Page 13 of A Dash of Scot
Thank goodness. “That is very convenient to be so close to your sister when you’re in town.”
Dougal raised a brow. “I’m no’ certain I would call it convenient. Maybe something a little more akin to problematic.”
“How so?” Poppy couldn’t help asking, even though now that she’d reached the top stair, she really should run away.
Mary’s voice was growing closer, and the two of them glanced around, trying to locate which direction she was coming from. The way her voice echoed it was as if she were descending from the ceiling itself.
“I find being close to my sister to be a little…distracting,” was all he said. “Though, with the ladies Featherstones as her guests, it is less so.”
“Well, I do hope not distraction enough to keep you from your business.”
“No’ at all.”
“Dougal.” Mary’s voice was sharp as appeared before them rather suddenly as if she’d seeped from the walls. “My tea will be starting soon.”
“Is that an invitation?”
Poppy pressed her lips together to keep from laughing, for Mary’s declaration had such a sharp edge that she might have sliced him to ribbons with the insinuation that he should leave immediately. Slowly, she backed away from the stairs, hoping she wouldn’t be seen.
“You know it’s not,” she practically bit out. “But you may come to dinner.”
“I accept.”
Mary stared at him. There seemed to be more she wanted to say, but she managed to keep herself in line.
“Miss Featherstone,” Dougal waved to where Poppy stood, and Mary flashed a shocked, then irritated, look.
Poppy held in the sigh that begged to be let out, forced herself not to crack, and waved to Dougal.
“Until this evening, then,” he said, backing out of the house, a mischievous grin on his too-handsome face.
“Well,” Mary called up the stairs after he’d left. “Don’t set your designs on my brother. You’ll only be disappointed.”
Poppy eyed her sister-in-law. “Designs?”
“I can see what’s happening here. And I won’t allow it.”
Poppy bit her tongue to keep herself from retorting something unkind. As if Mary would have any say in Poppy’s future. Her dowry had been written into their father’s will for Edward to execute—much to the chagrin of her Cousin Thomas who wished to control everything—and there was no way that her brother would go against what their father wanted. Besides, she’d gone for a carriage ride and a sweet treat—that did not make a marriage proposal.
And she was pretty certain Mary did not know about the kiss from last year that Dougal deemed unimportant.
“I’m not certain what you mean,” Poppy said innocently. “I should go prepare for tea.”
Though her back was to Mary as she retreated to her room, she could feel her sister-in-law’s eyes burning into her skull.
4
Dougal crumpled the letter his aunt had sent him and tossed it in the fire, watching the edges turn black until the entire thing was one orange flame and then gray, smoldering ash.
The reminder from his elderly relation that if he wanted to receive the rest of his inheritance, he had to wed was a reminder he didn’t need. Nor did he need or want the reminder that a decade ago, he’d made a declaration to a young lady whom he hadn’t seen or heard from in years. To think that she’d decided now, of all times, to pick up a pen and whisk off a note to his aunt. The nerve…the oddity of it all.
Vows from men not yet twenty shouldn’t be taken seriously, nor should they be followed up on, and yet that was exactly what his aunt was insinuating. Lucia Steventon was a name he’d rather forget. The folly of youth was really what her name brought to mind. On his nineteenth birthday, he’d met a girl at a house party in Edinburgh. By the end of the night, after one too many drinks, he’d declared that if by his twenty-ninth birthday he was not married, he would marry her.
He poured himself a finger of whisky, thought better of it and made it two, then swallowed it, attempting to quell some irritation, but the drink did not do the trick.
Why on earth would Lucia have taken him seriously?
And why on earth would his aunt recall his letter from ten years ago in which he’d told her all about it? Surely, she would have burned the memory from her mind as he’d burned her reminder.
