Scotsman of My Dreams (23 page)

“I'm here,” she said again, reaching up and kissing his cheek. Her heart expanded in that moment, widened to include him. She'd never been precognitive before, or even believed in it, but she knew he'd always have a spot there for as long as he wanted it, and perhaps longer.

 

Chapter 27

“H
ave I given good ser­vice, sir?”

Dalton looked toward the doorway. “For God's sake, man, announce yourself. I know I've asked you more than once.”

“I'm sorry, Your Lordship. But have I given good ser­vice in all other ways?”

“If you'd quit sneaking up on me, I could say yes.”

“Then may I ask a question, sir?”

“Isn't that a question, Howington?”

“Very droll, sir,” his secretary said.

He wasn't trying to be amusing.

“What is it?”

The quicker Howington spit out what was on his mind, the quicker he could be left alone. He wanted to think about Minerva, surprising Minerva, enchanting Minerva, astounding Minerva, even though she disliked the label.

Since it was the Friday to Monday, he didn't expect her at his house. But he should have made arrangements regardless. He missed her.

Somewhere, a warning bell clanged in his mind.

“May I ask why Miss Todd assists you in matters that would normally be my province?”

Because I lust after Minerva Todd, and I've never experienced a similar feeling for you.

What would Howington say to the truth?

He decided not to test the man.

“There are plenty of other duties for you, Howington. Don't feel as if Miss Todd is trying to usurp your place.”

“Begging your pardon, sir, but what else am I to think? Everything I've seen her do are duties I could execute as well, if not better.”

He doubted that, since Minerva challenged his mind, amused him, and interested him more than any other woman he'd ever met.

“Perhaps you would be happier somewhere else, Howington.”

“Sir,” his secretary said, sounding shocked. “On no account, Your Lordship.”

The man grated on his nerves, irritated him when they did work together, and was a colossal pain in the arse. In addition, there was that feeling he had, the one that hadn't gone away. Something was wrong about Howington and he couldn't figure out what it was.

“I think you need an employer with two good eyes. That way, you wouldn't have to keep announcing yourself.”

“Your Lordship, you can't be serious.”

He disliked being told, in so many words, that he was an idiot, especially in his own home.

“I find that I'm completely serious, Howington. Not only that, but it's a situation I should have acted on months ago.”

“But everything I've done for you—­”

The man's voice halted when Dalton held up a hand.

“For which you've been amply compensated, Howington. I'd venture to guess that you might even be the highest paid secretary in all of London.”

Howington cleared his throat. “Are you implying that I've stolen from you?”

He hadn't been, but it might be a good idea to have Benny assign one of his staff to look over his accounts. Or did Minerva have a head for numbers? He trusted her.

The warning bell clanged again.

“I came to tell you a telegraph came for you,” Howington said.

He heard the man step toward the desk. A moment later a piece of paper drifted down to rest on his hand.

“Perhaps Miss Todd can read it for you.”

With that, Howington announced his departure, the first time he'd ever done so. It was a relief to Dalton, knowing this time it was permanent, that he wouldn't see Howington again.

Mrs. Thompson was kind and gracious enough to read the telegraph to him.

He only had a vague recollection of Glynis, his female cousin from Scotland. He knew she'd married at their London house, with his mother making the arrangements. She'd truly liked the woman, often saying that if she had a daughter, she'd like her to be just like Glynis.

Perhaps he needed to hold a reunion of sorts for the entire clan. Or maybe he should wait until after the war was over and invite his American cousins as well. After all, they sprang from the same family.

Glynis's words surprised him enough that he asked Mrs. Thompson to reread the telegraph.

“And that's all she said?”

“Yes, Your Lordship. ‘Have located Neville. Letter to follow.' ”

“She might've told me where he was.”

“I'm sure it will only be a few days until we receive the letter, Your Lordship. It might come in tomorrow's post.”

“I hope you're right, Mrs. Thompson.”

“It's sorry I am that Stanley left your employ,” she said. “I always liked the young man. But he disappointed me greatly in his actions.”

He had to take a minute before he matched Stanley with Howington. Odd, that he never thought of the man by any other than his surname.

Stanley didn't fit him, and when he said as much to Mrs. Thompson, she laughed, a tinkling laugh that made her sound twenty years younger.

“I used to say that about my dear Fred,” she said. “The name never fit him, either. He needed something more adventurous.”

“Has it been very long since you lost him?”

She reached over and patted his hand.

“Bless you for asking, Your Lordship, but it has been quite long. I've been a widow longer than I was married, but that doesn't stop the memories. Nor does it stop the wondering. I wonder what he would have been like if he lived. I wonder what it would have been like if we'd had children.”

“All I can say, Mrs. Thompson, is that I'm grateful for your presence in my home and all the help you've given me since I returned from America.”

He didn't add that he was a little ashamed to admit he could barely remember her in the days before he'd left London. Days in which he was more occupied with his own pleasure than the presence of the ­people who lived in his home and whose sole purpose had been his comfort.

Hardly an improvement, to go from being a rake to a recluse.

Did Minerva think the same? And when had her opinion begun to matter?

“
I
'M SORRY,
Miss Minerva, but I can't go. Not with my mam being sick and all.”

“Thank you, Charlotte,” Minerva managed to say, although she didn't believe a word of it.

This was the first she'd heard of Charlotte's mother being ill. She sent her best wishes to the woman and watched as the maid left her sitting room.

Nora had refused to accompany her to Scotland as well. The reason was her fear of trains, of all things, which came about suddenly.

Betty had claimed she was afflicted with a sickness of the bowels, explaining every symptom in such graphic detail that she'd waved her hand in front of her to stop the girl.

Each one of the maids who had gone to Scotland with her in previous expeditions was refusing to accompany her now.

Fine, she would simply go by herself, although traveling with only Hugh as her companion wasn't the wisest choice she could make, especially after their confrontation this morning.

When she informed him she wanted to go to Scotland, he only nodded, his face bland.

“Are you angry with me for some reason?”

“On no account, Miss Todd. It's not my carriage. If you want to take it somewhere or allow someone else to drive it, it's not my say.”

She had a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach. “Michael told you.”

He gave her a sideways look.

“Michael didn't have to tell me, Miss Todd. The carriage hadn't been put up the way I do it.”

“You mustn't blame him, Hugh, or punish him in any way. What he did was at my direction.”

“Yes, Miss Todd.”

“Are you going to be like this all the way to Scotland?”

“I don't know what you mean, Miss Todd.”

“Oh, bother, Hugh. You know very well what I mean. If you're angry with me, go ahead and say it now and let's get it out in the open. Otherwise, stop calling me ‘Miss Todd' in that tone of voice.”

“Why did you go to him?”

She almost stomped her foot in frustration. She'd made a terrible mistake by having a relationship with Hugh. He hadn't understood why it had to end, and now he wanted to bring the past into the present.

“I really don't have to explain, Hugh,” she said.

“You wear on a man, Minerva. You settle in like a hook and hang there.”

“Is that how you feel?” she asked, startled by his description.

“I'd be your lover still, if you'd allow it.”

How did she tell Hugh that she'd never felt for him what she felt for Dalton, damn the man?

“It's better if we don't discuss it,” she said.

“I know what's happening between you and your earl. I can't blame you for aiming higher.”

“Aiming higher? The man drives me insane.”

“But you can't forget him. He's your flame, just like you're mine. Moths, Minerva. We're all moths.”

He turned and left the bay, leaving her standing there staring after him.

She was going to have to make the decision about Hugh. Perhaps it would be wiser to simply release him to go and find another position.

Was she going to be endlessly bedeviled by her mistakes? First Hugh, and now Dalton. What had she done? Stupid, stupid woman, she'd gotten herself enmeshed with a man who interested her too much.

He crooked his little finger and she sprang to his side like a trained dog. Even her seduction of him hadn't been hers after all. She had walked into his net and been trapped.

She was starting to feel entirely too much for the Earl of Rathsmere. She would not be just one more of his conquests. Poor plain Minerva Todd, drawn to the spider's web like a drunken fly. Or a moth, like Hugh said.

She remembered every moment of that night. When dawn broke over the eastern sky, she didn't want to leave, but she had, donning her clothes amidst laughter and kisses.

He'd walked her to the garden gate in his dressing gown. The Earl of Rathsmere stood there nearly naked to ensure she got to her carriage without incident.

She watched him until a sleepy Michael had pulled away and driven her home. The hour was still early enough that she crept to her bed without any of the servants seeing her.

Only to be unable to sleep, thinking of him.

No, she was not going to be imprisoned by emotions. She was not going to become one of those foolish women who couldn't do anything except pine for their beloved.

She had work that interested her, a sponsor she admired, and several hundred miles to put between her and Dalton MacIain.

She was going to Scotland.

After sending a telegram to Lady Terry that she was on her way, she packed her trunk with all her equipment and cooking utensils. She had Cook load the carriage with another trunk of foodstuffs that would last a few weeks, jars of pickled things and dried meat. Her aprons were next, each full-­length and equipped with pockets for pencils, notebooks, measuring devices, and small glass jars.

Hugh would load the heavier tools into another trunk, everything from small shovels and picks to brushes for removing the dirt from more delicate objects. It might have made more sense to take a carriage to Scotland, but the journey would have lasted days. Instead, they would take a train to Glasgow and hire a carriage there.

The preparations for the trip to Scotland calmed her mind and eased her emotions. She couldn't go back to work for Dalton. She couldn't sit across the desk from him and study his face day after day, acting like a lovesick woman. She couldn't sit next to him in the wing chair and not reach over and touch him. Just her fingertips on the top of his hand, or her palm on his sleeve. She would want to graze her knuckles across his cheek in the afternoon, feeling the growth of his beard. Or bend to kiss his eye patch, as if doing so might grant him the gift of sight.

What would she do if he wanted to touch her in turn? Could she push away his hand if he cupped her face? What would she do if he whispered to her, “Join me in my room, Minerva”?

What would she do if he kissed her again as they sat alone in the library?

No, she was much better off going to Scotland. Out of sight, out of mind, wasn't that the saying? All she had to do was occupy herself with her work and visit with Lady Terry.

Dalton MacIain would no longer be at the forefront of her thoughts. Nor would she continue to chastise herself. She would excuse her actions in the spirit of curiosity. She had wanted to know what it would be like to bed the Rake of London.

Wonderful. Glorious. Divine. Unbelievable.

Now that she knew, she would endeavor, somehow, to forget the episode.

She would have left for Scotland without another thought had not Mrs. Beauchamp waylaid her.

“Miss Todd,” the housekeeper said, “I hope you realize that I know my place. I've never said much when you wear your trousers skirt or fiddle with things from a grave all day long.”

“Yes, Mrs. Beauchamp?” she asked, pulling on her gloves.

“But I feel I have to tell you that I think you're making a mistake, going to Scotland with only Hugh as company.”

“I'll be fine, Mrs. Beauchamp.”

“It's not that he'd do anything, Miss Todd. I've faith enough in Hugh, but it's what other ­people would say. It's not done, Miss Todd, you being a single lady and all.”

“I'm not exactly a maiden in the schoolroom, Mrs. Beauchamp.”

“No, Miss Todd, but you're not a widow, either. You've never gone to Scotland without a maid or two with you.”

“None of them wish to accompany me, Mrs. Beauchamp, and I can't force them.”

“Well, for them, it's sleeping in a tent, Miss Todd, with no accommodations and the like. It's always raining and they're always wet.”

“I didn't know that's how they felt,” she said.

“Nor should you. They didn't tell you, Miss Minerva, but they did share their feelings with me.”

She'd taken pleasure in her expeditions, while it was now quite obvious that her servants hadn't.