Page 20 of I’ve Grown Accustomed to My Scot

She was definitely remembering last night, but probably also remembering that they had been meant to discuss her future this morning and instead he had . . . run away. Refusing to feel ashamed, Rory cleared his throat. “I thought you might be a burglar.”

She stared and then slowly her mouth tipped up at the corners into a smile. “A book thief?” she said. “I’m not sure there are many books here that I want to steal, although I am sure they are worthy. But I wasn’t looking for worthy right now, unless it was to send me to sleep.”

Her whimsy made him smile back, and he was relieved to feel that he was on an equal footing with her again. “I’m no’ sure there would be much money to be made from my aunt’s collection anyway,” he said, waving his hand at the shelves.

“There are a few classics,” she said, holding up the book she was holding, which looked deathly dull to Rory. “And some romances. There’s even a copy of Etiquette for Gentlemen, if you are interested?”

“You’re right. I should probably read that,” he replied promptly.

She laughed.

He was pleased and a little astonished. He had never heard her laugh, and here she was, despite the circumstances, smiling and having a conversation with him like any normal girl. He wasn’t sure what to say next because he didn’t want to ruin it.

“Did you have a nice evening?” she asked him as she rose to her feet, the book clutched in one hand and the other holding her shawl securely across her bosom. Her hair was longer than he had thought, almost to her waist, and once again it looked as if there were tangles in it she hadn’t yet unraveled. His fingers itched to smooth it and to feel the silky strands gliding across his skin. He was looking down at her—he was taller, but not ridiculously taller like Callum and his wife.

She must have noticed him staring, but she refused to lower her own eyes, and he was surprised by that. She was refusing to be intimidated by him. This did not seem to be the same woman he had first met in Ormsby’s house; the woman who had been too scared to look him in the eyes. He wondered if that had ever been the real Grace or just a role she was playing in her father’s presence. Rory liked the idea she was not afraid of him, that she had some fire in her belly after all.

Belatedly he remembered she had asked him a question. “It was a pleasant evening. Not my usual sort of one, if I am honest,” he admitted. “I had dinner with a friend.” Then, thinking she might mistake that, “A male friend, I mean. Lord Kilsyth,” he added, and then wondered why he had felt the need to say all of that. What did it matter what he did and who he dined with? It was really none of Grace’s business.

But for some reason, it stung when she nodded as if she couldn’t care less. “Bolton took me out to dinner once. And to the theatre,” she spoke as if to herself, her thoughts obviously back in the past. “It was a comedy. I laughed a great deal, but I think that was because I believed at the time Bolton was going to save me. I was happy.”

She sighed, and then shook her head, as if pushing aside the memory of the nefarious Bolton. Remembering her confessions from last night, Rory knew she had not loved him, but she had trusted him. He had an urge to question her further about the man, but swallowed it back. He was curious, yes, but surely that conversation would bring a degree of intimacy into their relationship that he was currently trying to avoid.

“I have no’ been to the theatre since I arrived in London,” Rory admitted lightly. He had been too busy with less salubrious entertainments, but she didn’t need to know that. “In fact, I havena been to a proper theatre in my entire life. Perhaps we could go together?”

The words were out before he could stop them, and then he wondered if he had meant to say them all along.

She looked up at him, wide-eyed and obviously as surprised as he. “Oh! That would be . . . I mean, thank you.” Then, with a cautious look, “I don’t want you to feel you have to entertain me. I know you did not want to marry me, and I am grateful you did. I really am. Last night . . .” She stopped as if not knowing what to say.

Rory didn’t want to talk about last night. “You would be entertaining me, Grace,” he said quickly. “I know my aunt was keen on us being seen in public, so that you can be better accepted and your reputation restored—”

“Unlikely,” she said bitterly, “but it was kindly meant by the countess. I do agree with her though, that it will help me to chaperone my sisters if I am not considered quite so terrible in a year or so’s time.”

“Then it is what you want? To accompany me to the theatre?”

She was watching him closely as she nodded. “It is what I want. Thank you.”

“Verra well, but I am afraid I will be a sad disappointment if you are hoping I will restore your reputation with my gentlemanly manners,” he went on, awkwardly. “I do no’ know the first thing about polite society. I was no’ brought up to it.”

“Oh? I do know how to go about in society, mostly. I had my coming-out when I was seventeen, five years ago. My mother made certain of it. She wanted me to marry and be—be safe, but then she fell ill and it did not happen. If you want, I could . . .” She chewed on her lip.

“Guide me through the pitfalls?” he asked, and he couldn’t help but smile at the idea of his scandalous wife showing him how to behave. It sounded too much like his brother and Penelope to make him feel entirely comfortable.

“Well, you helped me,” she retorted. “It could be a way of paying off my debt to you.”

“There is no debt,” he growled. “I did no’ do it for you to feel you had to pay me back.”

“I feel as if there is,” she said, not backing down.

Rory thought a moment. He knew she was right, and Aunt Jennie was right, and it would be a good thing for them to tackle the gossips and silence their tongues. And who could say, he might learn some valuable lessons, the sort of lessons Penelope had taught Callum. It couldn’t hurt, could it?

“Verra well. We can begin with a visit to the theatre,” he said.

She smiled, and he could see she was pleased. It was a start anyway.

The silence drew on, and Rory waved awkwardly toward the door. “I’d best go to bed. Goodnight, Grace.”

“Goodnight, Rory.”