How the Scot Was Won by Caroline Linden

6

Felix’s intention to keep his distance, physically and mentally, from Agnes St. James was taking hits from all sides.

“I saw your lady the other day,” said William Hunter.

“What?” His mind was on the case they were to argue. He had agreed to return to Agnew’s coffeehouse but only after a certain hour, when Agnes was unlikely to be there. To atone for his absence he drank multiple pots of coffee and left lavish tips for Helen.

“Miss St. James.” Hunter tapped the side of his nose.

He flinched and tried to hide it by reaching for his cup. “She’s not my lady.”

“No? How’d you spoil that, then? I thought you’d got the inside lane, being such friends with her brother.”

His mates knew Andrew St. James was staying with him; the pair of them had gone out to an oyster cellar with Adam Monteith and Will Ross for an evening of revelry. Thankfully, they knew nothing else.

“If you think being friends with her brother is the way to a lass’s heart,” he replied, “I see why you’re still unwed.”

Hunter laughed, but let it go.

St. James, on the other hand, presented greater difficulties. Not only was he staying in Felix’s own home, he’d become infatuated with Ilsa Ramsay. She had been at the oyster cellar, and had danced with St. James.

Felix had watched his friend steal glances at the beautiful widow all night. He had also scanned the room with wholly inappropriate hope, to see if Agnes might possibly be with Mrs. Ramsay. Which he knew was unlikely, and irrelevant to him anyway, but St. James’s open interest was like a stone in his shoe.

When St. James invited him three days later to come along to fetch his sisters from Calton Hill, Felix was on his feet and at the door before he remembered he was keeping his distance. It was a sickness, he told himself, this yearning for any chance to see her. And it went as expected: Agnes turned white, then pink, at the sight of him, and she determinedly ignored him before hurrying away with her sisters. They did not exchange a single word.

St. James was too moon-struck over Mrs. Ramsay to notice. Felix made an excuse and strode home, telling himself it was time to get over her.

But…ah Lord above, she looked so fine in the sunlight with her color high and the wind ruffling the dark wisps of hair at the nape of her neck. He recalled how exquisitely soft her skin was there, that night she’d kissed him and held him close. Just seeing you makes me hungry… If only there were some way he could fix things with her…

And then St. James offered him just that. “You didn’t tell me you knew her,” he charged when he returned from the hill.

Felix gave a guilty start. “Why should I? It’s not a crime to know someone.”

“You might have mentioned it!”

“There was nothing to tell,” he muttered. And never would be. Some things he was taking to his grave.

“Hmph. She specifically named you, idiot, and said I should invite you to visit Stormont Palace with us.”

For a moment the angels in heaven seemed to sing. She had spoken of him—invited him somewhere, anywhere, it didn’t matter where; with us.

His elation died a quick death when he realized his friend thought he’d been flirting with Ilsa Ramsay. His heart, which had soared at the thought of Agnes softening toward him and wanting to invite him on an outing, turned to lead and fell into his boots. He resorted to mocking his friend about his fascination with the beautiful widow, and even suggested he might start flirting with her. The words tasted like ashes, but it distracted St. James from any suspicion about Agnes.

God. He was a sad case. He ought to start flirting with another woman, if only to save himself from collapsing into melancholy.

Accordingly, that night he went to the Assembly Rooms, determined to make a clean start. He danced with Catriona Hill, who would be an ideal wife, and with Lady Talbot, a flirty widow who would be a willing lover. He drank whisky with James Crawford and Tom MacDougal—not nearly as much as he’d drunk That Night, but just enough to weaken his resolve to stay away when he caught sight of Agnes sitting with Mrs. Ramsay, smiling and laughing.

All thought of Miss Hill and Lady Talbot fled his brain. Agnes was still the woman he wanted, damn it.

What did he have to lose? He made his way through the crowd and swept a bow. “Good evening, Mrs. Ramsay.” Her gaze flashed his way, still bright and happy, and the breath caught in his throat. “Miss St. James.”

For a split second he had the wild hope she would nod politely, perhaps smile. He could offer to fetch her some wine, even ask her to dance. He could apologize and explain. He could do so much better than last time…

Instead she shot to her feet, snapped, “Good evening, sir,” and then was gone—but not before he saw the flash of panic in her eyes. Agnes, he realized as he watched her go, was frightened.

This was the same room where their indiscretion had begun. Tonight was much the same as that night, the rooms crowded with dancers, loud and festive with conversation and music. Did she fear he’d come to lure her into another indiscretion?

Would she think that of him? It was a disconcerting possibility.

He turned back to Mrs. Ramsay, who was watching him curiously. “I hoped I might beg the honor of a dance, ma’am.”

“Of course.” She smiled brightly, as if she too wanted a distraction. From the corner of one eye, Felix caught sight of Andrew St. James swinging Flora Clapperton down the reel and understood; he and Mrs. Ramsay were making good use of each other.

After the dance he lingered by her side and made conversation, wishing he dared ask if Agnes had confided in her. If she had, he doubted Mrs. Ramsay would be so cordial toward him. No, Felix decided, she’d probably not told anyone. Perhaps she feared he had?

Mrs. Ramsay’s next words scattered those thoughts. “I shall miss them so, when they have all moved house to England with the captain,” she said, nodding toward Winifred and her sister Isabella, who were holding court before a handful of captivated young men.

Felix stopped cold. “England! The devil you say!”

Her eyes filled with understanding. “Didn’t the captain tell you? He’s considering removing there, to be near his future…responsibilities. Winifred and Isabella are enthralled by the prospect of a Season in London as well.”

Damn it.“When?”

“I don’t know,” she said softly. “Perhaps you should ask him, as his dear friend.”

The whole time they’d been speaking—the whole bloody evening—he’d been aware of Agnes. She was laughing gaily with a pair of soldiers from the Castle—fellows like her brother. He’d caught her looking at him and Mrs. Ramsay, and he’d hoped it would make her the tiniest bit intrigued, perhaps even willing to speak to him again.

But she was leaving Edinburgh, to take her place as sister of a future duke, an eligible lady and heiress. And she’d already rejected him. Don’t forget about that, said a spiteful voice inside his head.

“Perhaps it doesn’t much matter,” he muttered.

“I wouldn’t be so sure,” Mrs. Ramsay replied.

St. James was plowing through the crowd, his expression intent. Felix took a breath and mustered a smile for his companion. “Only time will tell, aye? And as long as you don’t say you’re leaving Edinburgh, I shan’t mourn. St. James was gone for years and I never once missed a minute of sleep over it.”

She was laughing when St. James reached them, a smile on his lips but his eyes alert. He’d come to ask her to dance, as Felix had expected; wanting to twit his friend, he leapt in with a request of his own, but she refused them both, for she’d already promised the dance to Mr. Grant.

They watched her walk off on the merchant’s arm. Felix’s mind was still absorbing the news that Agnes would be leaving Edinburgh, eliminating any chance of a rapprochement. He’d told himself his chances were virtually nil, but was just realizing that his heart had still clung to hope. This planned visit to Stormont Palace had appeared to be a shining opportunity to apologize, perhaps begin again. Once she left Edinburgh, though…

“Tell the truth,” demanded St. James, eyeing him suspiciously. “Why did you dance with her?”

Felix shrugged. “’Twas just a dance. You were dancing with other women yourself.”

St. James flushed. “Friends of my sisters. They introduced me.”

Felix made himself smirk. “I’m sure Mrs. Ramsay assumed that very thing, as you led out half a dozen attractive single women of good fortune.”

His friend glared, then sighed. “Aye.” He gave a nod and walked off. He would have a second chance with Mrs. Ramsay. The sparkle in her eye when she looked at him was plain for all to see. Felix, on the other hand, felt as though his last chance had just been snuffed out.

Now the music was making his head hurt. He turned and headed for the door, no longer in the mood for dancing or flirting.

Agnes was going quietly mad.

Everywhere she turned were reminders of Felix Duncan. First, the Assembly Rooms themselves, where she’d been so happy to see him, where his eyes had lit up in admiration and delight at the sight of her. She knew that had been real, as real as her own attraction to him.

Then the man himself turned up and began flirting with Ilsa. Agnes knew she didn’t hold a candle to her friend in terms of eligibility. Ilsa’s father was a town councillor, head of the most powerful tradesmen’s guild in the city. The Duncans were an old family of advocates and judges, well-to-do and respected in Edinburgh. Ilsa would be a very good match for Felix, and he for her. It was entirely logical for him to flirt with Ilsa, she told herself.

But she couldn’t bear to watch, so she fled as soon as he approached. She was a coward, but she still couldn’t face him in person. Too late she realized both her sisters were dancing, and she didn’t want to stand by herself like an outcast. She settled for joining Sorcha White, but once again all the gentlemen who clustered around them ignored her for Sorcha.

From there she’d watched in quiet misery as Ilsa danced with Felix, both of them looking tremendously pleased, and then strolled arm in arm, his ginger head bent near her dark one. They made a handsome couple.

“Miss St. James, would you like to dance?” asked a gentleman, puncturing her thoughts.

“Hmm? Ah…” She hesitated. Sorcha was walking off with a lieutenant, and the gentleman’s eyes tracked her.

“Did you ask Miss White?” she blurted out.

He nodded, still watching Sorcha. “She’s promised me the next set.”

Once again, a man was only asking her to dance because he was waiting for the partner he really wanted. And the only man who had ever wanted to dance with her was off with Ilsa.

“Thank you, no,” she said with a forced smile. “I believe I’m done dancing this evening.”

He took it cheerfully, bowing and excusing himself. Alone again, Agnes scanned the room for her brother. Only her second visit to the Assembly Rooms, and now it was ruined, too. Her mother hadn’t come tonight, counting on Drew to see his sisters home safely. She wished she could go home, but Drew, like Winnie and Bella, was still dancing.

Upon learning of their brother’s inheritance, and realizing he would need a wife, Winnie and Bella had begun scheming to find him a Scottish bride, rather than waiting for him to marry an Englishwoman. They had introduced him to every eligible girl in the room and coerced him to dance with all of them. Her brother hadn’t missed a single set. Her sisters would probably keep him occupied all night. And when they weren’t introducing Drew to young ladies, Winnie and Bella had plenty of dance partners of their own.

Agnes was the only one feeling lost.

Listless, she wandered into the saloon. Tonight the supper room across the way was open, brilliantly lit, the tall doors opened to admit guests. She turned away from it, not wanting to remember what had happened in there.

Her throat grew tight. Why had she drunk so much That Night? Not for the first time she wondered what might have happened if she hadn’t asked for whisky, if she’d simply accepted his request to dance. If they’d just talked. Laughed. He might have asked to call on her or escort her home. Tonight she could have been as excited as her sisters to attend the Assembly Rooms, because he would be here, waiting to dance with her again—

As if the gods had heard her, Felix Duncan strode out of the main ballroom directly toward her, his dark green kilt swinging around his legs, his sable jacket perfectly fitted over his broad shoulders. His head was down, so he didn’t see her freeze like a startled deer.

He looked up. Like her, he stopped dead in his tracks. For a moment they just stared at each other.

Agnes’s pulse boomed in her ears. With no time to prepare herself, such yearning filled her that she had to grip her hands together to keep from throwing herself at him. Why had she become such a dunce around him? Why couldn’t she think of anything at all to say, when they had once talked so easily?

He cleared his throat. His eyes were impossibly blue. “Miss St. James. May I have a word?”

Her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth and her lungs seemed to stop. Merciful God. What about?

She must have looked panicked, for he put up one hand and added, “Only a word. I shan’t impose on you any more than that.”

Just hearing his voice made her eyes prickle, but Agnes nodded and followed him to an alcove near the stairs.

“Thank you. I’ve not forgotten what you said the last time we spoke,” he said formally. “I only meant to assure you that… I regard everything that happened between us as utterly private. I haven’t told anyone.”

She blinked. “Told anyone?”

An endearing little frown touched his brow. “No.”

Did gentlemen go around telling other gentlemen after they made love to a woman? Heaven help her, perhaps they did. She hadn’t thought of that. “I would hope not!”

Her horrified tone seemed to startle him. “When we met earlier, with Mrs. Ramsay, I sensed you were alarmed by my presence. I only wished to reassure you… I would never breathe a word.”

She nodded, feeling stupid and miserable again. “Oh, I see. Thank you.”

He exhaled and ran one hand over his head. “I’m sorry,” he said in a low, rapid burst of words. “I’m sorry for that night. I never intended…”

When he closed his mouth, looking pained, Agnes swallowed the lump in her own throat. “Of course,” she whispered. “I also apologize. I didn’t intend any of that to happen.”

His shoulders fell. “Can we be civil again?”

Involuntarily she glanced up. He’d moved closer as they lowered their voices, and his face was very near hers. His face, which she had kissed and touched and held close. He was unbearably handsome. And now he wanted to be civil, when her heart still leapt and ached every time she saw him. “Have I been uncivil?”

He recoiled, color brightening his cheeks. “I never said that.”

“Then why do you wish to be civil again? If you had been uncivil, that would be entirely within your province to change. That question means you think I’ve been uncivil, yet I cannot think how I was.”

His mouth hardened. “That’s not what I meant.”

“But that’s what you said.” Agnes fixed her eyes on the silver pin in his neckcloth to avoid his brilliant blue gaze. “And it’s the second time you claimed that what you said wasn’t what you meant.”

“Because I canna seem to express myself competently around you,” he exclaimed with a spark of temper.

“Believe me, I’ve noticed,” she said before she could stop herself.

He jerked, startled.

“What did you really mean?” She was tired of being on edge around him. “Say it plainly, if you please.”

He stared at her, perplexed or frustrated or annoyed—Agnes couldn’t tell which. She only knew she wanted to smooth away his frown with her thumb and hear him say something simple, something kind, something ruefully amused about how they always seemed to be off-step to each other—

“There you are,” said Drew behind her, making her jump.

She spun around. “Aye, here I am. What of it?”

“I’m supposed to keep an eye on you.” Her brother, no fool, narrowed his eyes, looking between the two of them. “Are you unwell?”

She flushed under his scrutiny. “I’ve a—a headache. Will you send for a chair so I can go home?”

Drew looked torn. “You shouldn’t go alone. I’ll take you…”

That would mean Winnie and Bella also would have to come. Agnes imagined their impatient and pestering curiosity, wanting to know why their evening had to be cut short as well, and shook her head. “A sedan chair will be safe enough.”

“I’ll see her home,” said Felix Duncan.

She panicked at the thought of being alone with him in the dark for the half-hour walk home. “Oh, no!” Agnes scurried to her brother’s side. “Don’t make Bella and Winnie leave. And you deserve a night of dancing.”

“Duncan could,” he began, but she shook her head.

“Please don’t ask Mr. Duncan,” she whispered urgently.

Drew gave her a long, searching look, and then gave his friend an even longer one. “Aye,” he said at last. “Duncan, would you be so kind as to keep an eye on my younger sisters while I take Agnes home?”

“Of course,” was the stiff reply.

Agnes made herself turn. He stood straight and tall, his jaw set, his gaze fixed on her brother. “Good evening, Mr. Duncan.” She bobbed a curtsy.

“Miss St. James.” He bowed his head without looking at her again.

And Agnes followed her brother down the stairs, head held high but hands in fists, wishing she had spent the night at home in the broom cupboard.