Chapter Three
Agatha Kilsyth stood before her looking glass and examined herself critically.
She knew she was not a beauty like Mary Davidson or Charlotte Elliot.
She was well enough, she supposed, if one found brown hair and a clear complexion pleasing.
And an hourglass figure. She would have preferred to be fair and tall and slender, the sort of willowy shape that had captured the eye and the heart of Richard Leslie.
Her own heart still ached at the memory of him gazing in rapt wonder at the woman he had later claimed was the girl of his dreams. Agatha had just arrived at a musical evening and had thought Richard would be glad to see her.
When she had realized he was with someone else, someone he was obviously infatuated with, she hadn’t known what to say or think.
When he had eventually sought Agatha out and told her of his newfound passion, she had stared at him in disbelief and a great deal of anguish, but he hadn’t seemed to notice.
Or maybe he just hadn’t wanted to acknowledge how much he had hurt her when he was overflowing with his own happiness.
Since then, he had been squiring Charlotte about, ignoring Agatha altogether.
The pain had been greater than any she had ever known, because she had been convinced that Richard was hers, and now she knew he wasn’t.
And despite her claims to Lord Donal MacKenzie, Agatha wasn’t sure she would be able to win him back.
It would be nice if she could, if he would turn to her, his handsome face lighting up and his eyes widening, and exclaim: “Agatha! Of course it was always you!” But she was beginning to think she was wishing for something that was as unlikely to happen as pigs flying.
She had accepted long ago that she wasn’t the sort of girl gentlemen fell madly in love with, that sort of insane, head-over-heels love that made them do ridiculous things.
But she had told herself that was all right because Richard loved her, and that was all that mattered.
Agatha cringed now at her naivete. She had taken her future with him very much for granted.
With a sigh, she twitched the skirt of her ballgown so that it hung straight.
It was a pretty shade of blue, a similar shade to her pale-blue eyes, and her brown hair was dressed elaborately with the addition of silk flowers.
A short train was affixed to her waist, not long enough to get in the way when she danced but enough to take the eye away from her buxom hips.
Despite her best efforts to reduce her opulent curves, nothing seemed to work.
It was a lowering realization that even if she were suddenly transformed into slender beauty, Richard would not look twice at her.
Agatha had chosen a sapphire necklace for tonight, and the diamonds surrounding each stone sparkled brightly.
It was her mother’s necklace, hers now as the only daughter—the only child in fact.
Her father had presented her with her mother’s small collection of jewelry after he had had the pieces cleaned.
She could almost hear her mother’s chiding voice.
“My dear child, you may not be the most beautiful girl there tonight, but you are certainly the cleverest. I know there are some who say that gentlemen do not like clever women, but I believe it is only stupid gentlemen who feel that way. My advice is to find yourself one who appreciates all that makes you you.”
Agatha had thought she had done just that, until Richard had fallen under the spell of a beautiful woman who, ironically, was not particularly clever.
She had delved into Miss Elliot’s background—yes, she knew that was not what she should have done, but she couldn’t help it.
Charlotte Elliot had been educated at home and could dance and embroider, and her handwriting was very nice.
But she probably did not know half the things Agatha did.
Agatha had studied under the tutorship of the local minister, who said she was very clever, and what a pity it was she was just a girl.
She read every book she could get hold of and read her father’s newspapers front to back.
At twenty years old, Agatha was different from other girls.
She dreamed of a life full of interesting places and interesting adventures.
She knew how silly that sounded, when generally she wasn’t silly at all, but why couldn’t sensible girls dream too?
Downstairs, her father was waiting with Mrs. Miriam Robinson, who was his partner for tonight.
Agatha did not know Miriam well, but she seemed pleasant.
A widow with no children, she professed an interest in Agatha without being uncomfortably nosy.
Her father said he had met her last year, but the details were scant, and Agatha had not delved into them too deeply.
She was just glad to see him smile again—he had not done so for a long time after her mother’s death.
“You look very fetching,” Mrs. Robinson said now with her warm smile.
“Indeed you do!” her father said, taking her hands and kissing her cheek. “I hope Lord Donal will behave himself with you and not lose his head.”
Agatha choked on incredulous laughter. “I doubt that will happen. Father, you do know he is in love with someone else?”
“That doesn’t mean he can’t appreciate a pretty girl.”
Her father began to tell Mrs. Robinson how he had met Donal’s brother, Lord Rory MacKenzie, by offering to be his second in a duel, and that they had later become firm friends. “He is happily married now.” He sounded smug. “I like to think I helped him achieve that.”
“You should set up as a matchmaker,” Mrs. Robinson replied with a teasing smile.
Agatha gave an unladylike snort but changed it into a cough when they turned to her inquiringly. “Shall we go?” she said. “Lord Donal will be wondering where I am. I don’t want him to call a halt to our plan before we have even begun.”
*
Donal was lurking near the dais where the orchestra had set up, looking as miserable as it was possible for a man to look.
And Agatha knew at once why. She could see Mary Davidson dancing with the Belvoirs’ son, smiling up at him prettily, fluttering her lashes, and no doubt drinking in the ridiculous compliments the man was bestowing upon her.
Agatha decided she did not like Mary very much.
She must be as shallow as a puddle if she let a man like Belvoir turn her head!
Everyone knew he was a dreadful flirt, and there were even rumors that he had ruined a debutante last year, although his family had done their best to hush it up.
Richard had told her so—he was a third cousin or something to the Belvoirs, although they barely recognized him.
Agatha left her father and Mrs. Robinson talking with some acquaintances and went to join Donal. He startled when she touched his arm as if he was sunk deep in his gloomy thoughts. “Oh,” he said. “I was just . . .um . . .”
Agatha eyed him impatiently. He did look handsome in his evening wear—well, even more handsome—although maybe the unfamiliar clothing was adding to his discomfort.
He was probably more used to gallivanting about in a kilt.
Although Agatha was Scottish herself, her family were from the border with England and very different creatures than the wild, highland MacKenzies.
Lord Kilsyth’s father had been a farmer, and his son still owned land and a large house in the village of Setholm.
Agatha’s mother had been a pretty girl from Edinburgh on a visit to a relative when they had met and fallen in love.
It was a comfortable tale, and one which Agatha—despite her daydreams of adventure—had expected to emulate.
“We should dance,” she told Donal. “And you should smile. No one will believe you are enjoying yourself if you wear that glum face.”
Obediently, he forced something resembling a smile to his stiff lips and held out his hand to her.
“You can dance?” she asked him uneasily, as she placed her gloved fingers delicately in his. “I forgot to ask.”
He frowned as if he was insulted. “Yes, I can dance. Can you?”
Agatha sniffed, and the next moment they had taken to the floor, their steps a little rigid at first but soon becoming fluid and graceful.
She was surprised. He was actually a very good dancer, and they complemented each other very well.
Richard was not very good, but she had always put that criticism to one side because she loved him.
Donal was good. She felt light in his arms, and the sensation was so novel and enjoyable that she almost forgot why they were here.
Donal spoke into the silence that had grown between them, as if he thought an explanation was necessary. “My mother likes to dance. When my father wasn’t about, she used her children as partners. We soon learned not to tread on her toes.”
He was smiling, and she scrutinized his clean-shaven face and blue eyes with their thick, dark lashes.
His dark hair was smoothed back with pomade but it was still a little longer than was fashionable.
It suited him though. When he wasn’t sunk in misery, he was a striking man, with his straight, narrow nose and strong, square jaw and charming smile.
She glanced past his shoulder toward Mary Davidson.
There she was, preening and simpering like a fool.
Agatha hoped she didn’t expect Belvoir to propose to her, and she really hoped Mary would not listen to his wheedling.
The man was genuinely hateful, and if Mary did not know it by now then she was a fool.
Agatha felt a twinge of shame at her own judgmental thoughts. She did not know Mary, and it could be that she was too innocent to recognize the trap Belvoir was setting for her. Should she tell the girl? Give her a warning?
Donal interrupted her uneasy thoughts. “My brother Callum tells me that the weather is a safe subject while dancing.”
Agatha raised her eyebrows. “Do you mean the brother who married his tutor? I suppose he would know all about that.”
Donal grinned, and it made him look younger and even more handsome. “Callum is my eldest brother. Rory is the next one. It was Rory who fought the duel and then married Grace to save her from her horrible father, only to fall in love with her. They are all living at Bonnyrigg at the moment.”
“And you are the youngest?” she asked, interested. The MacKenzies sounded like an unconventional family.
“I am the youngest brother, yes, but no’ the youngest child. That honor goes to Catriona, my sister. We call her Cat. I canna imagine her doing anything as scandalous as Callum and Rory.”
“Hmm,” Agatha said. “You never know. I couldn’t have imagined doing anything scandalous either, and yet here I am.”
Donal sobered. “I dinna think what we are doing is wrong,” he protested.
“We are simply trying to right the mischief that has befallen us. What’s the matter with that?
Apart from the lying, I suppose,” he went on with a frown.
“And pretending to be in love with each other when we are barely acquainted.”
“I don’t want to think of it as lying,” she corrected him sharply. “We are playing a game, and it serves them right for forcing us to do it. Only last year, Richard swore he would be happy to stay with me forever, and I suspect your Mary did the same.”
Donal opened his mouth as if to refute that, only to close it again.
“There you are then,” Agatha said triumphantly. “We have been driven to this course of action because of the way they behaved. It is entirely their fault.”
The dance came to an end. “Are you hungry?” Donal asked her. “We should pretend to eat at least.”
“Yes, good idea.”
Donal took her arm in his and was leading her toward the supper room. “I dinna know about you, but I haven’t had much appetite since Mary left for London. I’m surprised by how hungry I suddenly am. I dinna think I will need to pretend.”
Agatha smiled. “I’m glad to hear it. My appetite hasn’t waned at all. Unfortunately.”
He gave her a puzzled look. “There is nothing wrong with a healthy appetite, Miss Kilsyth. You might no’ think it to look at her, but Mary eats like a starving horse.”
Agatha brightened. “I believe Lord Byron has a peculiar diet he uses to lose weight,” she said. “Potatoes soaked in vinegar.”
Donal scrunched up his face. “Dear God,” he muttered.
“I heard he once spent a week on nothing but biscuits and tea. I considered it for myself, but I knew I would never get past breakfast on the first day.”
He laughed but then asked in a bewildered fashion, “Why would you do that? You are perfect as you are.”
He was jesting, surely, and yet . . . He seemed genuinely confused as to why she felt the need to reduce her curves. He was not pretending to be polite. His gaze, as it slid over her bosom and down to her hips, was warm and admiring.
Agatha felt giddy with delight. “That is very . . . that is . . .” she stammered.
Suddenly Donal stilled as he caught sight of someone over her shoulder. His smile froze and his blue eyes turned wild. “Mary is coming,” he whispered. “What should I do?”
“For goodness sake, pull yourself together!” Agatha said. “We are in love, remember? Look at me as if you love me.”
She assumed a look of adoration, or at least she hoped that was what it was, and awaited Mary’s arrival.