Page 55 of The Last Debutante
Duff merely fixed his gaze on her as he stuffed a healthy portion of potatoes into his mouth.
“If it were me, I would avoid unnecessary society with them. I consider myself a good judge of character, and it strikes me that the laird is quite a bit above that family.” She shrugged as if it made no difference to her.
Duff paused and wordlessly looked across the table at her.
She tried to smile. “I realize I am speaking out of turn—”
“Aye.”
“I mean well, Mr. Duff. I am speaking to you as a friend who has the laird’s ear. It seems everyone at Dundavie is waiting for the laird to marry and produce an heir, and quite naturally, for that is what lords and lairds do. But I would caution him from seeking a match with Lady Ann. I cannot think he’d be happy.”
Duff put down his fork. “You are free with your opinions, are you no’?”
Daria shrugged again. “I’ve never been able to help myself.” Nor could she stop herself from imagining Jamie and Lady Ann, shackled for all eternity by matrimony—
“Who he might marry is no business of yours, lass. But I can assure you that he’d sooner take his own life than marry an Englishwoman.”
That was a bit of a stinging put-down. “Well, he must marrysomeone,” she insisted. “If not Lady Ann, then who?”
An uncharacteristic smile softened Duff’s face. “Diah,but it warms me heart to hear your concern for our laird’s happiness, Miss Babcock. Allow me to put your fears to rest. The laird has held Isabella Brodie dear to his heart, aye? It is likely their engagement will be renewed.”
“It is?” she asked, sounding damnably weak.
“Aye.” He stood. “Good evening, then, Miss Babcock.”
“Wait!” Daria exclaimed as Duff started for the door. He paused and glanced back at her. “Is he... Do you mean that he loves her?”
Duff muttered something under his breath and walked out of the dining room.
She stabbed at the food on her plate. The news was oddly unsettling. It should have soothed her, reminded her that she was filled with childish daydreams. But it hardly mattered—she would be away from Dundavie just as soon as she could. Let Jamie marry whomever he pleased. It was nothing to her.
It certainly had nothing to do with her not sleeping well that night. She tossed and turned, feeling every lump in her mattress. She was disappointed that she had been so caught up in a silly little fantasy. She was far too experienced to have her head turned by a mere kiss. Knowing that Jamie would marry Isabella Brodie was exactly what she needed to step back and think clearly. She was a captive here. She couldn’t speak the language; no one liked her—You are a fool!
She had thought herself fairly awake but was startled half out of her wits by someone shaking her in the middle of the night. Daria came up with a cry of alarm until she saw Jamie standing there, holding a candle aloft. Her heart began to beat wildly. Several highly improper thoughts scattered across her mind. “What in heaven are you doing?”
“Get up,” he said, and tossed something on the foot of her bed.
Daria’s skin tingled with foreboding. She looked to the window—it was black as ink out there. “What time is it?”
“It’s four o’clock. Don these clothes and meet me in the foyer, aye?”
He set the candle down on the basin. “I’ll expect you in a quarter of an hour,” he said and walked away, disappearing into the shadows. She heard the door pull shut.
She picked up the first thing she could reach from the items he’d put at the end of the bed: a pair of buckskin pantaloons? What was this? His nocturnal intrusion was scandalous, unacceptable, and possibly even law-breaking in England. Any proper young English debutante would denounce a gentleman who presented himself in such a manner.
But she was not in England. She was in Scotland. And none of the English gentlemen had roused such a heartbeat in her as Jamie had. So she pushed the loose hair from her face, climbed out of bed, and pulled on the pantaloons.
They were short, reaching just above her ankles, and a little snug, but Daria felt delicious wearing them, as if she were doing something almost indecent. He’d also left her a woolen shirt and a coat, and a pair of boy’s boots. The shirt, which she pulled on over a chemise, was quite long, with far too much fabric to tuck into the pantaloons, so she tied the ends at her waist. The coat almost swallowed her whole, but it was warm and smelled slightly of horses. She braided her hair and pulled on the boots. They were a little large, but they would do. Daria picked up the candelabra and made her way down to the foyer.
Jamie was waiting, his feet braced apart, his hands clasped at his back. He was dressed in the plaid, its end draped over his shirt and shoulders and belted at his waist. Daria was so taken up with his appearance that she scarcely noticed how his gaze raked overher. “You did as I asked,” he said approvingly. “I’d thought there’d be some resistance.”
“There was,” she said, and smiled. “You might at least explain why I must parade about as a man.”
He grinned. “There is no’ a person on earth who would ever mistake you for a man,leannan. But you canna ride over the hills on an English sidesaddle, aye? The paths are too treacherous; you must ride astride. I thought you’d be more comfortable dressed in this manner.”
Daria perked up. “Over the hills?”
“To call on your wretched grandmother, aye.”
