Chapter Ten
Before long, Donal was drawing up outside a large red brick house with gables.
Uneasily, he noted the shuttered windows and general air of dereliction.
That didn’t bode well. In fact, the place appeared to be abandoned and he had a bad feeling that they may have to brave the streets of London after all.
“Did you say you wrote to your friend and she hasn’t replied?” he said.
“Yes, but she could be busy,” Agatha said, but it sounded to Donal as if she were trying to convince herself.
He jumped down to the ground and reached to help Agatha.
Her hands were icy and she stumbled against him.
Donal held her a moment, feeling how cold she was in his arms. He would have liked to continue to hold her, but he supposed that wasn’t a gentlemanly way to behave, so he released her but kept a grip on her hand as they made their way to the front door.
Agatha still had the blanket wrapped around her, and she had taken off her pretty bonnet which was now nothing but a sodden lump.
Donal was soaked from his hair to his shoes, and he wondered if any of his fashionable clothing was salvageable.
The truth was he’d be happy not to see it again.
Neither of them had dressed for a torrent, and he had not even considered the possibility they would end up like this.
It would be different if they had been at Bonnyrigg, where the weather was dubious at the best of times.
At least there he would have brought an umbrella. Two umbrellas!
There were compensations though, although he was ashamed to admit it.
The sight of Agatha near enough to naked beneath her wet dress had given him a jolt of sensual pleasure he wasn’t sure he had ever felt before.
The white cloth clinging to her full round breasts, the jut of her nipples and the darker circle of her areolas had perked up his senses.
He’d had a strong desire to touch her, put his mouth to her, and warm them both up that way.
Now he could still feel that ache of lust drumming in the background like a stallion bolting, even as he did his best to pull it up.
It was wrong of him, he knew that, and he was sure Agatha would have hated him if he had done what he really wanted to do.
Which was to pull her into his arms, all bedraggled as she was, and share more of those passionate kisses.
Show her how much he desired her, and how beautiful she was to him despite the rain.
Even if it gained him a rebuke and a stinging slap across the face.
Had he ever desired Mary with such fervent yearning?
He was sure there had been times when he had wanted her physically, but he had been happy to play the gentleman and so had held himself back.
Mary had never suggested or shown any sign that she wanted to preempt what he had believed would be their wedding day.
And he had been satisfied to obey her. But when he had seen Agatha just now .
. . That barely controlled urgency to make her his?
No, that was something he had never felt before.
Agatha was using the heavy brass knocker on the door. She rapped twice, and then gave another desperate rap, before the door finally opened. An elderly woman stood there staring at her, rheumy eyes wide in her lined face.
“Miss Kilsyth?” she said in amazement, recognizing Agatha despite her saturated appearance. “Is that you? Oh, you poor thing, did you get caught in the rain?”
Donal wanted to shake the woman or at least demand she let them come inside immediately. It was beginning to rain again and the woman was blocking the way into a warm, dry house.
“Yes, Hattie, it is me,” Agatha said in a strained voice. “We were at a picnic on the river and then we got so—so wet. I didn’t want to drive home like this and then I-I thought of Susan. Is she here? Are her parents here?”
Hattie shook her head sorrowfully. “No, indeed they’re not, miss.
They’re away in the country for at least another fortnight.
The house is empty apart from me and old Henry.
” She gave Donal a sideways glance, as if she were doubtful of his character.
Perhaps he was the reason she wasn’t letting them inside?
He supposed he did look rather disreputable.
Agatha seemed shocked by this news but managed to stammer out a response.
“Oh, that is t-too bad. We were hoping . . . That is, I know Susan would help me if she were here, and I am in desperate need of somewhere to dry my clothes. Lord Donal too.” She shot him a look and gave a lopsided smile. “I think he is wetter than me.”
Donal suspected this was the moment he should speak up and reassure Hattie, so he did. “Hattie, is it? How do you do? I am Lord Donal MacKenzie, a friend of Miss Kilsyth. I’m no’ sure if I am wetter than her, though. I think perhaps it is a draw.”
Hattie simpered a little and then gave a little curtsy. “Lord Donal, ’tis a pleasure to meet you.”
Donal tried not to groan with impatience.
“Hattie, as you guessed, we were caught in the rainstorm,” he said with a grimace down at his dripping self.
“We canna go home like this. I am verra sorry to intrude, but would it be possible for us to come in and dry off? Miss Kilsyth does no’ believe her friend would mind coming to her house uninvited. ”
Hattie seemed to ponder this for far too long before she finally nodded. “I’m sure that will be acceptable,” she said, “though I daren’t let you into the private areas of the house. The master is very strict on that. You would have to make do with the kitchen, if that is all right?”
“The kitchen would be perfect!” Agatha declared with heartfelt relief.
Donal wasn’t exactly sure how that was going to work, but he was happy to follow Agatha inside.
It turned out that there was a fire in the kitchen which was being used for cooking.
A large pot of stew simmered in the hearth, and the meaty smell made Donal’s stomach growl.
He remembered then that they hadn’t eaten their picnic.
Agatha, who was still shivering, quickly moved closer to the warmth and held out her hands.
Hattie was standing nearby, eyeing them as if she was measuring them up. “I think I have something that will fit you while your clothing dries, Miss Kilsyth,” she said. “And Lord Donal, my husband has some things that should fit you. If you are agreeable to that?” she added uncertainly.
Donal was more than agreeable. His shirt was wet through, his jacket had suffered a similar fate although he had not been wearing it at the time, and his pantaloons felt as if they had attached themselves to his skin. He hated to think how transparent everything was.
“Thank you, Hattie,” Agatha said. “We are very grateful for anything you can provide for us.”
With a smile the woman bustled away to fetch the clothes. Donal murmured in a wry voice, “Is her husband Old Henry? I wonder what sort of clothes he wears?”
Agatha gave a huff of laughter. “You should be grateful for whatever she can find you.” She glanced down at him, a flush in her cheeks, and he knew then that his pantaloons were very transparent. “We must look a sight. I’m so glad no one at the picnic saw us in this state.”
Donal was reminded of that surge of lust he had felt earlier. At least Agatha was mostly covered now by the blanket wrapped around her shoulders. “Once we’re dry again we can decide what to do,” he said. “Although the weather doesnae seem to be improving.”
“Father and Miriam are probably enjoying themselves in the pavilion and have forgotten all about us. There was going to be dancing. Maybe it won’t be too late for us to go back and join in?”
Donal didn’t answer. Right now the last thing he felt like doing was dancing and smiling. He didn’t think he would even be able to pretend.
Agatha shivered again, and concerned, Donal moved one of the kitchen chairs closer to the warmth, so that Agatha could sit down. She gave him a grateful smile. “Do you think people will wonder where we are?” She asked the question that must be preying on her mind.
“Probably not,” he said a little gloomily.
Agatha nodded in reluctant agreement. “I expect you are right. At least I hope so. It would be awful if they sent out a search party.” She gave a shaky laugh. “Imagine that! I wonder if Richard and Mary would worry?”
Donal wondered too. Would Mary weep over thoughts of his lifeless body? Or would she be relieved he was out of the way of her plans with Belvoir? No, that was unfair. She wasn’t that heartless. He glanced at Agatha and noticed she seemed to be sunk in melancholy too.
To distract them both he asked, “What is our next engagement? Nothing outdoors I hope.”
“Oh.” She wrinkled her brow in thought. “Another ball I think.”
Another ball. Donal tried not to groan. He knew he was being ungrateful—there were people who would envy him—but there was only so much socializing he could manage.
He wasn’t the sort of person who enjoyed mingling and performing before others, especially when they were people he did not know and did not particularly like.
When he was at Bonnyrigg, he was lucky if he attended one ball a year, and then it was more of a ceilidh with fiddles and flutes and wild dancing.
Mary used to love ceilidhs. When he would swing her around she would shriek and laugh, her cheeks flushed and her eyes bright. And now here she was skipping sedately about London as if that other girl had never existed. Perhaps she no longer did?
Donal suspected that if it weren’t for Agatha’s prompting and encouragement, he might have given up by now, but then he reminded himself that Agatha’s heart was broken too. He had to keep going if only for her sake.
But if he was honest, that wasn’t the only reason he wanted to stay.
He enjoyed Agatha’s company. And kissing her.
He certainly enjoyed that, so much so that he’d like to do a great deal more of it.
As well as other things . . . Donal swallowed and decided it was probably best not to pursue those thoughts right now.
At that moment, Hattie returned with a bundle of clothing which she dropped onto the table.
“Will these do, do you think, miss? My lord?” She held up a plain gray gown for Agatha, and then some rough-looking breeches and a homespun shirt for Donal.
None of it was the height of fashion, but he didn’t care.
He was just so grateful to be changing into something warm and dry.
“Thank you, Hattie, that is most kind of you,” Agatha assured the older woman.
“Verra good,” Donal said.
They could not change in the same room, and Hattie led Agatha through a doorway and into a private area to change, whispering, “I am sure the master will understand,” while Donal made do with the kitchen.
It wasn’t long until Agatha returned, looking self-conscious as she held up the skirt of her gown to stop the hem from dragging on the floor and tripping her up.
She gave Donal an amused look and then bit back a laugh when she saw him in his borrowed clothing.
The breeches sagged at his waist, threatening to slip down, and when he held out his arms the sleeves only came to his elbows.
He did a turn, which made her laugh. He was glad she was smiling and laughing again—he had missed both since the rainstorm.
“I’ve worn worse,” he assured her. “I wasna always ‘Lord Donal.’ And despite what you might have heard, clothes do not maketh the man.”
“We should be grateful,” Agatha agreed, looking down at the ill-fitting bodice of her too-big gown. “Hattie said this belonged to her daughter—she is Susan’s personal maid now and has her own uniform. I suspect she got this out of the rag bag.”
He grinned. “At least I can’t see through it,” he said, and then realized that probably wasn’t something he should be reminding her of. “Although . . .” but he stopped, knowing if he said what he was thinking he was only going to make matters worse.
Color flooded Agatha’s cheeks. “Was it such a shock? Have you not seen a woman without her clothes before?” She spoke brusquely as if to cover her embarrassment.
Donal shook his head. “No, I havena. Don’t laugh. It seems very foolish now, but I was saving myself for Mary.”
“Oh.” She blinked at him. “I won’t laugh at that. Of course you were saving yourself. You loved her. But, Donal, you are such a good kisser!”
That made him color. “Thank you. I have done some kissing in my time but not enough to make me an expert. I think when I kissed you I must have been inspired.”
“I think I was inspired too,” she admitted, with a glance at him from under her lashes.
Donal knew it was true. That night in the garden he had felt things he had never felt before, and he had been inspired. There was something about Agatha that called to him in a way that was new and exciting, and if it weren’t for Mary . . .
Hattie had returned and swung the cooking pot onto the hearth. She began ladling the meaty stew into bowls despite their protests. “There’s plenty to spare, and you must be hungry,” she said firmly. “And this is very good if I do say so myself.”
Taking two bowls with her, she left them to their meal and the fire. Donal agreed, the stew was good. He hadn’t realized how famished he was and soon polished off his portion. Agatha too seemed to appreciate the warm, hearty meal.
“Do you think we should go soon?” she asked him, looking toward the window, and chewing her lip.
Donal followed her gaze. It was very dull outside and before he even opened his mouth to answer, more rain was falling, pelting against the glass in a manner he wasn’t keen on venturing out into.
Yes, he knew they could get home in it, uncomfortable as that would be, but he didn’t want Agatha drenched again.
What if she caught a chill? What if she became really ill? The thought sobered him.
“We will wait a wee while longer,” he said firmly.
She nodded and seemed grateful to leave the decision to him.
They sat together in cozy silence, and soon her eyelashes were fluttering and despite the uncomfortably straight chair, she was struggling to stay awake.
Donal watched her head loll about with amusement, but the truth was he was tired too.
Surely a short doze would not matter? It couldn’t be much after two o’clock and the picnickers were probably still dancing.
He assured himself that no one would have noticed they were gone.
He closed his eyes and let sleep take him.