Page 74 of The Scot Who Loved Me
“Will?”
Sunlight haloed a feminine form.
“No, it’s me. Cecelia.” She shut the door. “Where did he go?”
Tension spooled between her shoulder blades. “I don’t know. He’s been out all night.”
Cecelia untied her straw hat, one arm clutching papers to her ribs. “He didn’t come home?”
“This isn’t his home,” she said irritably. “He is a guest.”
How vexing. The ladies of her league already thought of Will as a permanent fixture.
“A guest you want to keep around, I think.” Cecelia tossed her hat on the entry table with a breezy,“Chaneilanearballaigefodo choi.”
“I don’t want to keep his tail under my foot,” she said defensively.Just know his whereabouts.
Cecelia’s eyes narrowed. “Did you cry over him?”
“I—” She touched the corner of her eyes.
Cecelia brushed her hand away. “Don’t. Wetness spikes your lashes prettily, long gorgeous things that they are.” Cecelia linked arms with her and they ambled into the salon. “Does he know that you’ve shed tears over him?”
“I don’t... I didn’t shed tears over him.”
Cecelia snorted, an artful feminine sound that matched her kohled eyes and rouged cheeks. “Your lashes tell me you shed a few tears, prettily, no blotched cheeks, but you are terribly pale.”
She touched her cheeks. Cecelia wasn’t being unkind. She was being direct and helpful... and too insightful.
“It’s written all over your face, Anne. You didn’t sleep a wink, did you?” Cecelia led them to the settee where they both sank onto its lumpy yellow seat. “Good morning, Aunt Flora.”
“Good morning, dear.” The rhythmic needle didn’t stop.
“Today, I am the bearer of bad news.”
“What bad news, dear?”
Cecelia unfurled the papers she’d carried and slapped them on the upholstery with a dramatic flair. “It’s all this sunshine, I tell you. It emboldens criminals.”
Anne chuckled and picked up one of the papers. “Are we the pot decrying the kettle?”
Cecelia waved off her quip. “We need torrential downpours, same as we had earlier this summer. Heavy rain cleans more than gutters.”
Anne scanned the paper, its blaring captionsand columns of print all the usual dire news and gossip. “What troubles you so?”
“Don’t you see?” Cecelia rattled another paper. She punched an elegant finger at a caption.
Anne read a few lines underneath it. “A housebreaking?”
“Yes. A rather grisly one. The rise of violence and housebreakers has everyone talking.” Cecelia started to fold the paper. “I tried asking about our man at Covent Garden and—”
“You asked about Will?”
Feminine brows arched and the folding stopped. “No, Mr. Rory MacLeod.” Cecelia could’ve followed withyouidiotbut she kindly shook her head and continued folding. “You are lovesick,” she muttered.
Anne bit her bottom lip. She checked the clock. It was almost noon. He still wasn’t back, and she’d have to leave shortly. Seeing Will made her day better. His presence was amiable.Amiable?She cringed behind the paper she was supposed to peruse. Amiable was better suited for recommending a chimney sweep or describing a favorite costermonger.
She sucked in a deep breath and tried to read the paper. Cecelia was rummaging through the other papers, a line etched in otherwise smooth skin above her nose. Something had gotten her dander up.
