Autumn in Scotland

by Karen Ranney

  “I have not ceased being on my guard since the moment I entered Balfurin,” he told her honestly.

  At least he’d succeeded in startling her out of her mask. Her cheeks flushed as she looked down at the letter she was writing.

  “Do you wish to use my library? The library,” she added a second later, as if to remove from their conversation any hint of possession. More likely, she didn’t want to enter into an argument over who actually owned the room. The law would say that he was master of Balfurin, despite the fact that he’d been gone five years.

  If he was George.

  How odd that he was finding it difficult to remember his identity.

  This pretense was dangerous and addictive. Without too much difficulty he could convince himself that they’d actually been married, down to remembering the ceremony and writing his name in the register. His mind wanted to recall holding her hand, slipping the ring on while her fingers trembled. At the altar he’d have bent his head solicitously to hear her whisper, and been rewarded with the subtle scent of her rose perfume. Warmed by her body, it almost dared him to find where she’d applied it—wrists, throat, between her breasts.

  “Was I a brute on our wedding night?” he asked abruptly, startling himself. The question had lurked in the back of his mind, but he’d no intention of asking it.

  Her flush deepened, traveling to the end of her nose. He had the most absurd desire to kiss the tip of it, and then simply hold her until she calmed.

  What an idiot he was becoming. She didn’t want anything to do with him. For all she knew, he’d deserted her. He couldn’t forget what she’d carefully left out of the conversation a few nights earlier. Balfurin, until her stewardship, hadn’t been known for its comforts. At his father’s death, George had simply stopped spending any money on the castle. Anything that fell into disuse was left to rot or crumble.

  She’d spent the whole of her fortune on Balfurin, and brought it back to life. That first year she’d remained here alone must have been an incredibly difficult one.

  She sat back and folded her hands together and regarded him steadily. “Why would you ask a question like that? Don’t you remember our wedding night?”

  “Perhaps I’m seeking a different perspective to the memory,” he said, shrugging. “Perhaps I’m hoping there was something I did correctly. Proficiently. If nothing else, that I caused you no pain.”

  “I thought pain was part of the process,” she said.

  “So, I was a brute in that arena as well.” Damn George.

  She didn’t respond. Why had he asked that question?

  “Does everyone know how much you loathe your husband?” he asked.

  She crossed her arms, cupping her elbows with the opposite hands, looked away and then looked back. “I think so, yes.”

  There, the answer he’d sought. How odd that he felt almost happy about the answer and was curiously disappointed at the same time. As if his true identity was warring with his role, as if Dixon had triumphed where George had failed. Charlotte’s affection and respect was something George had not been able to obtain with either his vaunted charm or his title.

  He closed the door to the library, and slowly turned, giving her time to protest their intimacy. But she didn’t say a word.

  In the silence, she stood and moved to the wall that held the massive fireplace. One of Balfurin’s assets—enough wood-burning fireplaces in every room to keep the inhabitants warm, and a forest of trees to fuel them.

  He entered the room to stand beside the desk. One hand reached out and touched the quill she’d just been using. The wooden staff was still warm from her touch.

  Instead of calling for a servant, she lit a match and touched it to the kindling.

  He wanted to apologize to her for his rudeness and insensitivity. He had no right, despite his curiosity, to pry into her life and to demand that she reveal anything to him.

  “I find myself wanting to know everything there is about you,” he said, abruptly giving her the truth.

  She glanced over at him, evidently surprised. “Why? Why now? When you’ve never cared to learn anything before?”

  “As I said before, I was an insensitive bastard. Perhaps there were other things on my mind.”

  “Whose skirt you could upturn next? I doubt you had any more serious concerns than that. You never struck me as a serious person.”

  She held the poker in one hand and jabbed at the wood. A shower of sparks burst upward, sailing into the chimney like a thousand tiny fireflies.

  “While I was too serious, perhaps,” she said, staring into the fire.

  “Why did you marry? Was I that charming?”

  She glanced at him over her shoulder. “You were very charming to my sisters, and to my mother, I recall. You were very polite to me. But you must remember, we had met only two or three times before we married. Hardly time enough to be charmed.”

  “Then why? Did you want to be Countess of Marne?”

  She bent her head, her attention on the fire. “My father wanted a title and was willing to pay a fortune for it. You did not come cheap, George.”

  He was beginning to hate that name.

  “But no,” she continued, “I didn’t care about the title. I could tell you that I married you only to be a dutiful daughter. I hadn’t much choice. Women don’t, usually. Or I could tell you that my mother insisted that her daughters marry in order of their birth and as the oldest, I was the first. My sisters were pleased to have me out of the way, I think. But the truth is that I was anxious to start my own household. I wanted a husband, a family. I wanted to be consulted by Cook as to what to have for dinner. I wanted to have a child I could love and teach. I wanted a husband who would come to revere me.”

  He didn’t know what to say to her. She stared into the fire, her back to him. He wanted to ask her to turn, to smile, to make this moment easier.

  “I have no defense over what happened five years ago, Charlotte. All I can do is present myself to you as I am now.”

  “Everything I have is at Balfurin,” she said. “I have nothing else other than this. Nothing,” she added, turning to look at him.

  “I won’t take it from you.”

  “I’ll not allow you to,” she said.

  “What do you need? I’ve already offered money and you haven’t been in a hurry to accept. What else can I do for you?”

  “I don’t want anything from you, George. Not even an apology. Your leaving me was the best thing that could have happened. It forced me to see the world as it was, not as I wished it to be. Balfurin is my household. The students of my school are my children.”

  “And your husband?”

  “You’re very personable. And very charming when you wish to be.” She looked up at the mantel and then began arranging the figurines there, pushing one back with a finger and pulling one forward. “But I’m not at all certain you are dependable.”

  Now was the time to confess to her. But he remained silent.

  “You’re very handsome. The years haven’t changed that. In fact, you might even be more handsome than you were five years ago.”

  He told himself it was idiotic to feel a spurt of pleasure at such a compliment. Nevertheless, he wanted to thank her and then preen like a peacock.

  “What other choice had I? To remain at home the brunt of jokes and sidelong whispers? There goes Charlotte, her husband left her after a week. Courageous man, that he lasted a full week.”

  “Surely they wouldn’t have said that.”

  “I have five sisters, and all of them were in a hurry to marry. I would have been a mistake, the object lesson my parents could use to keep them in line. If you do not behave, you’ll become just like Charlotte.”

  “What would you have done if I’d been here?” he asked, genuinely curious. “When you came to Scotland?”

  “Shot you.”

  His bark of laughter surprised them both. “Shot me?” he asked when he got his breath back. “Are you serious?”<
br />
  “Deadly. I’m a very, very good shot,” she said. “My father insisted on teaching me.”

  “Did he think you were a boy?”

  She looked startled. “I think he wished I was. Why?”

  “I know a man in Penang who has a dozen daughters. He’s alternately proud and despairing. When they were little, he treated them as if they were sons, teaching them all manner of things they would never be able to do. When they became older, he insisted that they become the epitome of all things womanly. No wonder they’re confused.”

  “Is that what you think I was, confused?”

  She didn’t look at him, merely stored the poker in its holder and turned and walked across the room to sit at the desk again.

  “There isn’t a moral to this tale,” he said. “I’ve nothing further to say about fathers and daughters, since I am neither a daughter nor am I likely to be a father.”

  “No,” she said calmly, “you aren’t.”

  Instead of sitting by her desk, he took one of the chairs in front of the fire.

  “I have always liked this room,” he said. “It reminds me of my childhood.”

  She didn’t question him and he didn’t contribute further, realizing that he’d almost made a misstep. He’d almost told her about his uncle, the man who was George’s father.

  He studied the flickering orange and red flames, thinking that she was not unlike fire itself: brilliant, enticing, but too dangerous to touch.

  Evidently restless, she stood again, and walked to the fireplace, standing and extending her hands to the fire as if to warm them. It wasn’t that cold in the room. Was she nervous? Did he make her uncomfortable?

  Or was she simply as aware of him as he was of her?

  There was nothing visible from her neck to her shoes, no hint of skin, as if she had dressed this morning with the aim of protecting herself from his eyes. But the shape of her body was evident beneath the blue wool dress. Her waist was small, the curve to her hips making him want to touch her there. Her legs were long and no doubt shapely. Even her back, from her waist to her shoulders, was a beautiful creation.

  He respected her, not only for her intelligence, but for her ambition. Or perhaps not ambition as much as determination. She’d not relied on someone to rescue her, but had decided to rescue herself.

  He wasn’t surprised to admire her, or even to like her, but he’d never expected to hear himself say the next words: “Can’t we begin again, Charlotte? Five years wiser? You, a bit more cynical, and me a little more kind?”

  She turned and faced him, and he was infinitely grateful for the look on her face, a combination of surprise and fear. Her expression brought him back to reality, made him conscious of what he’d said. Had he lost his mind? Evidently.

  He stood, wanting to flee, and then realizing it was something George would have done. Yet his cousin would never have allowed himself to be caught in a net of his own words. George was too glib for that.

  “Forgive me,” he said in the silence.

  She wrapped her arms around her waist and continued to stare at him. He wanted to reassure her that he hadn’t lost his mind, that he was not indulging in any of the spirits or substances the Far East could easily provide a man. He had simply spoken his thoughts, forbidden though they were.

  Loneliness had crept up on him, and regret. Added to that volatile mix was need, desire, and hunger. Not for any woman, but for a woman with caution in her eyes, and the barest tremble of her fingers.

  He wanted to kiss her, to hold her, to forget himself in the sweet warmth of her embrace. Instead, they stood looking at each other silently. He bowed slightly to her, knowing that the wisest course was to simply leave the room.

  That’s when he noticed the pattern on the brick.

  Charlotte was standing in front of the hearth, and beside her was one of the facing bricks bearing the pattern he’d seen on the first earl’s coffin. The pattern was replicated on the other side of the hearth. From here, it looked simply like it was a decoration, a bit of ornament for the plain brick. How many generations had glanced at it, not even noting its presence?

  He was torn between curiosity and caution. Now, however, was not the time to do his exploring. Instead, he would wait for a time when Charlotte wasn’t in the room.

  “I’ll leave you,” he said, the words sounding almost awkward. Perhaps he needed to borrow a little of Matthew’s magic. Exit the room in a puff of smoke, perhaps.

  At the door he hesitated. “I’m sorry I hurt you, Charlotte. Forgive me.”

  He didn’t expect an answer. Nor did he receive one. He closed the door behind him in silence.

  The minute he was out of the room, smiling that irritating half smile of his, Charlotte forced herself back to her desk and her correspondence.

  I’m sorry I hurt you, Charlotte.

  She couldn’t push his words from her mind. Staring sightlessly at the letter from Lady Eleanor, she wondered what he’d expected from her. A breezy retort, “Oh, it was nothing. Do not concern yourself.” Or, “Don’t spend another second in regret, George. I understand completely.”

  She didn’t understand, not any of it. Not the fact that he’d left her, and not the fact that he’d returned, even more charming than before, but with a rough edge that he’d never had. As if he were slightly dangerous, more unpredictable, as if his charm was only surface deep. He’d become a man who alarmed her, frightened her just a little, and one who made her heart beat too loud and too hard.

  The least he could do was feel a little remorse. Spend a few sleepless nights in contemplation of his sins against her.

  Lady Eleanor’s suggestion might be worthwhile after all.

  There was something utterly wicked about that idea, especially as Charlotte was uncertain what she felt for George at the moment.

  Why didn’t she simply come out and ask him why he’d left?

  He might say something horribly hurtful that she’d never be able to recover from, something like: I couldn’t bear to remain married to you, Charlotte. Not even with your money. Or even worse: I was in love with another woman.

  How could she bear that? It was bad enough thinking those thoughts in the silence and loneliness of her chamber night after night during the first months. Gradually, she’d ceased thinking of George at all, or when she did it was with a righteous indignation and anger.

  Over the past five years, she’d gradually come to accept that George was not of good character, that he was not even a good example for the children they might have had.

  Now he’d returned, the villain in her personal drama, looking even more handsome than he ever had before, with a somberness to his nature that he’d never possessed. He had character, and insight, and an introspection that was fascinating to explore. He was a different person, a person she didn’t know, a man who attracted her entirely too much.

  There were too many aspects to this new George that intrigued her. Not the least was his way of looking at her as if he’d singed the clothes from her body with his eyes and she stood naked and unadorned before him.

  A burst of heat traveled up her spine. She sighed, folded her arms on the top of the desk, and lay her head on them.

  She should look away whenever George attempted to speak to her. She should not think of the color of his eyes, so blue and arresting. Sometimes, they looked as if they were the most delicate of summer flowers. At other times, they reminded her of the dark clouds before a storm. She could sit and look at him for hours.

  She was behaving as silly as her students.

  Occasionally, a girl would return to school with a dreamy smile and absent eyes, staring off into space as if unable to concentrate on anything other than the memory of the young man she’d recently met. Charlotte had found that the best treatment for such a wandering mind was a good dose of castor oil and a tremendous amount of memorization. Very well, what was good enough for the student was good enough for the headmistress. She should attempt to memorize something. But
what? Certainly not a love poem. Certainly nothing with a dramatic flavor. Perhaps Shakespeare, but he was forever going on and on about unrequited love. She could do without that.

  What on earth was she to do?

  Write The Edification Society? Dear Ladies, I’d very much like instruction in seduction, if you please. You see, I’ve begun to lust after my husband, perfidious bastard that he is. I want him to ache with unrequited passion. I want him to hunger for me. Me, his wife. Me, his abandoned wife.

  Perhaps she could chain him to Balfurin with passion, if nothing else.

  Had she lost her senses? What about Spencer?

  That thought brought her up short. She stared at the closed door, envisioning him standing in front of her. Spencer was the most polite man she’d ever met. The kindest.

  But he wasn’t her husband.

  If only Spencer had been home a few days ago, or had called on her since. He would have counseled her, his advice no doubt wise and compassionate. But since when did she need advice from any man? She’d made her own decisions in the last five years.

  She sat up, determined to banish both men from her mind. Instead, she focused on Lady Eleanor’s letter, reading it with a growing sense of horror.

  My dear Charlotte,

  I have addressed the rest of our membership, and they agree. Although Balfurin is some distance from our homes, it might prove to be an excellent meeting location for our organization.

  They couldn’t possibly meet at Balfurin. What on earth had possessed Lady Eleanor? No, she couldn’t allow it. What if one of her students found out? Worse, what if one of the parents discovered it?

  How did she keep Lady Eleanor and her Edification Society from Balfurin?

  She grabbed another sheet of paper and began to write to Lady Eleanor:

  As thoughtful as your invitation is, I do not feel that it would be appropriate for me to become a member of your group at this time. Nor do I feel that Balfurin, as a school for impressionable young girls, would be an appropriate meeting place.