And then St. James offered him just that. “You didn’t tell me you knew her,” he charged when he returned from the hill.

  Felix gave a guilty start. “Why should I? It’s not a crime to know someone.”

  “You might have mentioned it!”

  “There was nothing to tell,” he muttered. And never would be. Some things he was taking to his grave.

  “Hmph. She specifically named you, idiot, and said I should invite you to visit Stormont
Palace with us.”

  For a moment the angels in heaven seemed to sing. She had spoken of him—invited him somewhere, anywhere, it didn’t matter where; with us.

  His elation died a quick death when he realized his friend thought he’d been flirting with Ilsa Ramsay. His heart, which had soared at the thought of Agnes softening toward him and wanting to invite him on an outing, turned to lead and fell into his boots. He resorted to mocking his friend about his fascination with the beautiful widow, and even suggested he might start flirting with her. The words tasted like ashes, but it distracted St. James from any suspicion about Agnes.

  God. He was a sad case. He ought to start flirting with another woman, if only to save himself from collapsing into melancholy.

  Accordingly, that night he went to the Assembly Rooms, determined to make a clean start. He danced with Catriona Hill, who would be an ideal wife, and with Lady Talbot, a flirty widow who would be a willing lover. He drank whisky with James Crawford and Tom MacDougal—not nearly as much as he’d drunk That Night, but just enough to weaken his resolve to stay away when he caught sight of Agnes sitting with Mrs. Ramsay, smiling and laughing.

  All thought of Miss Hill and Lady Talbot fled his brain. Agnes was still the woman he wanted, damn it.

  What did he have to lose? He made his way through the crowd and swept a bow. “Good evening, Mrs. Ramsay.” Her gaze flashed his way, still bright and happy, and the breath caught in his throat. “Miss St. James.”

  For a split second he had the wild hope she would nod politely, perhaps smile. He could offer to fetch her some wine, even ask her to dance. He could apologize and explain. He could do so much better than last time…

  Instead she shot to her feet, snapped, “Good evening, sir,” and then was gone—but not before he saw the flash of panic in her eyes. Agnes, he realized as he watched her go, was frightened.

  This was the same room where their indiscretion had begun. Tonight was much the same as that night, the rooms crowded with dancers, loud and festive with conversation and music. Did she fear he’d come to lure her into another indiscretion?

  Would she think that of him? It was a disconcerting possibility.

  He turned back to Mrs. Ramsay, who was watching him curiously. “I hoped I might beg the honor of a dance, ma’am.”

  “Of course.” She smiled brightly, as if she too wanted a distraction. From the corner of one eye, Felix caught sight of Andrew St. James swinging Flora Clapperton down the reel and understood; he and Mrs. Ramsay were making good use of each other.

  After the dance he lingered by her side and made conversation, wishing he dared ask if Agnes had confided in her. If she had, he doubted Mrs. Ramsay would be so cordial toward him. No, Felix decided, she’d probably not told anyone. Perhaps she feared he had?

  Mrs. Ramsay’s next words scattered those thoughts. “I shall miss them so, when they have all moved house to England with the captain,” she said, nodding toward Winifred and her sister Isabella, who were holding court before a handful of captivated young men.

  Felix stopped cold. “England! The devil you say!”

  Her eyes filled with understanding. “Didn’t the captain tell you? He’s considering removing there, to be near his future…responsibilities. Winifred and Isabella are enthralled by the prospect of a Season in London as well.”

  Damn it. “When?”

  “I don’t know,” she said softly. “Perhaps you should ask him, as his dear friend.”

  The whole time they’d been speaking—the whole bloody evening—he’d been aware of Agnes. She was laughing gaily with a pair of soldiers from the Castle—fellows like her brother. He’d caught her looking at him and Mrs. Ramsay, and he’d hoped it would make her the tiniest bit intrigued, perhaps even willing to speak to him again.

  But she was leaving Edinburgh, to take her place as sister of a future duke, an eligible lady and heiress. And she’d already rejected him. Don’t forget about that, said a spiteful voice inside his head.

  “Perhaps it doesn’t much matter,” he muttered.

  “I wouldn’t be so sure,” Mrs. Ramsay replied.

  St. James was plowing through the crowd, his expression intent. Felix took a breath and mustered a smile for his companion. “Only time will tell, aye? And as long as you don’t say you’re leaving Edinburgh, I shan’t mourn. St. James was gone for years and I never once missed a minute of sleep over it.”

  She was laughing when St. James reached them, a smile on his lips but his eyes alert. He’d come to ask her to dance, as Felix had expected; wanting to twit his friend, he leapt in with a request of his own, but she refused them both, for she’d already promised the dance to Mr. Grant.

  They watched her walk off on the merchant’s arm. Felix’s mind was still absorbing the news that Agnes would be leaving Edinburgh, eliminating any chance of a rapprochement. He’d told himself his chances were virtually nil, but was just realizing that his heart had still clung to hope. This planned visit to Stormont Palace had appeared to be a shining opportunity to apologize, perhaps begin again. Once she left Edinburgh, though…

  “Tell the truth,” demanded St. James, eyeing him suspiciously. “Why did you dance with her?”

  Felix shrugged. “’Twas just a dance. You were dancing with other women yourself.”

  St. James flushed. “Friends of my sisters. They introduced me.”

  Felix made himself smirk. “I’m sure Mrs. Ramsay assumed that very thing, as you led out half a dozen attractive single women of good fortune.”

  His friend glared, then sighed. “Aye.” He gave a nod and walked off. He would have a second chance with Mrs. Ramsay. The sparkle in her eye when she looked at him was plain for all to see. Felix, on the other hand, felt as though his last chance had just been snuffed out.

  Now the music was making his head hurt. He turned and headed for the door, no longer in the mood for dancing or flirting.

  * * *

  Agnes was going quietly mad.

  Everywhere she turned were reminders of Felix Duncan. First, the Assembly Rooms themselves, where she’d been so happy to see him, where his eyes had lit up in admiration and delight at the sight of her. She knew that had been real, as real as her own attraction to him.

  Then the man himself turned up and began flirting with Ilsa. Agnes knew she didn’t hold a candle to her friend in terms of eligibility. Ilsa’s father was a town councillor, head of the most powerful tradesmen’s guild in the city. The Duncans were an old family of advocates and judges, well-to-do and respected in Edinburgh. Ilsa would be a very good match for Felix, and he for her. It was entirely logical for him to flirt with Ilsa, she told herself.

  But she couldn’t bear to watch, so she fled as soon as he approached. She was a coward, but she still couldn’t face him in person. Too late she realized both her sisters were dancing, and she didn’t want to stand by herself like an outcast. She settled for joining Sorcha White, but once again all the gentlemen who clustered around them ignored her for Sorcha.

  From there she’d watched in quiet misery as Ilsa danced with Felix, both of them looking tremendously pleased, and then strolled arm in arm, his ginger head bent near her dark one. They made a handsome couple.

  “Miss St. James, would you like to dance?” asked a gentleman, puncturing her thoughts.

  “Hmm? Ah…” She hesitated. Sorcha was walking off with a lieutenant, and the gentleman’s eyes tracked her.

  “Did you ask Miss White?” she blurted out.

  He nodded, still watching Sorcha. “She’s promised me the next set.”

  Once again, a man was only asking her to dance because he was waiting for the partner he really wanted. And the only man who had ever wanted to dance with her was off with Ilsa.

  “Thank you, no,” she said with a forced smile. “I believe I’m done dancing this evening.”

  He took it cheerfully, bowing and excusing himself. Alone again, Agnes scanned the room for her brother. Only her second visit to the Assembly Rooms,
and now it was ruined, too. Her mother hadn’t come tonight, counting on Drew to see his sisters home safely. She wished she could go home, but Drew, like Winnie and Bella, was still dancing.

  Upon learning of their brother’s inheritance, and realizing he would need a wife, Winnie and Bella had begun scheming to find him a Scottish bride, rather than waiting for him to marry an Englishwoman. They had introduced him to every eligible girl in the room and coerced him to dance with all of them. Her brother hadn’t missed a single set. Her sisters would probably keep him occupied all night. And when they weren’t introducing Drew to young ladies, Winnie and Bella had plenty of dance partners of their own.

  Agnes was the only one feeling lost.

  Listless, she wandered into the saloon. Tonight the supper room across the way was open, brilliantly lit, the tall doors opened to admit guests. She turned away from it, not wanting to remember what had happened in there.

  Her throat grew tight. Why had she drunk so much That Night? Not for the first time she wondered what might have happened if she hadn’t asked for whisky, if she’d simply accepted his request to dance. If they’d just talked. Laughed. He might have asked to call on her or escort her home. Tonight she could have been as excited as her sisters to attend the Assembly Rooms, because he would be here, waiting to dance with her again—

  As if the gods had heard her, Felix Duncan strode out of the main ballroom directly toward her, his dark green kilt swinging around his legs, his sable jacket perfectly fitted over his broad shoulders. His head was down, so he didn’t see her freeze like a startled deer.