Page 37 of A Dash of Scot
When a tenant on one of his properties was in need, he would roll up his sleeves and help out however he could. Whether it was herding sheep, mending a fence, or climbing a roof to put on new thatch.
If one of his friends called in a favor, Dougal saw it done, only stopping short of murder—not that anyone had yet to ask.
Even for his seat in Parliament, he signed the requisite documents, listened to the ridiculous speeches, and made his own opinions and initiatives known. He stood up for what was right and fought for the people rather than those who wished to make themselves richer.
This particular situation with Lucia Steventon was no different.
And since when did he let himself be strong-armed into a situation he couldn’t get out of? He was a grown man. An educated and intelligent man. A man of action.
Not some idiotic adolescent with half a brain.
Lucia and her father were not going to force him into a marriage. Especially not a marriage that shouldn’t be happening. But he was concerned about Campbell. Dougal had sent out an investigator who found out that Campbell had been abroad and crossed paths with Lucia many times. Having been one of the witnesses a decade ago to his declaration, it made sense that Campbell would attempt to “steal” Lucia from him or, at the very least, make a cuckold of Dougal.
And so, he climbed onto his horse and rode to Aberdeen to see his Aunt Judith, a trip that took several days. But rather than arriving weary, he’d had nearly eighty hours to ponder and plan.
Now, as he sat before her at tea, she stared down her long nose at him, all the judgment of the world in her aging eyes.
“What do you mean it wasn’t a real engagement?” she asked.
Dougal recalled a particular time in his youth when he’d lost a horse. Went out riding and then hopped off to chase a frog. The horse disappeared for three days. His aunt had given him the same look back then and asked nearly the same question: “What do you mean you lost a horse?”
Whether he was eight or twenty-eight, Judith had the power to make him feel like a young lad.
“I never proposed, Aunt. I merely suggested while in a drunken state that if I wasna married by my twenty-ninth birthday, she and I should wed.” He didn’t want to tell her about Campbell because he had no proof that his suspicions were true. Aye, they’d spent time together abroad, but that didn’t mean they’d climbed into bed together.
Aunt Judith pursed her lips, her teacup suspended in mid-air. She placed it carefully back on the saucer and stared at him with narrowed eyes for so long he wasn’t sure if she’d fallen asleep or had somehow magically been able to conjure his memories to see for herself.
“You aren’t twenty-nine yet,” she said at last.
Dougal’s mouth went dry at what he thought she might be implying. Not yet twenty-nine meant he didn’t have to follow through.
“Do you need me to explain it to you plainly?” Aunt Judith cocked her head as if she were asking if he needed help washing his hands. A minor task that was self-explanatory, but perhaps he hadn’t the mental capacity to see it done.
Humoring her, Dougal nodded and picked up his tea.
Aunt Judith cleared her throat and straightened her spine, somehow able to look down on him from her tiny stature. “If that was the stipulation, and you don’t wish to see it through, then the only other alternative, as I see it, is to find someone else who will marry you in the next two weeks before your birthday comes around.”
Now, that was not what he’d thought, and so perhaps his hand-washing analogy only made him seem dense. Marry someone else? Like bloody hell he would. Unless it were Poppy. But she...
“Impossible,” he grumbled, sticking his tea back on the saucer and grabbing a raspberry biscuit to shove into his mouth to keep himself from saying another word.
Judith frowned—well, perhaps she frowned harder. “How so? You’re a handsome and wealthy earl. What young lady wouldn’t want to be a countess? I suspect if I were to go into Edinburgh now and simply stand in the square and shout out the details of your fortune, there would be hundreds, if not thousands, of women lining up. There might be more who’d take their carriages up from London to stand before you and declare themselves the winner of your affections. Shall I ring for my carriage?”
Dougal shook his head, feeling the need to stretch but being held prisoner in this chair. “That would be no different than marrying Lucia Steventon.”
Aunt Judith returned to her quizzical inspection. “If that’s the case, then what is the problem?”
“I dinna want to marry her.” He was aware that he sounded like a petulant child, but Dougal believed marriage was not just a financial transaction or a contract signed. He believed that if he were going to align himself with a woman for the rest of his life, she’d better be someone he wanted to wake up beside every morning and do so with a smile. A woman whose company he enjoyed, who had similar habits, and who enjoyed similar activities.
“Do you want to marry someone else in particular?”
Dougal gritted his teeth to keep his mouth from falling open at being so obvious. “I want to have control over my fate.”
His aunt laughed. “A worthy ambition, save for the fact of your birth. You were born into the aristocracy. You haven’t been able to choose what you could do with your life from the moment you took your first breath. Control over one’s life is only an illusion, especially for a lad in your position.”
“I think I should be offended.”
She shrugged. “Take offense to the facts if you like. That will do little good for your situation. Nothing changes.”
