Chapter Seventeen
As soon as she arrived at the ball, Agatha noticed a difference in the attention she was receiving.
Evidently, the gossip about her and Donal had begun to circulate—no doubt it was salacious and wildly inaccurate.
She was even cut by several people who had previously been friendly toward her.
It was hurtful to be treated so. She wanted to shout out, “I haven’t done anything wrong!
” but she knew that would just make matters worse.
“Ignore them,” Miriam told her, slipping her arm through Agatha’s. “If you seem oblivious to them, then you will take away their pleasure.”
Agatha wondered how many scandals Miriam had been involved in.
She only knew that the other woman was a widow with no children of her own.
Her husband had been a businessman from the provinces, but whether he had been successful in his chosen field or not Agatha did not know.
Cynically, she hoped Miriam hadn’t attached herself to her father for his money, because she was about to be very disappointed.
“Surely they know Donal and I are engaged?” Agatha said. “I heard Father telling a group when we arrived that he was in a celebratory mood and why.”
Miriam smiled, but her gaze was sympathetic. “It will take a little while for the news to spread. Don’t fret, my dear. Enjoy yourself.”
Agatha’s smile was dimmer than usual. “I will when Donal arrives. I wonder where he is?”
“Here comes your father,” Miriam said with pleasure.
Archie approached. “Ah, my two favorite ladies!” he said in a jovial voice, but Agatha thought he was not quite his usual self either. They stood together and watched the dancing. Miriam frowned at a baroness who lifted her nose in the air as she strutted by.
“Goodness me!” Miriam said loudly. “There are some awfully ignorant people here tonight!”
Kilsyth hushed her, but he was grinning. “You are fearless, Miriam,” he said admiringly.
“I have had to be,” she responded. Then, with a nod, “There he is!”
Agatha turned to look, her heart lifting, only for it to sink again. There on the other side of the room was Donal, and he was standing with Mary. Their heads were together in a conversation that looked both intimate and urgent.
Agatha tried to tell herself this was a good thing.
Her plan was working just as she had hoped it would.
No doubt Mary had heard about the engagement and now realized she would lose Donal if she did not act quickly.
Agatha told herself she should be pleased, but instead .
. . she felt as if inside she were dying.
Her father wasn’t pleased at the sight. “Agatha, you should go over there and rescue your lad,” he said with a worried frown.
“Is he in need of rescuing?” Agatha asked quietly. “He looks perfectly happy to me.”
“He is your fiancé, my dear, not Miss Davidson’s.”
Agatha understood why her father was concerned. He thought he might be about to lose the man he wanted for his daughter, but there was nothing she could do about it. She should have told him the truth yesterday! She could have spared him this.
More gossips eyed them sideways and whispered behind their hands.
Her father frowned. “Do you know, I feel quite sorry for Donal. He is nothing like Rory, who I think thoroughly deserved his notoriety. But rumormongers have long memories when it comes to the MacKenzie brothers, and now Donal is having to deal with the consequences of his brothers’ misbehavior. ”
Agatha knew that Donal was a good man. Kind and generous.
She rested her gaze on him again even though she would much rather have looked the other way.
She noticed now that Mary was smiling, seemingly enjoying whatever Donal had said to her.
Agatha’s eyes widened when Mary reached out a hand and grasped his arm affectionately.
Agatha had the strong urge to walk over there and remove that hand. But she didn’t—of course not, that would be ridiculous. She wondered what she would do next. Would she run away home to Setholm? And was her home even going to be there for much longer?
She couldn’t seem to shift her attention from Donal and Mary. He was smiling back at her, and Agatha’s spirits sank even more, just when she had thought they had reached an all-time low.
She must be brave, she must be strong. She must bid farewell to Donal as if she were glad for him and her heart was not breaking.
*
Donal decided it was agreeable to have Mary here with him, smiling as if nothing had happened to push them apart.
Just now, when she had asked him about the picnic, she had seemed like the old Mary, the girl he had loved, and he found himself confiding in her about the rainstorm and the misunderstanding and the way everyone now believed the worst.
Mary laughed as if she were amused about that. “Is that why everyone is saying you are engaged to Miss Kilsyth?” she said.
That was when Donal had remembered he wasn’t supposed to tell Mary the truth—he was supposed to make her jealous and want him again.
But he wasn’t a very good liar, and besides, he wanted to tell her the truth, partially at least. “I’m marrying Agatha because she does not deserve to have her reputation called into question. ”
“I see,” she said, but she didn’t seem to be terribly worried at the idea that he might be marrying another woman. She turned her head, as if looking for someone, and gave a little frown.
“Where is Belvoir?” he asked when it suddenly occurred to him that usually where Mary was Belvoir was not far behind. At the moment, that smug handsome face was nowhere in sight.
Mary gave him a quizzical look, as if she were deciding how much to tell him. “Can I be frank, Donal? Belvoir and I argued. He is a wee bit spoiled. Nothing like you. You are always such a gentleman.”
Donal was secretly pleased by that news, even as he assumed a sympathetic face. He wanted to ask her if she was planning to return to Scotland, but he didn’t want to spoil the mood. They were finally talking to each other just like they used to, but it seemed like a fragile thing, easily broken.
“Should I call him out?” he asked instead, only half joking.
Mary seemed to think that funny. As if Donal were incapable of participating in a duel and certainly not able to win one. “No, don’t do that,” she said. “I don’t want you to hurt yourself.”
That stung. It occurred to him that Mary had always been a little cruel, interspersing her smiles with barbs and then smiling again.
Donal glanced across the ballroom and saw Agatha standing with her father and Mrs. Robinson.
Agatha was staring back at him, and the expression on her face made him think she was feeling sad.
She needed him, and he should go to her.
He had begun to take a step toward her when Mary caught hold of his arm.
“Oh look,” she whispered, “there is that dreadful Lady Connaught. She is Belvoir’s aunt, you know, and she hates me. Thinks I am beneath him.”
Puzzled, Donal looked at the lady in question. “Does it matter what she thinks?”
Mary thought about it. “Probably,” she said.
“If I am to marry Belvoir, then I need to play up to his relatives. In fact,” she looked at Donal with a wrinkle between her brows, “I probably shouldn’t be talking to you after the scandal you’ve embroiled yourself in.
I think I can be forgiven though. We are old friends after all.
And you are a duke’s son,” she added thoughtfully.
“And yet you prefer Belvoir to me?” It slipped out, but he didn’t sound angry, just puzzled.
Mary laughed softly. “Oh Donal, you are a Scottish duke’s son and no fun at all. I want to live in London and enjoy myself.”
Donal worked his way through this. Mary had never had any intention of returning to Bonnyrigg with him. He had already guessed that, but here was the proof. She wanted to stay in London, and the plans she had for her future did not include him. They would not include him ever again.
He wasn’t upset. He was relieved. And he couldn’t fault himself. He had done everything in his power to win her back, and now he would walk away from her without a backward glance. Agatha was waiting for him across the room, and he wanted more than anything to join her.
Mary was watching him with a puzzled look—she didn’t seem to be able to read his mind like Agatha. Had she always been so self-centered behind that lovely face? “Should we dance?” she asked him, with a flirtatious little smile. “Belvoir will be so jealous when he sees us.”
“I thought he wasn’t here,” Donal retorted.
“He might be,” she said airily. “And even if he isn’t, someone will be sure to tell him.”
That was when Donal decided he had had enough. “No, thank you. I want to dance with Agatha.”
“Goodness me, you have very strange taste, Donal.”
“I think I have excellent taste. And by the way, just so that you know, I am marrying Agatha because I am in love with her.”
Mary seemed to find this quite incomprehensible, but Donal didn’t care. What she thought and did no longer mattered to him. He bowed politely, as if to a stranger, and turned and walked away. He quickened his steps, making a circuit of the ballroom, until he reached Agatha.
“Here you are,” he said, unable to hide his relief.
Kilsyth and Mrs. Robinson greeted him warmly, but Agatha’s expression remained somber. He had become so used to her smiles when she saw him. Now he could see that something was very wrong.
“Will you dance with me?” he asked, thinking to question her when they were alone.
For a long and terrible moment he thought she was going to refuse, but finally she murmured subdued agreement and let him lead her out onto the floor. She was wearing a very pretty dress, and he complimented her on it.
“It is new,” Agatha said gravely. “I am not sure how much wear it will get once I go home.”
Donal almost missed his step. “Are you going home?” he said.
Agatha didn’t answer him, asking instead, “How is your Mary?”
Donal wasn’t about to be sidetracked. “Why are you going home, Agatha?”