Chapter Ten #2
Kilsyth considered his words. “Too late now,” he said drolly.
“And why are you not what she needs? You took her away from that wretch Ormsby, didn’t you?
I’m sure you can muddle along together. Not all marriages are like mine—love matches.
Why can’t you learn to rub along together?
You might see her at breakfast every morning and then not again until breakfast the next morning. Wouldn’t that suit you both?”
Rory knew that was true. They could be married and yet indifferent strangers.
He wasn’t sure why he was struggling with the concept of marriage to Grace when he had never planned to be a proper husband to her.
It was as if her appearance in his bed had thrown his whole life into chaos and he couldn’t seem to get past that.
“I think she wants more,” he admitted gloomily. “I mean, she wants us to be properly married and not just giving the appearance of it.”
Kilsyth stared at him for a moment and then burst into laughter. “You are in a fix then, MacKenzie,” he said.
After that they moved on to less personal matters, and by the time they rose and went their separate ways, Rory admitted he had enjoyed himself very much.
It was pleasant to talk to a man who was so very different from himself.
Was he maturing? At twenty-four, he considered himself grown up, but maybe he still had a way to go.
As he walked home to his aunt’s house, he remembered some of the exploits he had got up to at home.
So much foolishness. At the time it had seemed important to sow as many wild oats as he could, to prove he was nothing like Callum or Donal.
But now he discovered that instead of feeling proud about those times, he felt uncomfortable.
It was as though when he looked back, his sight had cleared, and he was seeing the past through different eyes.
What of that time he had slept with the innkeeper’s sister and the innkeeper had come home unexpectedly?
Rory had had to climb out of the second-story window, risking life and limb.
As he fled, he had been sure he would feel shotgun pellets in his arse, but somehow he had escaped with only a few bruises and an exciting tale to tell his friends.
It had felt like a great adventure, but he had always feared his parents would hear of it.
He could imagine the disappointed looks on their faces.
He’d told himself they knew what he was like and so they shouldn’t be surprised, but now the memory came back to him with a hefty dose of shame.
And why was he thinking of these things now?
It must be London, he decided. He was a stranger in this city and he was out of sorts with himself.
If he were at home then everything would be as it should be, and he would never have begun to delve so deeply into his actions and reactions.
Only now that he had started, he could not seem to stop.
He didn’t like it; he was not usually an introspective man.
And he didn’t like what he was discovering as he dug deeper.
By the time he had reached Aunt Jennie’s house in Mayfair, he was even considering going out again.
The man he had been only a week ago would have been eager to experience another night on the town, but somehow he just didn’t feel like that man.
Not anymore. And that led to more deep thinking, because why?
Was this change in him really so sudden, or had he been experiencing discontent for a while and just refused to consider what it meant?
The longcase clock in the hall was yet to strike midnight, and although the house was quiet and everyone else in bed, Rory felt restless.
Would Grace try to sneak into his bed again?
Once again, he remembered her body against his and the kisses they had shared.
Rory didn’t trust himself to resist her a second time.
Maybe he should pull some piece of furniture across his door to keep her out?
A moment later he was laughing aloud at the very idea that he, Rory MacKenzie, was going to barricade himself inside his own bedchamber because a woman wanted him to tup her.
His laughter faded. Or was he simply unable to resist the temptation she presented?
There was a noise.
It was coming from what his aunt loosely termed the library, which was in fact a sitting area with some bookshelves.
There it was again, a rustling sound, and then a thump as if someone had dropped something.
Rory knew his uncle was still at sea, busy with his latest trading venture, and his aunt was a sound sleeper.
Was it Bothwell in there? Aunt Jennie had said something about that vicious brute going missing recently.
Or could this be an intruder intent on stealing his aunt’s treasures?
He rather fancied some rough and tumble; it would help clear the cobwebs from his mind. Before Rory could think twice, he was striding over to the door and flinging it open.
There was a candle set on a round table, throwing a little light about the room.
Enough light that he could see Grace was kneeling on the floor, holding a book in her hands.
She was looking up at him, her dark eyes huge, her hair loose about her, and wearing a white nightgown that made her look like a ghost. A very beautiful and fetching ghost. Other than the nightgown, she wasn’t wearing a great deal, just a knitted shawl tucked around her shoulders.
For a moment they simply stared at each other.
Then Grace swallowed. “I was looking for something to read,” she explained quietly. Her gaze was watchful, as if she expected him to accuse her of accosting him. “I—I couldn’t sleep.”
She was definitely remembering last night, but probably also remembering that they had been meant to discuss her future this morning and instead he had . . . run away. Refusing to feel ashamed, Rory cleared his throat. “I thought you might be a burglar.”
She stared and then slowly her mouth tipped up at the corners into a smile. “A book thief?” she said. “I’m not sure there are many books here that I want to steal, although I am sure they are worthy. But I wasn’t looking for worthy right now, unless it was to send me to sleep.”
Her whimsy made him smile back, and he was relieved to feel that he was on an equal footing with her again. “I’m no’ sure there would be much money to be made from my aunt’s collection anyway,” he said, waving his hand at the shelves.
“There are a few classics,” she said, holding up the book she was holding, which looked deathly dull to Rory. “And some romances. There’s even a copy of Etiquette for Gentlemen, if you are interested?”
“You’re right. I should probably read that,” he replied promptly.
She laughed.
He was pleased and a little astonished. He had never heard her laugh, and here she was, despite the circumstances, smiling and having a conversation with him like any normal girl. He wasn’t sure what to say next because he didn’t want to ruin it.
“Did you have a nice evening?” she asked him as she rose to her feet, the book clutched in one hand and the other holding her shawl securely across her bosom.
Her hair was longer than he had thought, almost to her waist, and once again it looked as if there were tangles in it she hadn’t yet unraveled.
His fingers itched to smooth it and to feel the silky strands gliding across his skin.
He was looking down at her—he was taller, but not ridiculously taller like Callum and his wife.
She must have noticed him staring, but she refused to lower her own eyes, and he was surprised by that.
She was refusing to be intimidated by him.
This did not seem to be the same woman he had first met in Ormsby’s house; the woman who had been too scared to look him in the eyes.
He wondered if that had ever been the real Grace or just a role she was playing in her father’s presence.
Rory liked the idea she was not afraid of him, that she had some fire in her belly after all.
Belatedly he remembered she had asked him a question.
“It was a pleasant evening. Not my usual sort of one, if I am honest,” he admitted.
“I had dinner with a friend.” Then, thinking she might mistake that, “A male friend, I mean. Lord Kilsyth,” he added, and then wondered why he had felt the need to say all of that.
What did it matter what he did and who he dined with? It was really none of Grace’s business.
But for some reason, it stung when she nodded as if she couldn’t care less.
“Bolton took me out to dinner once. And to the theatre,” she spoke as if to herself, her thoughts obviously back in the past. “It was a comedy. I laughed a great deal, but I think that was because I believed at the time Bolton was going to save me. I was happy.”
She sighed, and then shook her head, as if pushing aside the memory of the nefarious Bolton.
Remembering her confessions from last night, Rory knew she had not loved him, but she had trusted him.
He had an urge to question her further about the man, but swallowed it back.
He was curious, yes, but surely that conversation would bring a degree of intimacy into their relationship that he was currently trying to avoid.
“I have no’ been to the theatre since I arrived in London,” Rory admitted lightly. He had been too busy with less salubrious entertainments, but she didn’t need to know that. “In fact, I havena been to a proper theatre in my entire life. Perhaps we could go together?”
The words were out before he could stop them, and then he wondered if he had meant to say them all along.
She looked up at him, wide-eyed and obviously as surprised as he.
“Oh! That would be . . . I mean, thank you.” Then, with a cautious look, “I don’t want you to feel you have to entertain me.
I know you did not want to marry me, and I am grateful you did.
I really am. Last night . . .” She stopped as if not knowing what to say.
Rory didn’t want to talk about last night. “You would be entertaining me, Grace,” he said quickly. “I know my aunt was keen on us being seen in public, so that you can be better accepted and your reputation restored—”
“Unlikely,” she said bitterly, “but it was kindly meant by the countess. I do agree with her though, that it will help me to chaperone my sisters if I am not considered quite so terrible in a year or so’s time.”
“Then it is what you want? To accompany me to the theatre?”
She was watching him closely as she nodded. “It is what I want. Thank you.”
“Verra well, but I am afraid I will be a sad disappointment if you are hoping I will restore your reputation with my gentlemanly manners,” he went on, awkwardly. “I do no’ know the first thing about polite society. I was no’ brought up to it.”
“Oh? I do know how to go about in society, mostly. I had my coming-out when I was seventeen, five years ago. My mother made certain of it. She wanted me to marry and be—be safe, but then she fell ill and it did not happen. If you want, I could . . .” She chewed on her lip.
“Guide me through the pitfalls?” he asked, and he couldn’t help but smile at the idea of his scandalous wife showing him how to behave. It sounded too much like his brother and Penelope to make him feel entirely comfortable.
“Well, you helped me,” she retorted. “It could be a way of paying off my debt to you.”
“There is no debt,” he growled. “I did no’ do it for you to feel you had to pay me back.”
“I feel as if there is,” she said, not backing down.
Rory thought a moment. He knew she was right, and Aunt Jennie was right, and it would be a good thing for them to tackle the gossips and silence their tongues. And who could say, he might learn some valuable lessons, the sort of lessons Penelope had taught Callum. It couldn’t hurt, could it?
“Verra well. We can begin with a visit to the theatre,” he said.
She smiled, and he could see she was pleased. It was a start anyway.
The silence drew on, and Rory waved awkwardly toward the door. “I’d best go to bed. Goodnight, Grace.”
“Goodnight, Rory.”
The candlelight caught red colors in her dark hair he hadn’t noticed before, and her eyes were pools of mystery, and to his consternation, he found himself wanting to stay. Which was exactly why he should go.
Rory closed the door firmly behind him.