Page 4 of Wouldn’t it Be Scottish?

“I have called him worse names that that recently, in my head at least,” Agatha said with a sigh. “We are a sad pair, are we not?”

Here was someone who understood exactly what he was going through. Maybe he could help her, and she could help him. He was usually a kind sort of person, eager to offer support to others, and it was only lately that he had become so self-obsessed and full of his own misery.

“I am very sorry, Miss Kilsyth,” he said sincerely. “I know how it feels to have one’s dreams crushed and one’s heart broken. The word I would use is dubhach. Perhaps you know it?”

She shook her head. “I do not speak the Gaelic,” she said. “I am a lowlander Scot. We live near Setholm, just over the English border in Scotland. What does dubhach mean?”

“Gloomy. Melancholy. Hopeless.”

She nodded. “Exactly.” They were both silent, deep in their own suffering. Finally Agatha gave a sigh, and when she spoke again there was more confidence in her voice, as if she was determined to be positive.

“I think we should enter society and be seen to be enjoying ourselves. We will be noticed, Lord Donal. That must be our plan. Sitting about being melancholy is not the answer to this. Do you agree?”

Donal liked that idea. It sounded simple. “I would agree, but I am barely acquainted with anyone in London, apart from my aunt and your father,” he said apologetically.

Agatha waved a dismissive hand. “My father is well known, and there are several people having entertainments in the next month or so. We have already received plenty of invitations and can expect more. I will accept for both of us, but only those ones likely to have Richard and Mary on their guest lists. Don’t worry,” she said, seeing him about to argue, “I will tell them that I am bringing you, and when they learn you are the son of a duke, no one will refuse to admit you.” She gave him another long look. “I am surprised Mary did not jump at the chance to marry a duke’s son, and handsome too. She must be a very silly girl.”

That unexpected compliment gave his confidence a boost, despite it being less complimentary to Mary, but he still had plenty of doubts. Could it really be that easy? That he would arrive at a London house in his fashionable new clothes, be admitted, and then what? What would they do once they were there?

Again, as if she had read his mind, Agatha said, “We will throw ourselves into a whirl of social activity, Lord Donal. If nothing else, it will help us to forget our broken hearts, but I hope it will do a great deal more than that. I hope that soon we will emerge from this unhappy time triumphant!”

Donal imagined himself at one of these “entertainments” with Agatha in his arms. He tried to picture Mary there too, watching them with jealous eyes. Would it work? He didn’t know, but he could try, and perhaps Agatha was right and it would take his mind off his aching heart. And at least they would be doing something practical. Agatha seemed like a practical sort of girl, and Donal knew he needed someone to take him in hand. Lately he had spent far too much time in his own head.

“Verra well,” he said, with far more resolve than he had felt so far. “Let’s do it.”

Agatha looked at him, pleased, and then she smiled. She had a lovely smile. Her mouth was wide and generous, and she had small, white teeth. When she had first arrived, she had seemed like such a serious girl, but that smile hinted at a cheerier nature. He hoped she usually smiled more, although he knew neither of them had had much to smile about recently.

“What invitation should we start with?” he asked.

Her expression turned thoughtful. “I think . . . a ball! Why not? There is one on Saturday and a very grand one. Do you have the clothes for it?” she asked him doubtfully, looking at his old fawn breeches and brown jacket. “It will be evening wear, and the hosts are very strict.”

“I will be ready,” he assured her, remembering with relief his visit to the tailor.

“Then that is what we will do. We will arrive together, and you will dance with me, and we will laugh and laugh, as if we are having a wonderful time. As if we haven’t a care in the world.” She searched his face with a candid look. “Does that sound like something you are prepared to do, Lord Donal?”

She meant would he be able to carry it off? Donal knew he could still say no and return to his former abject misery, but he wasn’t going to do that. Agatha was right, they had to try. And it sounded like it might even be fun.

But then another worry occurred to him. “And you are sure Mary will be at this ball?”

Agatha gave him a droll look. “She is everywhere, Lord Donal. The hit of the Season, they are calling her. I know that Richard will be there too, because he is a distant relative of the hosts.”

The hit of the Season, feted and admired by everyone. Donal tried to imagine it and found that he could, easily. No wonder Mary’s head had been turned. No wonder she had not wanted to come home to Donal. Agatha was right, he needed to show Mary that he was just as good as any of her other suitors. He had to show her that she would never be able to do better than him.

Agatha was watching him with speculation in her eyes. Did she think he was going to turn coward and refuse? “Are we going to do this?” she asked quietly. “I need your firm answer.”

Donal nodded with determination. “Yes, we are going to do this, Miss Kilsyth. We definitely are.”

She held out her hand, and he realized after a moment that she wanted to shake on the deal, so he extended his own and clasped her fingers. She was wearing gloves, but beneath the thin cloth her hand felt cold. Just for a moment he had the urge to warm her hand between both of his, but of course he didn’t. They shook solemnly.

Agatha did not stay for more than a sip of the tea that Hocking brought, and by the time Aunt Jennie had awoken from her nap and arrived downstairs, she found Donal in solitary splendor with the tray before him.

“My goodness,” she said, eying him curiously. “That is a lot of cake for one man. Even a MacKenzie.”

“I had a visitor,” Donal said.

“You look very grave. Was it Lord Kilsyth’s daughter?”

“Yes it was,” he said. “We are going to make Mary jealous.”