Page 5 of Wouldn’t it Be Scottish?

Jennie nodded, still watching him. “As long as you enjoy yourselves while you are doing it. What is the plan?”

He told her and Jennie smiled enthusiastically. “It sounds doable. What is she like? Agatha Kilsyth, I mean.”

Donal wondered how to answer that. He ran through a few possibilities before he settled on, “She is sensible, practical, and very determined. I like her.”

“Good!” Jennie said. “It would be difficult to pretend to be in love with someone if you didn’t at least like them.”

Donal was startled into staring at her blankly. Pretend to be in love with Agatha Kilsyth? But of course that was what they were doing, wasn’t it? Pretending to be enjoying each other’s company so much that their partners turned green with jealousy.

“I suppose so,” he answered, rather listlessly. “Oh, and I will need evening clothes for Saturday night. We are going to a ball, and evidently the hosts are verra particular.”

Jennie’s eyes widened. “Is it the Belvoir Ball? That is a very grand occasion, Donal. Anyone who is anyone will be there. I am quite jealous.”

“Perhaps I should have said no?” he answered, startled. The idea of being the center of attention at such an event made his toes curl.

“I am very glad you said yes,” she retorted. “This is exactly what you need. I am assuming Lord Kilsyth will be there, with a chaperone for his daughter?”

“I don’t know. I didn’t ask,” he admitted.

Jennie appeared to be deep in thought. “It will probably be this new lady he has spoken of. A widow. He was in mourning for his wife for a long time, but I think he is finally learning to live again.”

“How long was he in mourning for his wife?”

“Oh, years!”

Donal wondered glumly how many years he would mourn if he didn’t win Mary back. Years, probably. A lifetime. It sounded bleak.

At that moment Bothwell the cat strode into the room and jumped on Jennie’s lap, and the next few minutes were taken up with her stroking him and murmuring foolish endearments to him. Donal caught Bothwell eyeing him threateningly, and he knew better than to get too close.

Chapter Three

Agatha Kilsyth stood before her looking glass and examined herself critically. She knew she was not a beauty like Mary Davidson or Charlotte Elliot. She was well enough, she supposed, if one found brown hair and a clear complexion pleasing. And an hourglass figure. She would have preferred to be fair and tall and slender, the sort of willowy shape that had captured the eye and the heart of Richard Leslie.

Her own heart still ached at the memory of him gazing in rapt wonder at the woman he had later claimed was the girl of his dreams. Agatha had just arrived at a musical evening and had thought Richard would be glad to see her. When she had realized he was with someone else, someone he was obviously infatuated with, she hadn’t known what to say or think. When he had eventually sought Agatha out and told her of his newfound passion, she had stared at him in disbelief and a great deal of anguish, but he hadn’t seemed to notice. Or maybe he just hadn’t wanted to acknowledge how much he had hurt her when he was overflowing with his own happiness. Since then, he had been squiring Charlotte about, ignoring Agatha altogether. The pain had been greater than any she had ever known, because she had been convinced that Richard was hers, and now she knew he wasn’t.

And despite her claims to Lord Donal MacKenzie, Agatha wasn’t sure she would be able to win him back. It would be nice if she could, if he would turn to her, his handsome face lighting up and his eyes widening, and exclaim: “Agatha! Of course it was always you!” But she was beginning to think she was wishing for something that was as unlikely to happen as pigs flying.

She had accepted long ago that she wasn’t the sort of girl gentlemen fell madly in love with, that sort of insane, head-over-heels love that made them do ridiculous things. But she had told herself that was all right because Richard loved her, and that was all that mattered. Agatha cringed now at her naivete. She had taken her future with him very much for granted.

With a sigh, she twitched the skirt of her ballgown so that it hung straight. It was a pretty shade of blue, a similar shade to her pale-blue eyes, and her brown hair was dressed elaborately with the addition of silk flowers. A short train was affixed to her waist, not long enough to get in the way when she danced but enough to take the eye away from her buxom hips. Despite her best efforts to reduce her opulent curves, nothing seemed to work. It was a lowering realization that even if she were suddenly transformed into slender beauty, Richard would not look twice at her.

Agatha had chosen a sapphire necklace for tonight, and the diamonds surrounding each stone sparkled brightly. It was her mother’s necklace, hers now as the only daughter—the only child in fact. Her father had presented her with her mother’s small collection of jewelry after he had had the pieces cleaned.

She could almost hear her mother’s chiding voice. “My dear child, you may not be the most beautiful girl there tonight, but you are certainly the cleverest. I know there are some who say that gentlemen do not like clever women, but I believe it is only stupid gentlemen who feel that way. My advice is to find yourself one who appreciates all that makes you you.”

Agatha had thought she had done just that, until Richard had fallen under the spell of a beautiful woman who, ironically, was not particularly clever. She had delved into Miss Elliot’s background—yes, she knew that was not what she should have done, but she couldn’t help it. Charlotte Elliot had been educated at home and could dance and embroider, and her handwriting was very nice. But she probably did not know half the things Agatha did. Agatha had studied under the tutorship of the local minister, who said she was very clever, and what a pity it was she was just a girl. She read every book she could get hold of and read her father’s newspapers front to back. At twenty years old, Agatha was different from other girls. She dreamed of a life full of interesting places and interesting adventures. She knew how silly that sounded, when generally she wasn’t silly at all, but why couldn’t sensible girls dream too?

Downstairs, her father was waiting with Mrs. Miriam Robinson, who was his partner for tonight. Agatha did not know Miriam well, but she seemed pleasant. A widow with no children, she professed an interest in Agatha without being uncomfortably nosy. Her father said he had met her last year, but the details were scant, and Agatha had not delved into them too deeply. She was just glad to see him smile again—he had not done so for a long time after her mother’s death.

“You look very fetching,” Mrs. Robinson said now with her warm smile.

“Indeed you do!” her father said, taking her hands and kissing her cheek. “I hope Lord Donal will behave himself with you and not lose his head.”

Agatha choked on incredulous laughter. “I doubt that will happen. Father, you do know he is in love with someone else?”

“That doesn’t mean he can’t appreciate a pretty girl.”

Her father began to tell Mrs. Robinson how he had met Donal’s brother, Lord Rory MacKenzie, by offering to be his second in a duel, and that they had later become firm friends. “He is happily married now.” He sounded smug. “I like to think I helped him achieve that.”