Page 30 of Return of the Scot
This was not the welcome home he’d wanted. And at his ball in a few days, he’d set the record straight where she was concerned.
* * *
The crisp whiteenvelope on her dressing table taunted Jaime.
She’d set it there after coming home from the wharf, watched it from the corner of her eye as she’d undressed and brushed her hair. It appeared to glimmer in the candlelight as she took her bath, and now from the chair where she’d curled up to read a book, the invitation beckoned her.
“Fine, I’ll read it,” she said to no one. Slamming her book closed—a gothic romance novel she couldn’t get enough of and read six times—she marched toward her dressing table and broke the duke’s seal on the back.
In fine, delicate scroll, she was cordially invited to the duke’s homecoming ball. Of course, even if she wanted to go, she couldn’t, for she hadn’t a gown appropriate to wear to such an occasion. All the fancy frocks she possessed were so old she’d be laughed out of the imposing house before she was even announced. And she certainly wouldn’t show up in one of her day dresses or her working dresses.
But there was Madame Yolande that Giselle had recommended and whom Jaime had an appointment with in the morning to make her a few new day dresses. Perhaps she could convince the modiste to fashion a new ball gown too.
Och, but nay. That was preposterous. Jaime wasn’t going to attend the duke’s stupid homecoming ball. Especially not after what the duke had said in her office. She was only to address Lorne as “Your Grace” and only to correspond with him through his solicitor. That meant she couldn’t go to his ball. Wouldn’t be welcome in his home. If she did show up, she wouldn’t be surprised if he passed his punch to his butler and hauled her out of there like a sack of potatoes and, this time, tossed her rather than placed her on his front stoop.
Except when he’d departed earlier in the day, he’d not snatched the invitation back after she accepted it. He’d left it with her as he stalked out of her office as if he owned the place. Head held high, broad shoulders exuding power. He’d made her feel small in the one place she felt large.
Was the wager he’d mentioned true? Were the men of Edinburgh gambling on her virtue, believing that Lorne would ruin her? Such a gamble was as much an insult to her as it was to Lorne. For he’d been nothing but a gentleman—albeit a cantankerous one—since he’d been back. Did they respect him so little?
She couldn’t blame Lorne for his frustration with her. She’d been rude to him every chance she got, quite on purpose. A decision she would repeat if given a chance. Apologies and niceties meant nothing in the grand scheme of what he’d done to her sister.
But still, she did feel slightly guilty for having told him more than once she wished him back in the grave. That part wasn’t true. She’d never really wished him dead, even if she did wish him to be punished. The guilt wiggled a little deeper, too, for not once had she inquired as to how he was after being imprisoned for two long years or how he’d managed to escape. Or maybe he’d been let go. She’d know if she’d bothered to ask.
Jaime bit her lip, folding the invitation. Rather unfairly, shame pulsed in her chest. But why did she feel this way? Lorne’s troubles were not hers. The man had ruined her sister’s life.
The only one who ruined your sister was herself.
Lorne’s words came back to haunt her. He’d blamed her sister for her circumstances, of course. The man wasn’t willing to take responsibility for his actions. Jaime marched toward the hearth, prepared to throw the invitation into the flames, when her conversation with Giselle flashed in her mind.
Despite his humiliating her in her office, Jaime still had way too many questions that needed answers. And if she weren’t going to be allowed to ask him to his face without permission from his solicitor, perhaps attending his ball was the last chance she’d get to settle the uncertainties that plagued her mind.
With her decision made to acquire a ballgown and attend the ridiculous fete, Jaime tossed and turned throughout the night until it was time for her appointment with the modiste. There was a slight drizzle, and she entered the shop damp from having to cross the street, as the number of carriages in the way had not allowed her coachman to deposit her out front. She didn’t have time to wait or she’d risk losing her appointment.
Madame Yolande, however, was waiting for her, all kind smiles and interested eyes.
“Apologies for my state,” Jaime said.
“You are lovely, mademoiselle. Please, do come in.”
For a price, Madame Yolande was willing to make the ball gown in blue gossamer silk, studded with crystals. She assured Jaime the dress would make her look like a fae princess and draw all eyes. Which was not what Jaime wanted, and she’d argued the point. But Madame Yolande tsked and tutted and would hear nothing of it. Not wanting to lose the opportunity for a stunning gown, Jaime relented. Madame Yolande was also planning to commission a pair of matching slippers, new white gloves that promised to sparkle, and several new undergarments. When Jaime finally did leave the modiste, she felt more anxious than when she’d arrived.
Back at her flat, MacInnes announced, “Ye’ve a visitor, Miss, in the drawing room.”
The first person she thought of was Lorne, but she knew that couldn’t be as he’d made it clear he never wanted to see her again. She touched her hair, once more wet from the rain.
“Who is it? I need to refresh myself.”
“Mr. Bell has arrived with news from Dunrobin.”
“Oh.” In that case, she didn’t mind presenting herself slightly soggy. Jaime rushed toward the drawing room, finding Mr. Bell standing by her window, staring down at the street.
His face was somber, and her stomach did a flip already, knowing the news would be grim. Goodness, but she hoped it wasn’t too grim. Her hand flew to her chest as she sucked in a worried breath.
“Miss Andrewson.”
Jaime shook her head. “Please, there is no need for formalities. Just tell me what ye’ve learned.”
“Your sister and her son did no’ arrive at Dunrobin.”
