“I think I’d better get ready for dinner,” Donella said.
After another curtsy, she fled the room with impressive haste, all but leaving a dust trail in her wake.
“You’re an idiot,” Logan said. “And you embarrassed the poor girl. You’re worse than Angus.”
Nick grinned. “Nobody’s worse than Angus.”
“It won’t work, you know. I have no intention of getting married again.” As much as Logan was attracted to Donella, he’d made that decision long ago.
His brother strolled over to his desk. “She’s a perfectly lovely girl from a splendid family. And from what I’ve heard, you get along exceedingly well.”
“Who the hell told you that?”
Nick sat down and started sorting through his mail. “You need a wife, Logan, and Joseph needs a mother.”
“Joseph has all the family he needs. And if you start playing matchmaker, I’ll toss you out the bloody window.”
“Victoria likes her, too,” Nick said as he slit open a letter and began to read.
Logan waved an arm. “Donella wants to become a nun, for God’s sake.”
“Perhaps you could change her mind,” Nick absently replied.
Logan stared at him with disbelief before turning on his heel and stalking from the room.
Chapter Seventeen
Logan listened to Donella and Joseph chat like old friends. His son was wedged between them in Logan’s curricle, and the lad’s attention was all for his new favorite as Logan drove them back from their outing at Mugdock Castle.
He’d arranged the visit as a special treat, hoping to spend time with both his son and Donella. But Joseph had largely ignored his father, holding Donella’s hand as she’d shown him about the ancestral home of Clan Graham. The two had had a splendid time, while Logan had served as the mostly silent coachman and escort.
True to her word, Donella had involved Joseph in planning the Gilbride holiday parties. Logan had only discovered today that his son lurked outside Donella’s door every morning, waiting for her to appear. She didn’t seem to mind, clearly returning Joseph’s affection.
Idiot that he was, Logan was jealous, and not simply because Joseph preferred Donella’s company. As much as he wanted to be with his son, he also wanted to spend time with Donella—a lot of time.
It was Nick’s fault, damn him. Ever since his brother suggested that Logan should marry the lass, he couldn’t get the notion out of his head. When he wasn’t worrying about Joseph, he was thinking about Donella.
The same could not be said about her. Donella had no problem keeping her attention firmly away from him, avoiding his presence whenever possible.
A small elbow dug into his side. “Papa, are you listening to me?”
Logan transferred the reins to one hand and patted his son on the knee. “Laddie boy, I always listen to you.”
The boy raised a skeptical eyebrow in a dead accurate imitation of the look Donella often leveled at Logan.
“Then what did I just say?”
“You were speculating on the likelihood of stopping at the sweet shop for some cake.”
“Well done, sir,” Donella said, amused.
“I am capable of doing more than two things at once. On rare occasions, even three.”
“I will file that for future reference,” she dryly replied.
“So, we can stop for a treat?” As always, his son remained focused on his priorities.
“If Donella doesn’t object.”
“I’d love a treat,” she said.
Logan’s kind of treat would involve smooth, pale skin, shiny auburn curls, and lacy underthings.
Get your mind out of the gutter, man.
He refocused on his son. “Then the pastry shop it is.”
Joseph wriggled with delight, sending his lap blanket sliding off. “Aunt Vicky says Monroe’s has the best French pastries.”
Donella retrieved the blanket and tucked it securely around Joseph’s waist. Given the unusually mild weather for December, the wool plaid was barely necessary. Up at Castle Kinglas, snow would already be dusting the peaks around Loch Long. Glasgow, however, was enjoying a bout of temperate weather that boded ill for little boys longing for sledding and skating. Joseph had become so worried about the lack of snow that Logan had been forced to reassure him that they would travel to Kinglas immediately after the holidays.
“Since your aunt Vicky is invariably correct about everything,” Logan said, “we will repair to Monroe’s.”
Joseph tilted his head to study him. “Papa, sometimes you talk funny.”
“Funnier than Grandda?” Logan teased.
Joseph looked straight ahead. “I like the way Grandda talks. And he always tells me the truth.”
Logan looked at his son, startled by the lad’s solemn tone. “Joseph, I always tell you the truth, too.”
“Whatever you say, Papa.”
The response was so quiet Logan could barely hear it, and it made his heart sink. He’d never lied to his son, at least not deliberately. Had someone suggested he had?
Frustrated, he repressed the urge to question the boy. This wasn’t the time or place, and he didn’t want to ruin the day. But when he glanced at Joseph again, and saw his lower lip quivering, his gut turned inside out. It seemed he’d lost the knack of being a parent—if he’d ever had it.
After throwing Logan a troubled glance, Donella put her arm around Joseph’s shoulders.
“Have you thought about what you’d like to order at Monroe’s?” she brightly asked. “I’m going to have trouble choosing, because everything there is so good.”
Joseph gave her a cautious smile. “What sort of treats do they have?”
“Let me think,” Donella said in a pondering tone. “There are the éclairs, which are splendid. And the macaroons are also delicious. I don’t know that I’ve ever had better.”
Joseph perked up. “I’ve never had an éclair. What’s it like?”
Donella rattled off descriptions of éclairs and other pastries, explaining each one in delectable detail. By the time they reached Glasgow, Joseph’s good humor was restored. The woman was a miracle worker, and as sweet as one of the pastries she described.
They pulled up on a busy street lined with shops. The groom jumped down to help Donella and Joseph to the pavement, and then climbed into the driver’s seat after Logan gave him instructions to take the carriage back to Kendrick House.
“I hope you don’t mind walking,” Logan said to Donella. “But I’d rather the horses not stand about, waiting for us.”
She winked at Joseph. “The walk will do us good after we’ve stuffed ourselves, don’t you think?”
The boy nodded enthusiastically before taking Donella’s hand and pulling her into Monroe’s without a backward glance at his father. Logan shook his head and followed them into the sweet shop.
Monroe’s bustling front room was filled with elegantly dressed ladies and mostly elderly gentlemen. An aisle ran between the tables and the glass display cases loaded with elaborate pastries and cakes. Waiters rushed back and forth, bearing silver trays with tea services and tiered cake plates.
Logan followed Donella and Joseph to the back room, which was more spacious than expected and filled with parquet tables and delicate, shield-backed chairs. The walls were painted in pale shades of pink and green and hung with framed prints of Parisian scenes. The establishment obviously catered to the Glasgow elite, unlike the coffee shops he tended to frequent. Those mostly served businessmen and merchants.
A harassed-looking waiter in a starched apron edged in front of him.
“Can I help you?” he haughtily asked, flicking a glance over Logan’s driving outfit. “Sir?”
Logan swallowed a snort. Clearly, the staff at Monroe’s took themselves a little too seriously.
“I see my party is already seated in the back. Your help is not required.”
The waiter barely nodded before rushing off.
Josep
h waved to him. “Hurry up, Papa.”
Logan gingerly settled into one of the absurdly delicate chairs, praying it didn’t collapse under his weight. “Hungry, are we?”
“Famished,” said Joseph with all the drama of a six-year-old. “And Donella is, too.”
“I could eat half the contents of the display case,” she said, smiling at the boy.
“I could eat the other half,” Joseph replied.
“No doubt, but we’d best leave room for dinner, or your aunt Vicky will make us eat gruel for a week.”
Joseph giggled and reached across the table to take her hand. “Now you’re just being silly.”
She closed both her hands over his little fingers. “I do tend to be silly when I’m hungry.”
Joseph’s boyish adoration for Donella was both heartwarming and unnerving. Logan’s son had attached himself to the lass, just as he had to his uncle Nick. The difference was that Nick would always be there for Joseph, whereas Donella’s future was still uncertain.
Her impending departure, whether to a convent or even back to Blairgal, would hold negative consequences for the lad. She could be yet another terrible loss for him, because Donella had somehow reached the lonely place inside Joseph that no one else had been able to touch.
He needs her, which means you need her, too.
Donella gave Logan a quizzical smile. “Is something wrong, sir?”
“Just wondering where the bloody waiter is.”
She raised a hand to catch a waiter’s attention. “Language, Mr. Kendrick.”
When Logan blew out an exaggerated sigh at the mild reprimand, Joseph giggled again.
God, it was so good to hear his son laugh and once more be the little boy who needn’t worry about anything but whether there would be snow for Christmas.
Logan watched the wee tyke who meant everything to him and the almost-nun who’d turned his life upside down, and finally admitted the stark truth. He would do whatever it took to keep Joseph happy. If that meant keeping the bonny lass in their lives, by hook or by crook he would do it.
“I cannot say I am much impressed with the service,” Donella said when the waiter ignored her. “I do hope the pastries make up for it.”
Logan twisted in his chair, glaring toward the front room. Fortunately, another waiter came through the doorway and hurried toward them, apologizing for the delay. After taking their order, he returned shortly with the tea things, then hurried off to fetch their sweets.
Logan and Donella chatted amiably about her progress on the holiday parties. He was so busy thinking about how pretty she was—and planning his campaign to persuade her to marry him—that it took some time to notice that Joseph had fallen silent.
“What’s the matter, lad?” he asked when he caught the boy peering uncertainly at one of the other tables.
“Papa, why is that woman scowling at us?” Joseph whispered.
Logan resisted the temptation to turn around and look.
“I’m guessing it’s because I’m such a big lummox, and she’s wondering if I’m going to break my chair. We Kendricks are rather famous for destroying the furniture, you know.”
It was a standard joke around town that hostesses quaked in fear whenever the twins arrived at a party.
“I don’t think that’s why,” Joseph said.
Donella leaned sideways so she could see around Logan. “Oh, I see who it is. Just ignore her, Joseph. That particular woman is always glaring at someone.”
Even though her tone was mild, Logan couldn’t miss Donella’s suddenly stiff posture. Nor could he miss the way his son was shrinking back in his chair, as if trying to disappear.
Slowly, he turned to meet the malevolent gaze of one of the biggest gossips in Glasgow. Seated with two other ladies, Mrs. Ferguson was the wife of a wealthy landowner from Dumfries. She’d tried to cause trouble for the Kendricks a few years ago by spreading ugly rumors about Royal and his adopted daughter, Tira. Nick had delivered a stern message to Mr. Ferguson, putting an immediate end to the worst of it, and the remaining gossip had eventually died down.
From her expression, it was obvious the woman loathed the Kendricks as much as ever.
“Good afternoon, Mrs. Ferguson,” he drawled. “You appear to be suffering a touch of dyspepsia. Maybe you’d best go home and lie down.”
Her eyes narrowed to outraged slits, and her complexion turned blotchy.
“Well, I never,” huffed one of her companions, a middle-aged woman wearing an overtrimmed bonnet. “Such deplorable manners. So typical.”
Logan casually braced an arm on the back of his chair. “Forgive me, ma’am. Do we know each other?”
“We do not, sir,” she replied stiffly.
Logan flashed her a toothy smile. “How fortunate for both of us.”
“Mr. Kendrick, your tea,” Donella said in a firm voice.
Logan narrowed his gaze on the women, letting it linger for a few seconds before turning back to the table. Donella held out his teacup with a long-suffering expression. Joseph looked like he wanted to crawl under the table and hide.
“Thank you.” He took the cup. “And Donella has the right of it, lad. Just ignore them and enjoy your tea.”
Joseph stared down at his cup. “Those ladies don’t seem to like us very much.”
“Och, just a pair of old biddies. Best not look at them or you’ll turn into stone.”
Joseph blinked, obviously confused by Logan’s observation.
Donella patted his hand. “Your father is just being silly, dearest. It’s probably best that you ignore him, too.”
“Excellent advice, because you never know what shocking things I’m going to say next,” Logan said, winking at his son.
“Or do.” A subtle warning laced her tone.
Don’t make a scene.
Making a scene happened to be a Kendrick specialty.
Fortunately, their waiter arrived with a tray laden with pastries and cakes. They’d gone rather overboard on the ordering, but Logan was determined to spoil his son.
Donella smiled at Joseph. “My goodness. You’ll have to roll me out of here if I eat more than my share of these.”
Logan had a sudden vision of Donella rolling around in his bed. Naked, of course, because that’s the way his brain worked.
He closed his eyes, trying to control his idiotic imaginings. He was on a public outing, with his son, no less, and yet he was visualizing how he would bed the primmest woman he’d ever met. There was only one explanation—he was losing his mind.
“Papa, is something wrong?”
Logan opened his eyes. “I’m trying to decide where to start. What do you think? The éclairs?”
When Joseph enthusiastically nodded, Logan transferred an éclair, two macaroons, and a piece of plum cake onto the boy’s plate. Joseph picked up the gooey éclair and crammed half of it into his mouth.
“Careful, laddie,” Logan said, trying not to laugh. “You’ll choke yourself.”
Blissfully unaware of the chocolate smeared on his lips, the boy nodded, his mouth too full to speak.
Donella dabbed at his face with a serviette. Joseph suffered it before taking another huge bite.
For a minute or so, Logan was too busy enjoying his son’s pleasure to notice the buzz of rising voices in the room. But then he mentally slammed into a wall when one particular word seared his brain. Donella’s gasp told him that she’d heard it, too.
As had Joseph, since the boy’s fork clattered to the plate. He wiped a hand over his mouth, then stared fiercely down at the table, trying not to cry.
Fury rose inside Logan like a raging summer storm. He came to his feet and turned to face what he hated most in the world—someone who robbed his sweet boy of innocence.
“What did you call my son?” he asked Mrs. Ferguson.
He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t need to, as her frightened expression revealed. But quickly self-righteous hatred replaced her fear, contorting her features into an u
gly mask.
“You heard me, sir,” she said. “No decent person would bring such a child into a civilized establishment.”
Every other patron in the room froze. Their waiter rushed in from the other room, but one glance from Logan stopped him dead in his tracks.
“Mrs. Ferguson, I asked you a question,” Logan said. “I insist on an answer.”
The woman’s companion laid a warning hand on her arm. “Dorothea, perhaps you shouldn’t. He seems like a thoroughly rude and unpleasant man.”
The old harpy shook off the restraining hand and glared at Logan. “I will not be driven off by you and your . . .”
“My?” he prompted.
“Heathen child,” she spat out.
Logan took a step forward, but a sharp tug on his sleeve brought him up short. Joseph had slipped from his chair and now clutched his arm.
“Papa, please don’t,” he whispered.
Truthfully, Logan hadn’t been sure what he was going to do, consumed by the anger roaring through him and the pain of seeing his son’s pale, anguished face. He wanted to make the world safe for Joseph, to shield the lad from those who hated him simply for who he was.
And he hadn’t a damn clue how to do that.
“Joseph, please come sit by me,” Donella said, reaching over to take the boy’s hand. She glanced up at Logan. “Mr. Kendrick, your tea is getting cold.”
Her challenging gaze silently urged him to step back from the brink—to think of Joseph before his guilt-fueled anger.
He mustered a smile as brittle as thinning ice and patted his son on the head. “Aye, go sit with Donella, lad.”
Logan resumed his seat and forced himself to take a gulp of his tepid tea. Donella laid Joseph’s serviette across his lap, all the while talking soothing, cheerful nonsense. He barely heard the words, too busy watching his son.
When Joseph refused to meet his gaze, Logan’s heart plummeted right through his heels and drilled into the floor. What a cock-up he’d made of things—again. Only Donella’s quick action had saved him from doing something monumentally stupid.
The waiter approached their table, nervously smoothing his hands over his starched apron. “Is there anything else I can get you, sir?”
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