Page 87 of To Wed an Heiress
Gregory combed his fingers through his hair, nodded to Douglas, and said, “I’m Mercy’s fiancé.”
“No,” she said in a firm voice, “he isn’t. The man is exceedingly stupid. He doesn’t seem to understand that I’m not marrying him. Ever.”
Douglas looked from Gregory to Mercy and then to his sister. Mercy stole a glance at her grandmother. From Ailsa’s expression, she wasn’t going to remain mute for long. Any moment now and she would begin to lecture her again.
Mercy grabbed the valise, picked it up, and pushed past her grandmother to ascend the stairs. Only then did she see her aunt standing at the head of the stairs, her hand pressed to her mouth.
“Where do you think you’re going, Hortense?” Ailsa asked.
“To my room.”
“You’ll stay there. I don’t know how I shall be able to show my face in public after your antics. Have you no concept of decency? Do you not have a lick of sense?”
She didn’t bother responding. Nor did she ask her great-uncle for the loan of his carriage. Her father was coming. The last thing she wanted to do was exacerbate the situation by escaping Scotland just as he arrived.
Her grandmother didn’t need to tell her to stay in her room. Right now she didn’t want to ever leave it.
Chapter Forty
Tears wouldn’t help. In fact, they’d make everything worse. Her eyes would swell and she’d have a headache later. Plus, she always got a little nauseated when she was too emotional.
Emotional? Hah! She’d been emotional from the day she’d set foot in Scotland and it was all because of Lennox.
He wouldn’t be happy if he knew that, would he? No, he’d blame her for that, too. For being insulted by him at first and then fascinated and finally—oh, what did she call what she’d done? Thrown her skirts over her head like some doxy and given in to every base impulse she had. The worst part was that she’d do it again willingly. Happily.
She’d hurt him. In turn, his words had been like acid, each separate word burning through her skin. She was more miserable than she could ever remember being.
Leaving him should be easier now, especially in light of his anger at her. She suspected, however, that it would still be difficult.
He’d always think that she’d used him and perhaps she had, only not in the way he thought. She’d wanted him to be the one who ended her innocence, who kissed her to madness and introduced her to loving. The memory of last night would stay with her forever, regardless of what he thought of her.
She should have gone after him. She should have raced after Lennox and explained. Leaving the valise at the castle had been an accident. Until Lennox appeared, she’d forgotten all about it.
Why hadn’t she followed him? She’d stood there like a statue, watching as he walked away. The answer was difficult to accept: because the habit of remaining silent was still more comfortable for her than speaking out. Her fragile courage, nascent and barely used, had evaporated.
Those hours with him had been special. She’d never forget him or them. They would be tucked inside her heart in a secret place.
She’d awakened during the night and in the dying firelight watched as he slept. She’d felt gratitude and joy cascading through her and wanted, in some way, to thank him. No one could take those memories from her, not even Lennox.
What she felt for him confused her. It might be love, but then it was admiration, and perhaps a little awe. He was brave, undaunted by failure, resilient, amusing, kind, and thoughtful. He possessed character traits that set him apart from most men she’d met. She wanted to sit and talk with him about the subjects that interested her, including his castle and his family history.
She’d never understood, until last night, why her heart always beat faster when she was around him or why she was often breathless in his company. She knew why now. It was desire, something she’d never felt until Lennox. Oh, she’d known handsome men, and had been courted by more than a few charming and personable heiress hunters. Occasionally, she’d laughed too much or even giggled, charmed despite herself. She’d been flattered at their attention or felt her face warm at their compliments. But her body had never heated from the inside and she’d never felt as though she was melting when a man smiled at her.
Not until Lennox.
When had her fascination with him started? From that first moment when he’d peeled off the roof of the carriage? Or when he stitched her wound, assuming she wouldn’t indulge in histrionics? Perhaps it had begun as early as that. Or when he’d written that letter that had so irritated her. Or when he’d plunged into the loch and her heart felt as if it had stopped at that exact moment. So many memories in just a few weeks.
She remembered an afternoon when her mother had reminisced about how she’d met Mercy’s father. She’d been fourteen at the time, fascinated with the idea of romance, but not boys as much.
“I saw him,” her mother said. “And knew right away. It took me a few days to convince him, however.”
Her parents had exchanged a look, one that reassured Mercy that their relationship was one of mutual love and respect. What would they think to know that love had struck their daughter the same way?
How could she leave Scotland? How could she leave Lennox?
Somehow she must.
Lennox didn’t remember walking back to Duddingston. He was filled with too many volatile emotions, like how he wanted to pay that bastard back for the sneaky kick to his ribs. While he was at it, he’d pummel the man a few minutes more, just to ensure Gregory remembered his visit to Scotland.
