The Scottish Companion (7 page)

“You’re afraid of something imaginary. I would never allow my electrics to harm you, Miss Cameron, or any of the experiments I perform. If they’re dangerous, then I will simply wait until you are not here to perform them.”

“You think I’m afraid of your experiments?”

“I think you should have a measure of caution about them, that is true. But not fear.”

“I can assure you, Your Lordship, that I am not afraid of your experiments. Or of your electrics.”

“Then what are you afraid of?”

He looked up, focusing directly on her, all his attention given to her as if she were one of his machines. She found it disconcerting to be subjected to his intensity, but not enough to guard her words.

“You,” she said simply.

Strangely enough, he didn’t look surprised by her answer. He remained silent for a moment and then spoke. “Have I given you any reason to fear me?”

What would he say if she gave him the complete truth? She enjoyed his smiles too much, and she could sit and study the color of his eyes for hours. Beyond his attractiveness, she was fascinated with his mind, and that seemed even more dangerous. Why had he become interested in electrics? What did he want to accomplish in his life? When did he know that he wanted to be more than simply a titled and wealthy man? All questions that veered into the realm of too personal and too intrusive.

So, yes, he had given her ample reason to fear him, simply by being who he was. She knew only too well that she was lonely and vulnerable. He was the very last person she should be around.

“I promise not to harm you, Miss Cameron.”

“I’m not altogether certain that you can promise that, Your Lordship.”

He came around the table and approached her, and she made herself stand exactly where she was beside the door.

“Anyone would tell you,” he began and then stopped, frowning at her. “I’m exceptionally impatient in my laboratory, Miss Cameron. But I have found it quite pleasant to have you assist me. If I give my word as the Earl of Straithern, would you return?”

“And what sort of word would that be, Your Lordship?”

“What word do you require?”

“Could you cease being so charming?” she asked, and then wanted to call the words back the moment they were spoken.

He looked amused by her comment, and she wanted to tell him he was right to smile—it was only a jest. Instead, she turned and left the laboratory.

“Miss Cameron?” She halted in the corridor without turning around, waiting for him to speak.

“Will you come back tomorrow?”

She really shouldn’t. She glanced over her shoulder at him. “If I can, Your Lordship. If Arabella does not need me,” she said, and wondered if she sealed her doom by those few words.

Gillian opened the massive door to the palace and pulled it shut behind her, standing there for a moment with her hand flat against the carvings.

She’d always been an avid student, finding refuge in books when her father was suddenly too engrossed with his new wife to pay her much attention. If she
was overlooked by her stepmother it was because the woman soon enough had a child of her own. The dame’s school she attended was more intent upon passing down the skills of housewifery than Aristotle’s lessons. Therefore, Gillian’s education had been allowed to continue, for the most part, at her own pace.

Her father’s library was a treasure of unexplored lands and treatises from long-dead philosophers. In the soft quiet of an afternoon, the sunshine muted by the dark printed drapes of the library windows, she first explored the words of others and then the thoughts and wonderings of her own mind.

It was the complexity of her curiosity that amazed her, and then amused her as she would follow one thought to the next as if they were tumbled skeins of yarn.

How very odd that for the last two years she’d missed intellectual curiosity and only just now realized it.

As she walked swiftly away from the palace, Gillian had the absurd thought that she’d been wrong. The earl might have summoned her into his laboratory to appease her curiosity, but he’d trapped her with his charm. She could easily be fascinated with the Earl of Straithern, and not simply because of his scientific ambitions or pursuits. The man interested her, the man with the enigmatic smile and the silver eyes occasionally betraying a hint of pain.

Wasn’t that the best reason to leave Rosemoor, as quickly as she was able?

H
is mother frowned at him. The countess was quite the termagant when she wished to be, but Grant wasn’t compelled to change his mind. He’d endured the fiery temper of more than one tempestuous mistress in the past five years; he could certainly tolerate his mother’s well-mannered tantrum.

“We must introduce Arabella to the neighborhood, Grant. If you’re determined to go through with this marriage, she must, at least, be welcomed.”

“I would think that the neighborhood would be talking more about our entertaining so soon after James died than about my new bride.”

“There are exceptions to every rule, Grant, even this. I have lost my child, and yet I think introducing Arabella is the correct thing to do. A small soiree, nothing tastelessly extravagant.”

“No.”

She frowned at him again. “Are you ashamed of her, Grant? Do you want this wedding to be a hole and corner affair? Are you wishing yourself quit of her already?”

“Arabella is a beautiful girl,” he said easily. “Any
man would be pleased to have her for a bride. I simply want no hint of scandal to touch Rosemoor. Our wedding must, by necessity, be a private affair. There’s time to introduce her to the neighborhood later.”

She eyed him with a watchful look that was beginning to be annoying. He glanced down at the paperwork on his desk and wondered at the years he’d delegated such tasks to Andrew. His brother had a head for figures and was happiest tallying the sum of a column of numbers. Grant would much rather be involved in his electrics.

“You cannot erase the sins of the past by your behavior today, Grant.”

He didn’t look up for a moment. When he did, he was startled to see tears in his mother’s eyes.

“You are not your father, and no one thinks you are.”

What the hell did he say to that?

For a long stretch of moments they regarded each other. When he’d first returned from Italy, he’d been surprised to find that she looked exactly the same as when he’d left Scotland. Now, however, she was noticeably older, as if she’d aged each day since James’s death. On the temples and crown, her black hair had whitened, and the corners of her lids drooped as if to reach the pouches beneath her eyes. But it was the expression in her eyes that disturbed him the most—as if she held all the grief and pain of the world within their blue depths.

An expression, oddly enough, that reminded him of Gillian Cameron.

He stood and forced a smile to his face.

“Have your ball, Mother. Entertain who you will.”

“Will you attend, Grant?”

He made his way to the door, suddenly feeling as if the library were too warm and too small. “Yes,” he said, “I’ll attend, and be the dutiful bridegroom.”

Even if being solicitous was an act and being near Arabella was a chore.

“I cannot treat you, Blevins, if you insist upon attempting to escape me.”

Arabella followed the majordomo from room to room, Gillian trailing behind.

“I can assure you, miss, that I am fine. It is nothing but a little lumbago. An aching in the joints that comes to us all.”

“On the contrary, Blevins, I will be the one to make that diagnosis. It is to your best interest to allow me to examine your knee.”

“I would appreciate it, miss, if you just let me get about my duties. The silver needs polishing, and the housemaids have to be set to the dusting.”

“You might as well surrender, Blevins,” Gillian said. “Arabella is determined to treat your injury.”

The majordomo turned and looked at her, mildly outraged. “I have no injury, Miss Cameron. If anything, old age has visited me.”

“Nonsense,” Arabella said briskly. “You’re still a relatively young man. I know several topical ointments that might assist your knees.”

Blevins looked affronted. The fact that he did not give Arabella a dressing-down was due more to Arabella’s role than to his inclination. One did not, after all, lecture the future Countess of Straithern.

“Please, Arabella,” Gillian said, feeling sorry for
the man. “If Blevins needs any assistance, I’m certain he will come to you.” She looked to him for assent, and he reluctantly nodded. “There, you see? Blevins will not only seek you out if he needs you, Arabella, but he will be certain to send any of the staff to you if they have an injury. Won’t you, Blevins?”

Again the man nodded reluctantly. It was a devil’s bargain she made between them, but she wanted Blevins to understand that Arabella was not to be ignored. When she wanted a patient, she would obtain one.

Arabella did not look as pleased with the arrangements. She folded her arms and looked at Gillian, her lips pursed into a tiny line. Gillian wanted to warn her that such a look was not attractive at all. If she continued doing it for many years, she would gain two little pouches on either side of her chin. One day, as age advanced, she would look like a squirrel with a mouthful of nuts.

As Blevins moved away, Gillian turned to the younger girl.

“Arabella,” she began.

“It does no good to frown at me in that fashion, Gillian,” Arabella interrupted. “The man was limping. I know exactly what to do to treat him. Why he persists in remaining in pain, I do not know.”

“Just because you know how to treat a person, doesn’t mean you have the right to do so, Arabella. It is, after all, his knee, and it’s his decision whether it should be treated.”

“That’s ridiculous. Illness should be stopped wherever it is found. Disease cannot be allowed to roam rampant through the countryside.”

“I doubt if Blevins’s knee is going to multiply,” Gil
lian said, careful not to smile. “In the meantime, you and I have our lessons.”

“You are not my governess, Gillian. You are my companion. A
companion
,” she repeated, emphasizing the word. “Not my conscience, and certainly not my teacher.”

Gillian took a deep breath. There were moments, as now, when she would just as soon walk away from the girl than attempt to reason with her. She had, however, promised Dr. Fenton.

“You must be fitted for your trousseau.”

Arabella looked mutinous but remained silent.

“Especially your ball gown. The earl has arranged for a ball to be held in your honor.”

“The family is in mourning,” Arabella said. “There will be no ball.”

Gillian took another deep breath. “Not from what I have been told,” she said. “The countess has agreed that there should be a small ceremony to introduce you to the countryside. It will not be a lavish entertainment, true, but it will be a ball. You will be expected to be in attendance and pleasant and courteous and attired as the future countess.”

“What a waste of time, energy, and money, Gillian. Surely they know my measurements. Take one of my old dresses and make a gown from that.”

Arabella was staring at one of the footmen. Had the man grimaced? Held a hand to his jaw, blinked rapidly? She looked as excited as if she’d been given a present.

“It’s the earl’s money to waste, Arabella. Discuss it with him. As for me, I’ve promised your father that you will be at the fitting, and you will be there.”

Her gaze locked with Arabella’s. She could be just as stubborn as the other girl. In addition, she was feeling a little out of sorts this morning, and would not mind winning a confrontation with Arabella.

She’d awakened from a fitful sleep, certain that her dreams of Robert had been for one purpose—to remind her that flouting the rules of society had ended in ruin. Passion was all well and good, but it would not protect her, feed her, or keep her safe and warm. Passion was an addiction, a weakness, and she was well quit of it.

Being around the Earl of Straithern was as risky as opium.

“My father indicated that this was a marriage of convenience, Gillian. Convenience mainly for the earl, I think. I was to be allowed to practice medicine, while he was to be allowed to practice being a husband.” She waved her hand in the air. “As to a ball gown, I have no interest.”

“Then you must pretend, Arabella,” Gillian said, fast losing her patience.

“Have you no other ladylike occupations to teach me? I would be interested in learning how to sew. My stitches are not as neat as they could be.”

“I doubt sewing will be among those talents required for a countess,” Gillian said.

“I do not like him,” Arabella said abruptly.

“I doubt you would have liked anyone your father selected for a husband.”

“He is rather unfriendly, don’t you think, Gillian?”

“He is an earl, Arabella. I believe they are supposed to look a little off-putting. It’s one of the requirements of the position. Do you not look as stern when you’re treating one of your patients?”

“I have neither inherited that role nor simply accepted it. I have studied very hard for what I know. I have done as much or more than any man.”

“I know that, Arabella, but now is not the time to engage in conversation on the rights of women. It’s time to be fitted for your dresses.”

“I do not like him,” Arabella repeated.

Was the girl a complete idiot?

“You just have to get to know him, Arabella. Stop avoiding the earl at every turn. Spend a little time talking to him. He’s a fascinating man.”

Oh dear, had she already said too much? Did her words betray her own fascination with Grant, Earl of Straithern? Or her envy?

She was suddenly so annoyed with herself that she wanted to be away from Arabella, away from Rosemoor completely. The future yawned before her, terrifying and empty, but it must be faced.

How very foolish she was. How very foolish they both were. Arabella, for refusing to see the blessing she’d been given. And she, for wishing she was Arabella.

“You are spoiled, Arabella,” she said. “Spoiled and foolish. You think the world will stop and obey you simply because you think it should. The world can be a cold and heartless place, Arabella, and I hope you do not ever discover that on your own.”

Arabella whirled and faced her. The girl’s complexion was suddenly pale except for twin spots of color on her cheeks. “What makes you think I haven’t already discovered just how cold and heartless the world can be, Gillian?”

Gillian didn’t have a response. Nor did she have an
answer for the sudden and surprising fear she felt at that moment, looking into Arabella’s green eyes.

Dorothea, Countess of Straithern, stood at the top of the stairs looking down at her son’s soon-to-be-wife. There was something about the girl that disturbed her, something that niggled at her during the day, and especially during her prayers. As if God were chastising her for feeling such antipathy for a girl so intent on doing good. Blevins had been an old stubborn fool, but it looked as if he’d won that battle. She should retreat to her parlor where she would decide upon the guest list for the upcoming ball, but for some reason she remained where she was, studying the girl.

What, exactly, was it about Arabella Fenton that disturbed her so much?

Her hand gripped the railing tighter as she watched the two of them, Arabella and Gillian. Some might say that it was the fact that the girl would relegate her to dowager status, but she was more than ready to give up being the Countess of Straithern for Grant’s sake. There was something else about the girl, something beyond her fascination with medicine and her shocking insistence upon becoming a physician.

Dorothea shrugged. Perhaps it was nothing more than resentment. That, and a little envy of the girl’s youth. Or perhaps not. She watched Arabella leave. There was a look on the companion’s face as she stared after Arabella, a look that disturbed Dorothea even more than her own thoughts.

She knew fear when she saw it.

Miss Cameron wasn’t coming, which only proved that she was wiser than he.

Grant moved around his laboratory restlessly, feeling an unwarranted dissatisfaction in his current experiments. Normally he could lose himself in his electrics in a way that transcended anything else surrounding him.

If he was lonely, he worked. If he was annoyed with some facet of his life, he worked. If he was numb with grief, it even helped to go through the motions of work.

Work had always given him solace, until recently.

Life was a series of uncomfortable moments punctuated by joy. Lately, however, he’d experienced more uncomfortable moments than interludes of happiness. Why was that? Because he was back in England?

For years he’d made Italy his home. Occasionally he’d ached for Scotland, for his family, for the history that was his, for Rosemoor. But Italy had given him what Scotland could not: the absolute freedom to be simply Grant Roberson.

In Scotland, he was always the Earl of Straithern, with the responsibility of being earl and the compromises attendant to the title.

He should not be here now, in his laboratory, beginning what should be a series of fascinating experiments. Instead, he should be meeting with his steward, and making any number of decisions. The outbuildings needed painting and he had to choose the color. The irrigation ditches were choked with weeds and he needed to choose in which order they were to be cleaned. Next year’s planting schedule had to be ordained, as well as the date the cattle were sent to mar
ket. Not to mention that the roof required repairs—who did he select for that task?

He was needed as Earl of Straithern, but today he wanted to be a scientist.

Perhaps that’s why his conscience was so silent when dealing with Gillian Cameron—it was too occupied with finding excuses for his procrastination. Perhaps that’s why he didn’t concern himself with the reason he wanted her in his laboratory, as much as the fact that it was quite evident she was not going to return.

Why wasn’t she?

And why did he care?

Instead of worrying about Gillian Cameron, he should instead concentrate on Arabella. She was going to be his wife, a decision he’d made of his own free will.

Arabella was as fierce and determined as he. Her drive and ambition were similar as well. But what might serve a friendship well, or even a business partner, did not seem appropriate for marriage.

When he’d first proposed the union to Dr. Fenton, he had simply wanted convenience. Now he wanted so much more.