Chapter 7
It was rather a good thing they didn’t have to change trains in Inverness, because Lysander was enjoying having her head pillowed against his shoulder far more than he had expected. It also gave him time to study her, and despite his anger at her, he liked what he saw.
Whatever she’d done to her face—she looked gaunter somehow—hadn’t necessarily made her less beautiful, but more approachable.
He’d never been a man who was intimidated by beautiful women, and when he’d seen her at the ball, he’d made a point to seek her out because she was the most beautiful woman there.
The most beautiful woman he’d ever seen.
And he’d enjoyed the time he’d spent with her…especially the time spent touching her. Had her mother not dragged her off, he was only minutes away from suggesting a tour of his father’s library so he could get her well and truly alone.
Finding out she was self-centered and cruel had been a blow indeed.
Except…now, she wasn’t quite as perfect, and he was beginning to realize she wasn’t always cruel.
He’d heard her say those things about Lyon with his own ears, it was why he’d started on this disguised journey after all, but now he was beginning to see there might be more to her than her opinions about his brother.
He’d bargained for a kiss from her, thinking it would increase her humiliation once she realized who he was.
But he was coming to realize he very, very much wanted to kiss her for his own sake too.
She was desirable in a way that wasn’t based on her beauty at all.
It was in the way she smiled when she saw the landscape of the Highlands from the train, or the way she didn’t sit back and wait for life to happen to her.
Well, ye didnae expect this, did ye, ye wee dobber?
He might’ve dozed a few times as well, between gazing out the window and scowling menacingly at anyone who gave Tiffany a second glance, but as the train slowed to pull into Edinburgh, he was wide awake, which allowed him to see her startle awake; an experience he was glad not to have missed.
She jerked upright, uttering an adorable, “Oh!” and only then opened her eyes. She blinked a few times, and he watched as awareness came to her features. When she glanced at him, he knew he was smiling.
“What?” she demanded.
He shrugged. “Do ye always wake up that way?”
“What way?”
“Ye were upright and functioning before ye ever opened yer eyes.”
She frowned. “How should I know if that is normal? I am asleep when it happens.”
“True. I should ask yer sister.”
“You should do no such thing!” When she gasped, he realized she wouldn’t want Laird Gaberlunzie talking about anything to her sister, much less about her sleeping habits.
He kept a neutral expression as he teased her. “How else would I learn the answer to my question? Is there anyone else ye regularly sleep with?”
Her second, far-more-outraged gasp caused his smile to break free, and he had to turn away from her to hide it. As the train stopped, he stood and reached for her carpetbag.
“Come along, Tiffany. We should have a half-hour to stretch our legs and get some luncheon before we have to board the next train.”
It took a moment to realize she was staring at his bare legs, and when he cleared his throat, she blushed and glanced away.
Interesting.
After they refreshed themselves—he was reluctant to let her go far without being able to keep watch over her—he offered to escort her to a gentleman who was selling meat pies from a cart.
“No need,” she said breezily, settling onto a bench. “I packed enough for both of us.”
His brows lifting in surprise, Lysander settled beside her, as she opened her bag and began to remove wrapped sandwiches. He’d noticed the bulk in her carpetbag but had assumed it was the extra clothing he was sure she’d been unwilling to travel without.
“These are good,” he mumbled around a bit of bread and meat.
“They are.” She was daintily nibbling on her own meal. “I can say that without thanking you because I did not make them. I know my skills and working in the kitchen is not one of them.”
That was an opening he couldn’t pass up. “And what are yer skills, milady?”
“I am not a lady today, remember?” She sent him a teasing look, then settled back against the bench. “I suppose though… I suppose my skills are that I am a lady.”
He snorted.
“I suppose it sounds silly to someone such as you,” she admitted.
“Someone such as me? Crippled, poor, ugly?”
Her eyeroll contained more than a touch of exasperation. “I have never seen a man so obsessed with his appearance as ye, Lunzie. You are not ugly, just…”
When she trailed off, he realized he was quite interested in hearing what she had to say about him. “Just what?”
She shrugged. “The beard is not my favorite, but once you washed the dirt off, there is nothing wrong with you.”
Gesturing to his eyepatch, he scowled, the way he’d seen Lyon do on more than one occasion. “Oh really?”
Rolling her eyes again, she lifted her sandwich. “An eyepatch does not diminish your worth, Lunzie. By the way, I have noticed your limp is better. What caused it?”
Oh, damn. He’d forgotten all about the limp.
“It comes and goes,” he mumbled, pretending to focus on his lunch, still reeling from her words.
An eyepatch does not diminish your worth.
If she truly believed that, why had she said those things about Lyon?
After a moment, she blew out a breath. “When I said you would not understand, I meant as a man. You likely have skills I can only dream about, Lunzie, but me…”
When he tilted his head enough to look at her from the corner of his eye, he saw her shake her head.
“I was raised to be a lady. Not just sitting around and embroidering, although I do have a lovely hand at that. No, I was raised to run a household, and choose menus, and plan parties and events to showcase my husband’s power and influence.”
“You are not married,” he pointed out mulishly.
“No, I am not.” Her voice was small. “I want to be though.”
And, despite knowing he couldn’t let her know who he was, Lysander wanted to push her. “To whom?”
Although she wasn’t looking at him, her lips curled softly as she stared down at her meal. “There was a man I very much wanted to marry, but I made a fool of myself, and now…” She shook her head.
The sandwich felt as if it were stuck in his throat. “How did ye make a fool of yerself?” he managed.
Tiffany shrugged. “He heard me saying something cruel, and now believes I am a terrible person.”
“Are ye?” His voice dropped. “Did ye mean those things ye said?”
When she met his gaze, he thought he’d given himself away. He thought she was moments away from jumping to her feet and ripping the tam from his head and declaring him an imposter.
But whatever magic had clouded her vision thus far continued, and she just looked at him; a deep sadness in her eyes. And she didn’t answer.
“Please excuse me,” she finally murmured, then stood, still holding the remains of her lunch.
He watched as she crossed the platform and wondered if he needed to go after her.
But before he could rise, he saw her stoop to talk to one of the perpetual beggars huddled in the shadow of one of the buildings.
It was an old woman, who watched her warily, until Tiffany handed her the second half of her sandwich.
Then the woman’s expression lit up, and she grasped Tiffany’s hand, shaking it, and speaking in a fervent, low tone.
Lysander wished he could hear what she was saying, but he suspected he knew.
His traveling companion was far from the spoiled, self-centered bitch he’d thought her when he’d concocted his scheme.
Aye, she was still surprising him, and he didn’t know how he felt about that fact.
When he escorted her to their second train on their journey, he remembered to limp.
As they settled into their seats, she pulled her arm out of his hand and frowned at him. “Why are ye being so grumpy and—and—controlling?”
“Because I’m used to being in control, milady,” he growled, before realizing that was probably too much information.
But she didn’t question why a man who looked like him would be used to being in control. Instead, she just shook her head and muttered something—unflattering, most likely—as she turned to look at Scotland whizzing past.
This allowed Lysander to stew, which likely wasn’t helpful.
He was used to being in control. When his mother’s father had died, he’d become Viscount Blabloblal at the young age of sixteen.
His mother was already gone by then, but Father had hired the best tutors and men of business he could find until Lysander was surrounded by good, honorable men who could teach him what he needed to know to run the Blabloblal estates. And they’d all looked to him.
Now, despite splitting his time between Blabloblal and Newfincy Castle, he was used to being respected and deferred to. And when he was with a lady, doubly so. He was charming; he knew it. Ladies flirted with him and were happy to allow him control.
But here and now, he wasn’t Viscount Blabloblal. And she wasn’t a lady. He was a simple man, and she was a woman on an adventure. She didn’t see any reason to let him be in charge, despite knowing she couldn’t have come on this journey alone, and it rankled.
Damnation, lad. Are ye pouting?
He absolutely was not pouting.
Ye’re definitely pouting. Buck up. It’s only a few days, and then ye can go back to swanning around in front of all the eligible maidens, letting them fall over themselves in their efforts to impress ye enough to offer for one of them.
Strangely, the thought didn’t improve his temper.
Those women—and Tiffany, the way she’d been at the ball—were trying to snare him by being who they thought he wanted.
And until today, that’s what he thought he wanted.
But since appearing to be someone other than a viscount, and since spending time with a lady who didn’t want to impress him, he was wondering if his tastes had changed.