“Those are just words. You’re making a big to-do about nothing,” he said impatiently.
Her eyes flashed dangerously. “Nothing? Is that how you see it?”
He raked a hand through his hair. “I don’t know what you want from me, Dahlia.”
“I want love, Kirk. And I deserve that.”
“I read you a damned poem. Doesn’t that count?” he asked, raking his hands through his hair again in frustration.
“You picked that poem because it was easy to memorize, not because it reminded you of me. So reading it wasn’t romantic at all. It was just a task to you. I want to be told that I’m loved, Kirk, and that you find me attractive, and that you like my laugh and think my eyes are pretty. I want to be worth some effort.”
“Oh,” he said, relieved. “I can do that. I do find you attractive—surely you can tell that. Your eyes are quite nice and you’re a pretty woman—”
“Stop! Just stop!” She pressed her hands to her cheeks. “This is impossible. I refuse to give up all hope of romance merely because you refuse to acknowledge it—or worse, you don’t feel it.”
“Dahlia, I care for you. You know that. I always have.”
“Yes, well, I care for my sister, and her grace cares for her dogs, and the butler cares for the pocket watch his grandfather gave him when he was a child—but ‘care’ is not what I want. I want someone to love me so much that losing me would make him mad with it. I want him to adore me and think I’m beautiful beyond compare, and to write sonnets to my eyes and . . . well, it would be nice if you at least wanted to write sonnets. I would be happy with that.”
His jaw tightened. “I’m not the sort of man who can string words together like paper snowflakes. That’s for men like Dalhousie, who spout drivel that would make a healthy man’s stomach turn. But I do care for you.”
“Do you? So much so that you can talk about marriage without so much as a by-your-leave?”
He opened his mouth and then closed it. “You want to be asked. I should have known that, after the last time.”
“Of course I want to be asked! What woman doesn’t?”
“I asked you once, and you said no.”
“You didn’t ask me to marry you. You suggested that we’d make a ‘tolerable rub’ of it ‘despite’ my father’s sad monetary habits.”
It did sound horrible when she put it like that. Still, he refused to be cowed. By God, he wanted her, so he’d be damned if he’d quit now. “We enjoy the same pursuits—books, the outdoors, history, music. Most couples don’t have the luxury of compatibility when they wed—”
“Damn it, I don’t want compatibility. I want love, Kirk. Love. Do you love me?” she demanded.
“Of course.”
She looked at him expectantly.
He frowned. “I said, ‘Of course.’ ”
“Oh! You won’t even—” She threw up her hands. “That’s it.”
“That’s what?”
“There is nothing more to say. I will not marry you.”
His jaw tightened and he found his hands in fists. “You must. We just—”
“Nothing happened. And if you try to say it did, I shall tell her grace that you are spreading horrid rumors about me, and I’ll ask her to send you packing.”
“You can’t deny us.”
“I can, and I shall.”
He crossed the icy space that threatened them and yanked her forward, her body pressed to his. “Do you feel that? That’s passion, Dahlia—not this milksop love you think you want. I admire you and respect you. I think you’re the most intelligent, attractive woman of my acquaintance.”
“But do you love me? I won’t accept anything less.” Her eyes sparkled with anger and hurt.
He sighed. “ ‘Love’ is such a fickle word, Dahlia. Isn’t it enough that I want you and—”
She spun away and, with a sob that tore his heart, she fled.
Seventeen
From the Diary of the Duchess of Roxburghe
Was a house party ever so cursed as this one? While I do not blame Miss Stewart for her illness, my physician thinks it might be Spanish influenza, which is a wretched business indeed. Although Miss Stewart has been confined to her chambers for the three days since the very first signs of her illness at the poetry reading, the news has sent terror rippling through my guests. Eleven fled this morning, and I suspect that several more might do so before nightfall.
Charlotte and I must make a decision today about whether or not to have the Christmas Ball, which is a great pity as the footmen just put up a huge tree in the ballroom and spent hours hanging it with silver ropes and stars. Still, reality must be answered, and if more guests leave, we’ll have no choice but to cancel the thing.
Another disappointment is that, since Dahlia has been assisting in the nursing of Miss Stewart, she has barely spoken two words to Lord Kirk, which has made him as growly as a bear with a sore paw. And here I thought they were making progress!
La, so many problems. If I must cancel the ball, so be it. But I will not give up on our star-crossed lovers.
* * *
Dahlia looked at the tea tray Freya had placed on the small table in the hallway outside Miss Stewart’s bedchamber and smiled before whispering, “Scones and weak tea. Just the thing for our patient.”
Freya glanced at the half-open door behind Dahlia. “Is she any better?”
“Some. Lady Mary managed to get Miss Stewart to take some tea and dry toast late last night. We think she’s turned a corner.” Which had been a sweet moment indeed. The last few days had been filled with such uncertainty that as soon as Miss Stewart asked for another bite of toast, both Lady Mary’s and Dahlia’s eyes had filled with tears.
She brushed at her eyes impatiently, surprised they were once again brimming with tears. Goodness, what’s wrong with me? But she knew. The long, silent hours by Miss Stewart’s bedside had left Dahlia with too much time to think. She caught Freya’s worried frown and shook her head. “I’m sorry. I’m just tired.” Because of her unsettled thoughts, she’d slept only two hours last night before it was her turn to assist with Miss Stewart.
She pressed a hand to her aching head. It had been a long three days. After leaving Kirk in the billiards room, Dahlia had been hurrying to her own room, wanting nothing more than to be alone, when she’d caught Lady Mary on the staircase. The poor woman had been frantic, wringing her hands and looking as if she might burst into tears. Although Dahlia felt much the same way, she’d put her own feelings aside and had asked if she could help.
Dahlia had quickly discovered that Miss Stewart’s condition had worsened and Lady Mary, realizing that her friend’s fever was rising, was concerned. Dahlia had asked MacDougal to send for the duchess’s physician and then she’d followed Lady Mary to Miss Stewart’s bedside. Since then, she and Lady Mary had shared in nursing their patient back to health.
Dahlia had managed to take her morning walks between her shifts at Miss Stewart’s side, but sleep was another thing altogether. Once she was alone, Dahlia’s thoughts had roiled in turmoil over her last encounter with Kirk. She wasn’t sorry for sharing her passion with him, but oh how she wished she’d realized the truth about his feelings before she’d so plainly shown her own. She was now torn between embarrassment and anger.
Fortunately, her duties in nursing Miss Stewart had kept her from any awkward confrontation with Lord Kirk. She now knew the truth—as much as she hated to admit it, he wasn’t able to feel for her the way she wished him to. The sooner she accepted that cold fact, the better off she’d be. Yet that did nothing to help the deep ache that filled her.
“Miss?”
Dahlia realized she hadn’t heard a word her maid had just said. “I’m sorry, I was thinking about something else.”
“Och, ye’re exhausted, ye are. Come back to the room and take a wee nap.”
“I shall, but I think I’ll take a walk first. I need to clear the cobwebs from my head.” And if she were good and
tired she might actually sleep, not just stare at the ceiling trying not to think about Lord Kirk and failing miserably. She felt as if she were in a fog, wrapped in wool and unable to think clearly except where Kirk was concerned. In that one area, her unwanted thoughts were painfully clear.
Freya’s brows lowered in concern. “Ye should let me ha’ a turn takin’ care o’ Miss Stewart.”
“I would, but she gets very agitated when she wakes up and someone she doesn’t know is there.”
“Then thank God she’s some’at better. Ye and Lady Mary canno’ keep up such a schedule.”
“We’re coming to an end of it, I’m sure. She’s better every day.” Dahlia rubbed her shoulder.
“Ha’ ye hurt yerself, miss?”
“I’ve been sleeping in a chair, so I’m a bit sore.” Which explained why her head was starting to ache, too.
Freya scanned Dahlia’s face. “Pardon me, miss, bu’ are ye sure ye feel well? Ye look pale, ye do.”
“I’m healthy as a horse. I’ve played nursemaid for everyone at Caith Manor, so this is quite natural to me. Besides—” She glanced at the half-opened door and lowered her voice. “Someone must assist Lady Mary and she won’t accept help from anyone else.”
“She do seem fond o’ Miss Stewart.”
“She is. Far more than I’d realized.” And perhaps more than Lady Mary had realized, too. Over the last three days, Dahlia had gotten to know Lady Mary and had discovered a softer, gentler side to the woman who’d always been so unfriendly.
“I must return to Miss Stewart; she’s due her medicine.” Dahlia lifted the tea tray from the side table. “If you’ll get the door, I’ll see if I can cajole our patient into eating some of this scone.”
“Verrah weel, miss. Dinna hesitate to ring if ye need me.”
“Thank you, Freya.” With a reassuring smile at the worried maid, Dahlia went into the darkened room. She made her way to the table she and Mary had moved from under the window to a more useful location near the bed, and placed the tray upon it, sighing as she straightened.
At the rattle of china, Miss Stewart opened her eyes and then squenched them closed. “Ohhhhhh.”
“Headache?” Dahlia asked quietly.
Miss Stewart tried to swallow and then nodded, only to wince again. She covered her eyes with hands that shook.
As pale and weak as she looked, she was much better than the first night Dahlia had visited. The poor woman had been out of her mind with fever, talking with people no one else could see, and refusing the medicine Lady Mary had tried to press upon her.
Dahlia went to the washbowl and found a fresh cloth, dipped it in the cold water, then pressed it into Miss Stewart’s hand. “For your eyes.”
Miss Stewart gratefully placed the cool cloth over her eyes. “Thank you.” Her voice was as rusty as a churchyard gate, but it was steady now.
Heartened, Dahlia glanced at the clock on the side table. “You are due another dose of medicine. I thought we might put it in a cup of tea with some sugar, since you don’t care for the taste.”
Miss Stewart managed a faint smile. “I complained quite a bit last time, didn’t I?”
“No more than I would have had someone tried to get me to take such a bitter draught when I didn’t feel well.” Dahlia put three lumps of sugar into a cup and then poured tea over them. Stirring quickly, she added a dose of medicine. As she returned the small brown bottle to the table, the door opened and Lady Mary came in.
She brightened when she saw Miss Stewart holding a cloth over her eyes. “I see our patient is awake.”
Dahlia smiled. “I was just going to give her some tea. Her medicine is mixed in.”
“Ah yes. Or, as she called it yesterday, ‘pig swill.’ ”
Miss Stewart peeped from beneath the cloth. “Did I say that?”
“You were complaining horribly, which is always a good sign,” Dahlia teased.
Lady Mary smiled gratefully. She was dressed as fashionably as ever in a morning gown of fine cambric with full sleeves caught at her wrists with gold bands. She took the cup from Dahlia and sat on the edge of the bed. “Alayne, take your medicine.”
Miss Stewart removed the cloth from her eyes and reached for the cup.
“Let me, dearest. Your hands are shaking.”
Miss Stewart didn’t argue, and was soon sipping the tea.
When she finished it, Lady Mary couldn’t have appeared happier. “You’re much improved.”
“I feel wretched and my hands won’t stop shaking.”
“You’re still weak.” Dahlia pointed to the scone. “Eat when you can, as it will give you strength.”
Miss Stewart smiled weakly and leaned back against her pillows.
Dahlia bent to retrieve her shawl where it had fallen to the floor, wincing as she did so. She rubbed her lower back. “If we’re to sleep in this room any longer, we need to request a settee.”
Lady Mary looked surprised. “You said you’d slept comfortably when I asked about it yesterday.”
“That was before I awoke today feeling as if someone had beaten me.” She smiled. “It’s nothing that a good walk won’t fix.”
Lady Mary looked concerned. “Before you go, you should talk to her grace’s butler. Dalhousie and Miss MacLeod were thinking of going for a ride, but I overheard MacDougal telling them there’s a bitter cold wind from the north and it always brings rain.”
“Dalhousie and Anne?”
Lady Mary sent her an arch look. “Oh yes. While we’ve been confined to the sickroom, life has been marching on. I believe they’ve been keeping each other company.”
“Good for them!” Dahlia glanced at the shuttered windows and wondered if she should wear her cloak over her pelisse.
“You’re determined to walk, aren’t you?”
“It clears my thoughts. And you need have no fear that I’ll be caught out in the weather, for I plan on a very short walk.”
Lady Mary returned the empty teacup to the tray and adjusted Miss Stewart’s bed linens. “Miss Balfour—Dahlia, before you go—” She straightened and faced Dahlia. “I don’t know what Alayne and I would have done without you. Thank you so much for your assistance.”
Miss Stewart, already struggling to stay awake, managed a faint smile. “Yes, thank you.”
Dahlia waved her hand. “Think nothing of it. I’m sure you both would have done the same for me.”
“We would have, indeed. Especially now.” Mary walked with Dahlia to the door. “Don’t worry,” she said in a low voice. “I shall get Alayne to eat, even if I have to drop crumbs of the scone into her mouth.”
“See that you do. She’s better, but needs her strength.”
“And you need your rest, so make it a very short walk.” Mary gave Dahlia a quick hug.
Surprised, Dahlia barely had time to return the gesture when Mary released her.
Mary’s face was flushed, although she looked pleased. “You’ve been an angel. When we first met I was rude, and I shouldn’t have been. I’ve always had an unruly tongue.”
“I wasn’t any better.” Dahlia grinned. “We deserved each other.”
Mary smiled. “Perhaps, but this situation has made me consider Alayne. Sometimes she’s been held to the brutal edge of my tongue, for no more reason other than she’s much kinder than she should be.” Mary pursed her lips. “I will never treat her so again.”
“You’re being too hard on yourself.”
“Now who is being too kind?” Mary regarded Dahlia for a long moment. “You’ve given up a lot to help Alayne.”
“A few evenings of whist, ” Dahlia said dismissively.
Mary’s expression grew arch. “Oh, I think you gave up much more. It was obvious the night of the poetry reading that Lord Kirk has a decided interest in you. And since then, you’ve spent almost every waking hour assisting poor Alayne.”
Dahlia felt her smile tighten, but she managed to say in an even tone, “Lord Kirk is not interested in me.”
<
br /> “Are you certain?”
“Very.”
Mary’s eyes narrowed. “Ah. You’ve had a tiff.”
Dahlia started to deny it, but the knowing look in Mary’s eyes made her sigh instead. “We didn’t disagree so much as we realized we have different ideas of how a relationship should progress.”
“Oh?”
“I’ve known Lord Kirk for some time, and words are not his strong point.”
“But the poem—”
“Was recited—nothing more. He doesn’t understand the beauty of it or what it means or—” She clamped her lips closed as she heard the pained tone in her voice. “To quote him, he thinks we’re ‘compatible,’ but that’s all.”
“Oh dear. That’s too bad, for he seemed quite taken with you during the reading.”
“Merely because he feared that if he looked about, he might forget the lines.”
“It seemed as if there was more than that. I wonder . . .” Mary cast a quick glance back at the bed where Miss Stewart now slept. “I daresay you haven’t met Miss Stewart’s parents, because they rarely travel.”
Surprised by the change in subject, Dahlia shook her head. “No, I haven’t. Someone said Mr. Stewart was once a groom.”
“He was one of the best, but opened his own stables and does quite well for himself. I’ve spent many Christmases with them. My own parents are quite busy and—” She shrugged, some of her smile disappearing. “Fortunately, Miss Stewart and her parents have always welcomed me. Mrs. Stewart is a lovely woman, warm and engaging, but Mr. Stewart is more difficult to get to know. He’s not given to speaking much.”
“That must make things awkward.”
“At times, yes. But over the years, I’ve come to understand him. Now I can think of no man I admire more. Mr. Stewart and Lord Kirk seem very similar to me. Neither likes nor appreciates fashion, neither enjoys the niceties of a waltz nor a well-executed bow, and neither has the least desire to become a romantic ideal.”
“Kirk would rather have his hand cut off.”
“Mr. Stewart is much the same. I once asked Alayne if she’d ever heard her father declare himself to her mother, and she admitted that she hadn’t. Not once.”
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