The Scotsman and the Spinster

by Joan Overfield

  "Aunt, I don't understand," she said, glancing up to meet the older woman's gaze. "Why would all these men send me flowers? I have done nothing . . ."

  "Nothing but to show yourself a brave and resourceful young lady who has risen gallantly to their friend's defense," her aunt said, and then smirked at Addy's scowl. "And you needn't cast daggers at me, child, for I was but quoting from one of the cards. It came with the vase of gladiolus, if memory serves."

  "Then it is because of Ross—Lord St. Jerome," Addy said, a feeling of relief stealing over her. It would be all right, she thought, if the flowers were thanks offered on Ross's behalf.

  "No, Adalaide." Her aunt shook her head gently. " It is because of you. The flowers are for you, to thank you. They are your due, and you've only to accept and enjoy them."

  Addy was annoyed to find tears pricking her eyes. Her aunt might think the stunning tribute had naught to do with Ross, but she knew better. The flowers were an indication of the esteem with which he was held by Society, an esteem she felt had long been owed to the man who had sacrificed so much for a world that had treated him so cruelly.

  While she was coming to terms with her varying emotions, a footman came in bearing yet another floral tribute. Aunt Matilda was quick to snatch it up, the eager smile on her lips giving way to a smirk as she glanced at Addy.

  "Speaking of his lordship," she said, offering the flowers and the card accompanying them to Addy. "For you, my dear."

  Addy accepted the flowers curiously. Compared to the other flowers, the small bouquet of irises, placed in a delicate vase decorated with exquisitely painted thistles, was not much to speak of, but her breath caught in appreciation of its uncomplicated beauty. With hands that weren't quite steady, she unfolded the note and read:

  My dear Miss Terrington,

  These flowers are not so blue as your eyes, nor does their perfume compare with the sweetness of your smile, but I fear they shall have to do. I pray you will accept them in thanks for all that you have done.

  It was signed simply. Ross.

  "Oh, how beautiful," Addy sighed, her eyes glowing as she raised the flowers to her nose to inhale the spicy fragrance. "Have you ever seen anything so lovely, Aunt Matilda?"

  Her aunt studied her in satisfaction for several seconds before replying. "No, child, I cannot say that I have," she said smugly.

  There was no time to linger over the flowers, as a flood of visitors poured into the house. Addy spent the next several hours dispensing tea and entertaining the men who had come to pay her court. Naturally, the large number of men guaranteed an equal number of ladies would also call, and Addy was forced to send to the pastry shop to make sure all of her guests were properly fed. Finally, she and her aunt were alone, and she collapsed against the settee, her eyes closing in weariness.

  "I vow, if one more person comes through that door, I shall have them shot," Addy said with a disgruntled sigh. "Arm the servants, Aunt. Enough is enough."

  "'Tis too late to post sentries, Miss Terrington," Lord St. Jerome drawled from the doorway, his green eyes bright with laughter as he studied her. "The enemy has already landed."

  Addy's eyes opened at his voice, aware of a heavy warmth spreading through her at the sight of him. As if it possessed a will of its own, her gaze fixed itself on his mouth, and she found herself remembering the strength and wonder of his kiss.

  "Good day, my lord," she said, pulling her dignity about her as she sat up straight. "I am delighted to see you again. Thank you for the flowers. They are lovely."

  He glanced about the room, his expression darkening as he took note of the other flowers. "'Twould seem the thought was not as original as I had thought," he said with a low growl. "Who sent these, if I may ask?"

  "Oh, everyone," Addy said blithely. She possessed enough feminine pride to gloat over his obvious disapproval. "There are more in the dining room and in my study as well, if you would care to see them," she added, offering him a polite smile.

  His expression grew even blacker. "No, I thank you," he said, settling onto the chair nearest her. "I realize this is rather irregular, Miss Terrington," he began, his tone coldly formal as he met her gaze, "but might I have a word with you in private? I thought we might go for a walk, or a ride, if you would prefer. There are some things I should like to discuss with you."

  Addy hesitated. Her first inclination was to accept, for she rather relished the notion of being private with him. On the other hand it was, as he said, highly irregular, and she didn't want him to think she was lost to all propriety. She threaded her fingers together, her brows knitting as she tried to decide how to best reason out this conundrum.

  "I am afraid that won't be possible, my lord." Her aunt spoke first, giving Ross a regretful smile. "She has already promised Major Kelmston she would ride out with him, and it is past time she was getting ready."

  "Go on, child," she added when Addy gaped at her in confusion. "I will see his lordship safely out. Off with you, now. Shoo." She waved her hand in obvious dismissal.

  Aware she was being shamelessly maneuvered but uncertain what she should do about it, Addy had no choice but to follow her aunt's orders. "Very well, my lady," she said, her use of her aunt's rank subtly letting her aunt know of her displeasure. She also glanced at Ross, a genuine smile of regret on her lips as she offered him her hand.

  "Perhaps we might walk in the park tomorrow, my lord," she said, heart thundering as he rose to tower over her.

  "Aye," he agreed, his tanned fingers curving strongly about hers as he raised her hand to his lips. "Perhaps we might." He bent his head, but instead of kissing the back of her hand as she expected, he turned her hand over. Holding her gaze with his own, he touched his lips to her wrist.

  "Ride well, annsachd," he told her in a husky voice. "Pray give the major my best wishes. Tell him as well 'twould be a pity for him to have survived Coruña, only to fall in Hyde Park."

  Addy bent a suspicious look upon him. "What is that supposed to mean?" she demanded.

  He merely smiled, his green eyes full of masculine smugness. "Tell him, annsachd. He will know what it means."

  "He said that, did he?" Major Anthony Kelmston chuckled, light gray eyes bright with laughter as he grinned at Addy. "Aye, it sounds like the sergeant, true enough. Arrogant, decisive, and deadly."

  "But what is he referring to?" Addy pressed, intrigued at the way he had summed up Ross's complex nature in a few pithy words.

  The major glanced away, his handsome face taking on a distant look. "He refers to the retreat, Miss Terrington," he said, his deep voice reflective. "I was a lowly lieutenant then, with scarce the wits to wipe my own . . . nose. I was ordered to provide cover for the withdrawal of the Artillery, and almost got myself and the men under my command slaughtered instead. We'd been left for dead, and would doubtlessly have achieved that state had the sergeant not happened along to save our hides. You might say I owe him my life, and a great many other things as well."

  Addy bit her lip and looked across the rolling green expanse of lawn toward the elegant waters of the Serpentine. She'd read of the dangerous and desperate retreat across Portugal, and of the thousands of men who did not survive the journey, but until now she hadn't known Ross had been there.

  "I see," she said softly. "But what about his remark about your falling here in the park? Not planning on coming up a cropper, are you?" She'd made a light stab at humor, and was rewarded by another low chuckle from the major.

  "Not unless the sergeant makes good his threat and shoots me from my horse. And he could do it too, make no mistake," he added when Addy gave a strangled gasp. "All members of the Rifles are excellent shots, but Sergeant MacCailan was a legend amongst legends. Was it necessary to make a gentleman of him, ma'am? We stand in sore need of him over the next months."

  Addy knew he was referring to recent developments in Spain, and to the huge battle everyone said was but a few weeks away. The major had already mentioned he would be rejoining his regimen
t by week's end, and she knew several of the others would be sailing away as well. Sailing off to war, she thought, shivering delicately; off to their deaths, many of them. Would Ross sail away as well once he had done what Wellington wanted?

  "Miss Terrington?" The major had leaned forward to lightly touch her gloved hand. "Are you all right, ma'am?" he asked, his light brown eyebrows meeting in a worried frown.

  She tightened her hands around her reins, causing her placid mount to give a snort of annoyance. "I am fine, sir," she lied, scraping up a smile for his benefit. "My horse seems rather restive, and I fear I am a poor horsewoman at best."

  "I haven't given offense, have I?" the major asked, showing the keen sense of awareness Ross often displayed. "I was only teasing you, you know. Adamsleigh confided to me you are acting at the general's behest, and we are all of us more grateful than you may know. It will be a disaster if Wellington is recalled, ma'am. A disaster. Anything you can do to prevent that from happening will place all of England in your debt."

  Addy didn't know what to say. The notion of having an entire nation indebted to her was more than a trifle disconcerting. It strengthened her resolve, making it even more imperative that she not fail. They rode along in companionable silence for several seconds before she spoke again.

  "Major Kelmston, might I ask you a question?"

  "Of course, Miss Terrington. What is it?"

  "Colonel Adamsleigh mentioned he was bringing Lord St. Jerome a commission," she said, trying to keep the fear that was clawing at her out of her voice. "Does this mean his lordship is still in the Army? It was my understanding he was cashiered out when he came into his uncle's title. Or is the promotion an honorary one?" she added, a sudden hope stirring within her breast.

  "In a manner of speaking, I suppose you might say that," he agreed, his tone reflective. "St. Jerome is now a captain, although he at present has no company to command. But I daresay that shouldn't be much of a problem for him, eh?" he said, grinning engagingly at Addy. "With all the gold at his command, he could buy an entire regiment and the colonel's eagle to go with it if he was of a mind. And if I know the sergeant—captain, that is—that is precisely what he will do. The man is a soldier through and through."

  Addy's heart twisted painfully in her chest before plummeting to her toes. "Yes," she agreed, her shoulders slumping in defeat. "He is that."

  "I am not certain I take your meaning, Lady Fareham," Ross said, his voice carefully controlled as he faced the older woman across the tea table. "What do you mean Adalaide's future is in my hands?" He and the tart-tongued widow were sitting in the study, where she'd dragged him shortly after Addy had ridden off with that young fool, Anthony Kelmston. The lad was well enough, Ross supposed, but that didn't mean he approved of him and Adalaide riding off without so much as a maid to accompany them.

  "Come, sir," Lady Fareham said with a loud sniff, "you are a man of the world, and I am a lady in my dotage. If the pair of us cannot contrive to outwit the dear gel, all for her own good, mind, then of what use are we?"

  Ross shifted uneasily in his chair. All this talk of marriage in relation to Adalaide was making him decidedly uneasy. He wondered if Lady Fareham had seen him and her niece out in the garden, and this was her way of reminding him of his duty. If so, he considered her point well taken, but that didn't mean he intended surrendering without first mounting a proper defense. He folded his arms across his chest and sent her a challenging scowl.

  "But if Adalaide has chosen to remain unwed, then who are we to gainsay her?" he asked coolly. "'Tis her life, is it not?"

  Lady Fareham shook a gnarled finger at him. "Don't be anymore foolish than you can help being, young man," she said sharply. "No lady with half a brain in her head wants to be married, but what other choice has she? It's the way of the world, I am sad to say, and there is not a blessed thing we can do about it. If Adalaide is to have the smallest chance of happiness in this life, it is as a married lady. You say you owe her much, and so you do. All I am asking is that you repay that debt. Are you going to do this, or are you not?"

  With that put so bluntly before him, Ross accepted there was nothing he could do. "Are you saying you wish me to marry your niece in order to repay my debt to her?" he demanded. If he was to be dragooned into marriage, he wanted it understood he knew that was precisely what was going on.

  "Of course not! I certainly said no such thing!"

  Ross shook his head, certain his hearing had played him false. "But my lady, you said—"

  "Men are such singularly thickheaded creatures," Lady Fareham opined, mimicking his stance by folding her arms across her chest and meeting him scowl for scowl. " Tis no small wonder to me you are always making wars upon one another. You haven't an ounce of common sense among you."

  Ross clenched his jaw so hard, 'twas a wonder to him it did not snap. "I beg your pardon, madam, but I—"

  "What I said, young man," she continued, "and what I expect you to do, is to help Adalaide find herself a husband amongst the fine young men she has flitting about her. You know most of them, do you not? Simply chose one, and leave the rest to me. Really, it is the simplest thing in the world! I cannot see why you insist upon making a Cheltenham tragedy out of it all."

  "You want me to choose Adalaide a husband?" Ross was on his feet, staring down at her in shock. The woman was mad, he decided. No wonder Adalaide could be so strong-headed at times. Her family had left the rearing of her to a Bedlamite.

  "Indeed I do," Lady Fareham said, nodding approvingly. "You see? It is not so difficult to understand once you approach the matter logically."

  "Logically!" The word burst from his lips in a frustrated growl. "I doubt, my lady, if you even know the meaning of the word! And I thought Adalaide the most stubborn and willful female on the face of this earth." He threw himself back on to his seat with a muttered imprecation in Gaelic. If he thought to give offense, 'twas plain he had underestimated his hostess. The older lady fair preened at his words.

  "Of course, it is how I taught her to be. Although"—she frowned—"I fear 'tis a lesson the dear child has learned all too well. Convincing her to change her mind will be no easy task. But never fear, my lord," she said, offering Ross a bright smile. "I am sure you are more than equal to the task."

  Ross stared at the older lady in sudden suspicion. "What sort of rig are you running, Ma'am?"

  "None whatsoever, my lord," Lady Fareham assured him with a serene look. "Now finish your tea. Adalaide will soon be returning, and we've much to accomplish before she does. Why are you looking at me like that?" she added, as Ross continued studying her with hard-eyed scrutiny.

  "I was wondering, ma'am, why we men are so foolish as to leave you ladies out of the Army, when if we left the running of the war to you, you would have all accomplished within a fortnight." He picked up the tea he had discarded earlier and took a thoughtful sip. "Doubtlessly 'tis because we are the slow-witted, thickheaded creatures that you name us," he added, flashing her a companionable smile.

  Lady Fareham tilted her head to one side. "Yes," she said, smiling approvingly in return. "That is what it must be."

  They continued chatting, and Ross felt himself warming to the older woman. This would be Adalaide in a few decades, he mused, feeling an odd pang at the thought he'd not be there to see it. Thinking of that made him think of something else, and he slanted her a curious look.

  "Now what is it, lad?" she asked with an impatient sigh. "I vow, you are the most annoying man, always staring at a person as if you would know their innermost secrets."

  He smiled. When he'd been a sergeant, such conduct had been called presumptuous, and had usually earned him a quick backhand across the face. Now 'twas an annoying habit.

  "I was trying to remember, my lady, if Adalaide ever mentioned your precise rank to me," he said, for it was more or less the truth. "I know you are widowed and stand as her chaperon, but that is all I know of you."

  "Oh, is that all?" Her shoulders shifted in
an indifferent shrug. "Well, 'tis no great mystery, I can tell you that much. I was married at the age of seventeen to the Earl of Fareham, a gentleman three times my age. He needed an heir, you see, and decided I would do quite nicely. We were wed eleven years, and in all that time I bore five babes, all of whom died within a few days. He was quite put out, convinced he'd made a bad bargain, and had me sent away. He died some fourteen years later, and I never saw him again. A distant cousin inherited the title, I believe, and he sent me a small stipend to make certain I wouldn't lay a claim against the estate."

  Ross wasn't certain what he should say. There wasn't a trace of emotion in the older lady's voice; merely a simple recitation of the facts. Yet he felt as if he should say something. He studied her lined face and her proud, tired eyes before speaking.

  "I am sorry, my lady, for the babes you lost," he said in a soft voice. "It must have been hard."

  Her teacup rattled in her hand. "It was hell," she said quietly. "But when Adalaide came to live with me, it was almost like having a daughter of my own. That is why I am so determined she should marry, and well. A woman alone is a woman without power, and I don't want that for her."

  It occurred to Ross he had been presented the perfect opportunity to repay both ladies for the kindness they had shown him. He had to marry someone, he told himself. Why should it not be Adalaide? She was a lady, was she not? And thanks to his uncle's gold, her lack of a dowry would prove no great matter. There was the matter of her sharp tongue and willful ways to be considered, but he'd grown rather fond of both in the past weeks, and so he could dismiss them as well.

  Then there was the physical side of marriage, he thought, smiling in memory of the single kiss they had shared. He'd never known such pain and such pleasure, and the idea of having her in his bed was a temptation too sweet to resist. Yes, he decided, his pulses racing with the heady anticipation he usually felt before a battle, he would do it. He would marry Adalaide. All that remained now was convincing his intended bride she wanted to marry him. A difficult task to be certain, but as he'd already told Adalaide, he was accustomed to fighting for what he wanted. He would wait until the vote to insure that Wellington remained in command was secured, and then he would begin a campaign of his own. A campaign that promised the sweetest of all possible rewards to the victor.