Page 29 of Wouldn’t it Be Scottish?

Agatha’s smile was dimmer than usual. “I will when Donal arrives. I wonder where he is?”

“Here comes your father,” Miriam said with pleasure.

Archie approached. “Ah, my two favorite ladies!” he said in a jovial voice, but Agatha thought he was not quite his usual self either. They stood together and watched the dancing. Miriam frowned at a baroness who lifted her nose in the air as she strutted by.

“Goodness me!” Miriam said loudly. “There are some awfully ignorant people here tonight!”

Kilsyth hushed her, but he was grinning. “You are fearless, Miriam,” he said admiringly.

“I have had to be,” she responded. Then, with a nod, “There he is!”

Agatha turned to look, her heart lifting, only for it to sink again. There on the other side of the room was Donal, and he was standing with Mary. Their heads were together in a conversation that looked both intimate and urgent.

Agatha tried to tell herself this was a good thing. Her plan was working just as she had hoped it would. No doubt Mary had heard about the engagement and now realized she would lose Donal if she did not act quickly. Agatha told herself she should be pleased, but instead . . . she felt as if inside she were dying.

Her father wasn’t pleased at the sight. “Agatha, you should go over there and rescue your lad,” he said with a worried frown.

“Is he in need of rescuing?” Agatha asked quietly. “He looks perfectly happy to me.”

“He is your fiancé, my dear, not Miss Davidson’s.”

Agatha understood why her father was concerned. He thought he might be about to lose the man he wanted for his daughter, but there was nothing she could do about it. She should have told him the truth yesterday! She could have spared him this.

More gossips eyed them sideways and whispered behind their hands. Her father frowned. “Do you know, I feel quite sorry for Donal. He is nothing like Rory, who I think thoroughly deserved his notoriety. But rumormongers have long memories when it comes to the MacKenzie brothers, and now Donal is having to deal with the consequences of his brothers’ misbehavior.”

Agatha knew that Donal was a good man. Kind and generous. She rested her gaze on him again even though she would much rather have looked the other way. She noticed now that Mary was smiling, seemingly enjoying whatever Donal had said to her. Agatha’s eyes widened when Mary reached out a hand and grasped his arm affectionately.

Agatha had the strong urge to walk over there and remove that hand. But she didn’t—of course not, that would be ridiculous. She wondered what she would do next. Would she run away home to Setholm? And was her home even going to be there for much longer?

She couldn’t seem to shift her attention from Donal and Mary. He was smiling back at her, and Agatha’s spirits sank even more, just when she had thought they had reached an all-time low.

She must be brave, she must be strong. She must bid farewell to Donal as if she were glad for him and her heart was not breaking.

*

Donal decided it was agreeable to have Mary here with him, smiling as if nothing had happened to push them apart. Just now, when she had asked him about the picnic, she had seemed like the old Mary, the girl he had loved, and he found himself confiding in her about the rainstorm and the misunderstanding and the way everyone now believed the worst.

Mary laughed as if she were amused about that. “Is that why everyone is saying you are engaged to Miss Kilsyth?” she said.

That was when Donal had remembered he wasn’t supposed to tell Mary the truth—he was supposed to make her jealous and want him again. But he wasn’t a very good liar, and besides, he wanted to tell her the truth, partially at least. “I’m marrying Agatha because she does not deserve to have her reputation called into question.”

“I see,” she said, but she didn’t seem to be terribly worried at the idea that he might be marrying another woman. She turned her head, as if looking for someone, and gave a little frown.

“Where is Belvoir?” he asked when it suddenly occurred to him that usually where Mary was Belvoir was not far behind. At the moment, that smug handsome face was nowhere in sight.

Mary gave him a quizzical look, as if she were deciding how much to tell him. “Can I be frank, Donal? Belvoir and I argued. He is a wee bit spoiled. Nothing like you. You are always such a gentleman.”

Donal was secretly pleased by that news, even as he assumed a sympathetic face. He wanted to ask her if she was planning to return to Scotland, but he didn’t want to spoil the mood. They were finally talking to each other just like they used to, but it seemed like a fragile thing, easily broken.

“Should I call him out?” he asked instead, only half joking.

Mary seemed to think that funny. As if Donal were incapable of participating in a duel and certainly not able to win one. “No, don’t do that,” she said. “I don’t want you to hurt yourself.”

That stung. It occurred to him that Mary had always been a little cruel, interspersing her smiles with barbs and then smiling again.

Donal glanced across the ballroom and saw Agatha standing with her father and Mrs. Robinson. Agatha was staring back at him, and the expression on her face made him think she was feeling sad. She needed him, and he should go to her. He had begun to take a step toward her when Mary caught hold of his arm.

“Oh look,” she whispered, “there is that dreadful Lady Connaught. She is Belvoir’s aunt, you know, and she hates me. Thinks I am beneath him.”