She realized as she turned to him that Arthur was gazing at her, surprise and something else on his face, a deeper curve to his bottom lip than she had seen before.
Admiration? Or—no, not precisely admiration.
Pleasure.
His hand flexed on the desk and his smallest finger somehow brushed hers. She wore no gloves when writing. His skin was warm against her own.
“Aye,” he said roughly, “I’ll do that.”
His hand came away from hers and she clutched her quill, cool against her heated skin, as he rose to find a map.
Chapter 8
… He’s just spent three-quarters of an hour stewing apples with his own hands. When I asked if Miss Hope-Wallace especially fancies apple pudding, he fled like the kitchen was afire. Promising!!!
—from Fern Ferguson, maid, to Bertie Palmer, estate manager at Strathrannoch
The drawing room of Strathrannoch Castle was overlarge and not quite warm enough at night. The windows were poorly fitted and late-October drafts occasionally put out the candles or sent a letter winging its way down from Arthur’s desk.
And yet he could not stop returning to the room.
In the near-fortnight since Lydia Hope-Wallace’s arrival, he had joined her in the drawing room again and again, a moth drawn to her flame. Every morning he told himself to stop, to visit his people and their fields. To stay away from the room and its temptations. He knew enough now about her correspondence with Davis; there was nothing to be gained by asking her about her writing or her politics or her numerous beloved brothers.
But eventually the sun would start to dip. His tenants would begin hinting delicately about their dinner. And his feet would make their way unerringly back to where Lydia pored over maps and notes at his desk while they waited to hear back from her library. He could not seem to stop himself.
She was shy, he’d learned—she rarely spoke in groups, and only when directly addressed. But she was far from timid. She had opinions on every subject—he knew, because he’d asked her about all of them. She opposed the Seditious Meetings Act and became nearly irate on the subject of rotten boroughs. She had thoughts on the Luddites, on the Corn Laws—when she learned of Huw’s devotion to animal welfare, she engaged the elated stable master in a lengthy conversation on the philosophical work of Jeremy Bentham.
In some ways, she would have made a perfect wife for Davis—the old Davis, before he’d fallen into the clutches of the powerful and corrupt. Davis had loved to talk of politics and people; Davis would have known how to soothe her anxieties and draw her out of her shell in company.
But Arthur was content to watch her, bright-eyed, pink about the cheeks, just a bit flustered.
And in the evenings, after supper, he found himself returning to the drawing room, even though she was not there. The drawing room was where she worked during the day, and when he sat at the desk at night, he found that he could still catch her scent. It was soft—warm—edible, like cream on scones. The room whispered echoes of Lydia, and he was helpless to resist, no matter how much he knew he ought to stop.
A few more days. He would let himself linger in the pleasures of her clever mind and the sweet curve of her mouth for a few more days, until they received a return letter from her library. Andthen she would go back to London, and he would be alone again at Strathrannoch.
And alone was far safer. He’d learned that lesson well from his brother.
As he’d read Davis’s letters to Lydia, he’d become increasingly convinced that he had been right about his brother’s motivations. It seemed clear that Davis was subtly probing for information in the letters. He’d asked Lydia who in London was on her side, who she suspected would be willing to speak out against the Clearances or against Scottish involvement in the Napoleonic Wars. He had claimed to be looking for allies in England.
When Lydia had gone scarlet before handing the packet over to Arthur to examine, it had occurred to him with no small discomfort that some of the letters must contain his brother’s attempts at lovemaking. He found that he did not—under any circumstances—want to read such a thing.
But the letters were not overtly flirtatious. In retrospect, Arthur supposed she had removed the more romantic missives before turning the letters over to him. But even without an obvious confession of his feelings, Davis did what he always did when he fixed his attention upon someone—made the recipient of his regard feel special. Feel as though their words mattered to him more than anyone else’s.
It was a powerful talent, that. And one that made you feel quite the fool when you worked out that you’d been deceived.
Arthur was musing upon his brother’s talent directed toward Lydia Hope-Wallace and fuming to himself so vigorously that he did not at first notice when the woman herself slipped into the drawing room in the middle of the night.
He did notice, however, when she kicked a stack of books, knocked several to the floor, and cursed under her breath.
His head went up. “Lydia?”
She jumped into the air like a startled doe. Or a zebra.
“Oh,” she gasped, her dark blue gaze finding his. “Oh, I’m so sorry! I did not see you!”
Indeed, he could imagine that she had not thought to meet him down here in the drawing room at—he checked his decrepit pocket watch—two o’clock in the morning. She wore a night rail—he could see the edge of it peeking out above her toes, a silky-looking cotton—and over it a thick wool dressing gown, which fastened down the front with a row of fabric-covered buttons.
All the way down, from her chin to her ankles.
