The Scotsman and the Spinster

by Joan Overfield

  "Adalaide!" Her name was torn from his anguished throat. He began to run, shoving aside anyone foolish enough to get in his way. He was halfway up the Visitors Staircase when he once more found his path blocked, this time by an ill-clothed behemoth of a man who stood grinning down at him with a wide, broken-toothed smile.

  "Not to worry, Cap'n," the giant told Ross. "I've yer ladyship right here." He dragged forth a small, struggling bundle of outraged femininity.

  "Let me go, you great bear of a bully!" Adalaide was swinging her rather battered-looking reticule at the man's arms. "How dare you accost a lady!"

  "Adalaide." Ross was uncertain whether to laugh or cry. Her small plumed bonnet was sadly crushed, and her spectacles sat askew on her flushed face. When she heard his voice she turned and looked at him, her expression of indignation giving way to one of relief.

  "Ross, you must have this ruffian taken up at once!" she said, pulling desperately to free her arm. "A fine world we have when an unprotected female cannot listen to a political speech without being inopportuned!"

  "I will look into the matter for you, my dear," he managed, fighting the ridiculous urge to laugh. Here he'd been terrified Adalaide was in danger of being crushed, and when he finally found her, she was dressing down a man nearly twice her size.

  "I have her now, sir, I thank you," Ross said, holding his hand out to the other man. "I assume you are one of the soldiers hired by Corporal Collier to follow Miss Terrington?"

  "Aye, Cap'n." The giant saluted, nearly felling several passersby who were attempting to make their way around him. "George Barker, sir, at yer service!"

  "My compliments, Mr. Barker," Ross replied, calmly reaching out and plucking Adalaide from the giant's grasp. "Do you like horses, Mr. Barker?"

  "Horses, sir?" Mr. Barker scratched his lantern-size jaw and squinted in thought. "Aye, reckons as I do."

  "When you report to Mr. Collier tell him you are to be sent to the home farm," Ross said decisively, eager to reward the other man. "They have need of a man to assist the smithy, and you look as if you'd do well. Provided you've a taste for country life, that is?" he added hopefully.

  Beefy shoulders lifted and fell in an indifferent shrug. "Anything's better'n Lunnon, sir. Thank you." He saluted Ross once more, and bobbed a rather elegant bow in Adalaide's direction, before bounding down the steps with enough enthusiasm to set the whole structure shaking.

  Adalaide watched him for a few seconds and then turned back to Ross. "Who is Mr. Collier?" she demanded, squinting up at Ross. "Why was that man following me? And what are you doing up here when you ought to be down on the Speaker's Floor receiving the best wishes of your colleagues?"

  Ross's lips twitched. He wanted to shake her until her teeth rattled for giving him such a fright. He wanted to hold her close and kiss her senseless because he was so relieved to see her unharmed. But since he could do neither, he reached out and gently straightened her spectacles.

  "Mr. Collier is my valet," he answered calmly. "That man was following you because I pay him to. And I am up here with you, leannan, because I thought you were going to be crushed and I came up to rescue you."

  "Oh." She shoved her spectacles back on her nose and frowned. "Well, as you can see, I am fine. Go back to your friends. I am sure they will be needing to speak with you." And then a smile, bright and glorious as the sun, broke out over her face.

  "Oh, Ross, you were wonderful!" she said, her eyes shining as she gazed up at him. "Your speech had the men about me in tears! I am so proud of you."

  Ross's heart swelled with emotion. "Are you, annsachd?" he asked softly. "You must know 'tis all due to you. Were it not for you, I could never have accomplished half of what I have."

  She shook her head, gently refuting his words. "No. 'Tis you. It was always you. You are what you have always been; a man of great nobility and character. You will go far, my lord. Very far."

  Ross wasn't sure he cared for her words, for they sounded to him to be words of farewell. He took a deep breath, his hand trembling as he reached out to touch the bright red silk of her hair. "Adalaide, I—"

  "Miss Terrington! Lord St. Jerome!"

  Lord Hixworth came bounding toward them, followed by Falconer and the Duke of Creshton.

  "Are you all right, Miss Terrington?" Hixworth took Adalaide's hand and was gazing down at her worriedly. "When Lord Falconer told me you'd been caught in the crush, I almost swooned from fear! I would never have brought you here had I known you would be in any danger."

  Eager to have someone to blame for the afternoon's fiasco, Ross nailed the younger man with a chilling glance. "You brought her here?" he asked, his voice low with fury.

  Hixworth gave a stiff nod. "Yes, my lord, I did."

  The earl's willingness to accept responsibility for the foolishness of his actions soothed some of the anger in Ross's breast, but he was still far from mollified. "If she'd been hurt, lad, I should have been most displeased with you," he said softly. "Do you take my meaning?"

  Hixworth blanched. "Yes, my lord, I do,"

  "Oh, for pity's sake!" Adalaide was glaring at them both. "Will you stop terrorizing his lordship? It was my decision to attend your speech; does this mean you shall scold and threaten me?"

  Ross glanced back at her, smiling at her cross expression. "Aye, leannan," he said, his spirits soaring at the thought. "But not here. As you have reminded me, I still have a duty to carry out. The vote is waiting to be called. But," he added, flashing her a meaningful look, "we will talk. Never doubt that for one moment. We will talk."

  "So, that's it, then," Aunt Matilda said, sighing in satisfaction as she folded the morning paper and set it to one side. "Congratulations, my dear, you have done it!"

  "Thank you, Aunt," Addy replied, scraping up a smile for her aunt's benefit. In truth she'd never felt less like smiling in her life, but she knew there was no way she could tell the other woman that without also telling her why.

  The papers were full of the vote to recall Wellington, and the fact that it had gone down to resounding defeat. Ross's speech had been printed verbatim, and there was a great deal of praise for the "much-honored officer." It was all they could have hoped for and more, but Addy was of no mind to celebrate.

  Two days had passed since Ross's speech in Parliament. Two days during which she never left the house, waiting eagerly for a caller who never came. She knew he was busy; Lord Hixworth, who had bothered to call, kept her apprised of Ross's activities. She knew he was spending most of his days with Lord Creshton and the others, and a glance in the morning journals explained how he was spending his nights. Ross had become the darling of London Society, and he was feted everywhere he went. Small wonder, she thought, that he should have no time for her.

  "I've been thinking, and I've decided it might be just the thing if we have a party to celebrate his lordship's victory," Aunt Matilda said, tapping a thoughtful finger to her chin. "Nothing grand, mind, no more than twenty or thirty people, I should think."

  Addy stirred with interest as she contemplated her aunt's suggestion. Since most of the ton knew of her and her aunt's association with Ross, it would doubtlessly look odd if they didn't sponsor some sort of celebration for him. And, the secret part of her whispered slyly, if they did host such a party, then the wretch would have no choice but to attend. As things now stood, it might be her only opportunity to see him.

  "That is an excellent idea!" she said, her spirits lifting with excitement. "When should we have it, do you think?"

  "Oh, sooner rather than later, I should say," her aunt replied with a careless wave of her hand. "I shall leave it up to you to determine what is best."

  Addy hastily excused herself and hurried up to her study, eager to begin work. She spent the next two hours composing her guest list and planning the menu. Upon consideration, she decided to serve only Scottish food, in honor of Ross's homeland. She scratched a separate note to remind herself to speak with Cook about which foods to prepare. She wasn't cer
tain what that might involve, although she had heard rumors of something called a haggis. But that sounded so horridly disgusting, she was fair certain it couldn't possibly exist.

  Once she decided upon the menu, she decided to make the entire evening a celebration of all things Scots. Fortunately, Scottish reels and the like were much in vogue, so finding musicians who knew how to play would be no problem. A bagpipe would be a nice touch, she thought, scribbling down more notes. She'd heard one once at a recital, and thought it quite the most stirring thing she had ever heard. Its sound had been both bold and mournful, and listening to its plaintive notes had all but brought tears to her eyes.

  Perhaps that was one of the reasons she loved Ross, she mused, cupping her chin in her hand and staring dreamily off into space. Like the music of his land, he was wild and untamed, full of a rich and dark beauty underscored by deep and discordant undertones. The fanciful notion, so foreign to her usual practical nature, had her chuckling. She would next take to composing odes, she thought, her lips curving in wicked delight. To his eyes, perhaps; as green as emeralds, as cold as frost. Or to his smile; mischievous as a lad's and wicked as a rake's, depending upon his mercurial moods.

  She continued working on her lists and dreaming over Ross. Her love was still new and quite precious to her, and with each passing day she learned some new and fascinating aspect of that love. For example, she learned that while she loved Ross with every fiber of her being, she could still be thoroughly hipped with him. The full measure of her love wasn't in the least diluted by her annoyance, nor was it particularly affected by the knowledge her love wasn't returned. If anything, that only added to the poignancy of that love, and she clutched it protectively to her heart.

  She was busy copying out the invitations when the maid came to tell her Mr. Wellford had arrived for his daily lesson.

  "Oh, dear, I forgot he was coming!" she exclaimed, setting down her quill and frowning. She was tempted to send her regrets, but upon reflection she decided it would not do. Being in love was no excuse to neglect her duties, she told herself, and went down to the drawing room to meet her pupil.

  "No more, Creshton, do you hear me? I've done my duty to the general, and that is the end of it!" Ross stood in the center of the duke's massive study, his hands clenched in fury. He'd arrived at his grace's home a few minutes earlier in response to the duke's summons. Thinking the older man wanted only to gloat over their triumph, he was somewhat taken aback when instead the duke presented him with a list of balls and the like he was expected to attend.

  "Nonsense, lad," Creshton responded in his hearty way. "You're soldier enough to know that so long as the enemy is standing one's duty is never truly done. And what's so terrible, eh? A few balls, a house party or two; it's not like I'm asking you to storm the citadel, you know."

  Ross was tempted to reply he'd already stormed a citadel, thank you very much, and that he far preferred that activity to attending any more tiresome balls. Drawing himself up, he gave the duke a cool look.

  "Your grace," he began formally, "I've done what I said I would do, and would do more if 'twere truly needed. But it is not. I am done."

  The duke leaned back in his chair, his expression thoughtful as he studied Ross. "Yes," he said slowly. "I can see that you are. Ah, well." He broke into a wide grin. "As I told Falconer, it was worth a try."

  Ross hesitated, not certain what to make of the other man's response. "Then you do not mind?" he asked cautiously.

  "Oh, to be sure, my lord, to be sure," the older man said with a shrug, "but there is not a great deal I can do about it, is there? If you don't wish to go, then that is the end of it."

  Ross shifted on his feet, studying the duke through narrowed eyes. He suspected he was being cleverly manipulated, and he liked it not at all. The duke met his assessing stare with guileless innocence, and Ross gave a reluctant smile.

  "The devil take you for a conniver, your grace," he said, shaking his head. "One more ball, and then I am truly done."

  "Good of you, lad, good of you." The duke beamed at him, offering him an invitation. "The Duke of York will be expecting you tomorrow evening. Oh, and wear your uniform, won't you? Old Billy is dashed fond of uniforms."

  Ross accepted the invitation in silence, damning himself for a fool. Had he known the invitation was from the prince's foulmouthed and mulish brother, he would have clung to his original refusal with a great deal more determination. However, having given his word, he was well and truly trapped. There was no going back on it now.

  Never one to brood over that which could not be changed, Ross set aside his anger and sat down to sip port with the duke. The older man was regaling him with some new mischief his beloved daughter, Elinore, had fallen into when the Marquess of Falconer came striding into the room.

  "Falconer, old fellow, do be seated," the duke greeted him with a gregarious wave of his sherry glass. "I was just telling St. Jerome here how Elinore near came to blows with my neighbor over his treatment of his horse!"

  "The neighbor fled in terror, I assume," Falconer observed, and then turned to Ross, his remote eyes alive with fury.

  "My apologies to you, my lord," he said, bowing in Ross's direction. "It seems I gave you a poor piece of advice, and it has come back to haunt us all. You should have run that devil through when you had the chance."

  Ross could think only one devil in sad want of running through, and set his glass down with exaggerated care. "What has my cousin done now?" he asked, rising slowly to his feet.

  "I have no real proof it was he," Falconer warned, "and the rumors have only just reached my ears. But I knew you would want to know the moment I caught wind of it."

  "What is the burdeach saying of me now?" Ross asked wearily, thinking he should kill his cousin for no reason other than he was proving so tedious.

  "It's not you he is gossiping about this time." The grimness in Falconer's voice alerted Ross. "He has found a new target to wound with his poisonous tongue."

  "Who?" Ross asked, although he already guessed the answer.

  "It is Miss Terrington. The talk in the clubs is that she is your mistress."

  Ross heard Creshton's gasp of outrage, but he ignored it. In his mind his hands were already about Atherton's neck, tightening slowly as he choked the breath out of the bastard. This time he would not be stopped, he vowed. Atherton was a dead man.

  "Where is he?" His voice was cold, almost indifferent, as he turned to Falconer.

  "No one knows," Falconer said, his lips thinning. "I know he was staying at an inn off Wigmore Street, but he has disappeared without a trace. I am sorry."

  He would speak with Nevil, Ross decided with that same icy calm. He'd had the man under close observation for the past several weeks, and if anyone knew where he was to be found, it would be the corporal.

  "Your forgiveness, your grace," Falconer said to the duke, "but I need to be private with St. Jerome."

  "Of course, of course," the duke said, nodding. "Let me know if there is anything I can do to be of assistance."

  Ross collected his hat and gloves from the butler and hurried outside where Falconer's carriage was waiting.

  "There is no need for you to accompany me, sir," Ross told the marquess coolly. "I know what needs to be done, and I am more than willing to do it. Good day to you."

  Falconer eyed him coolly. "If you are referring to killing your cousin, I assure you that can wait. You've more pressing matters to attend to at the moment."

  Ross shot him a startled look. "What can be more important than murdering that disgusting piece of cacc? "

  "Salvaging Miss Terrington's reputation. Surely you didn't think breaking Atherton's neck is the only remedy that is needed?" he added as Ross continued gaping at him. "Miss Terrington's good name has been sullied, and no amount of killing will change that fact. If you wish to save her, then you must marry her as soon as it can be arranged. There is no other way."

  The calm words struck Ross like the blade of a clay
more. He'd decided days ago to make Addy his bride, and so it was no great matter for him to make the offer. What did matter, and what ate at his soul like acid, was the fact that she no longer had the option of refusing. It was then that the truth exploded in Ross's heart.

  "My God," he said, so thunderstruck he didn't bother to censor his words. "I love her."

  Rather than being shocked, or worse still, amused, Falconer merely gave a brief nod. "Yes, I rather thought that you might. Now, sir, how do you mean to get her to accept you?"

  In answer Ross climbed into the carriage, and after giving the coachman Adalaide's address, Falconer climbed in after him. The journey was blessedly brief, and the wheels of the carriage had scarce stopped turning before Ross leapt out of the carriage and raced up the steps to the house. The butler barely had time to open the door before Ross was pushing his way inside.

  "Adalaide?" he demanded of the startled major-domo. "Where is she?"

  "M-Miss Terrington is in the drawing room, my lord," Williams stammered, wide-eyed at Ross's fierce expression. "I-I can announce you, sir, if you would like."

  "I can announce myself, I thank you," Ross said, and strode down the hall to the small room where he had spent so many happy and frustrating hours. Without knocking he pushed the door open with considerable force, and stalked over to where Adalaide was standing. She'd leapt to her feet at his entrance, and was staring at him in astonishment.

  "My lord, what are you doing here?" she demanded, laying a hand over her heart as if to calm its pounding.

  Ross stared at her, trying to think of how to soften his words. He took a deep breath and then said, "We are getting married."

  She blinked at him owlishly. "I beg your pardon."

  He scowled. "Did you no' hear me? I said we're getting married. Fetch your cloak and bonnet that we may leave."

  Instead of running into his arms with a delighted cry as he wished, or shrieking down the house in rage as he'd expected, she turned to the stunned young man standing uncertainly at her side.