[MacKenzie Sally] The Naked Laird(book4me.org) (6 page)

Miss Smyth shook her head so sharply her neat gray bun looked in danger of tumbling free of its pins. “No, indeed. I’m afraid that would not work at all.”

Nell pressed her lips together. A more forceful person would grab the woman by the shoulders and shake her, but she would not so far forget her breeding. She was sorely tempted to shout, but she swallowed that impulse, too. She might wake Ian, and she did not want to do that. And what would shouting accomplish, really? But why two related gentlemen could not share the same bedchamber—

She took a deep breath and forced a smile. “I’m sure you’ll find a solution before tonight. Now if you’ll excuse me? I was just going out for a walk.”

“It’s damp out, you know. Misty. Rainy even.”

“Splendid. I shall feel quite at home. If you’ll excuse me?” She stepped past Miss Smyth and proceeded down the corridor. She would not hurry. She was not running from Motton’s aunt or, worse, Ian. She was just going out for some exercise, to clear her head.

She glanced back as she turned to go down the stairs. Miss Smyth was still standing where she’d left her, staring at the bedroom door, nodding her head and tapping her chin. Surely she wasn’t going to enter the room to ascertain exactly where Ian was sleeping?

Nell paused. Should she say something? If the woman did venture inside, she was going to be exceedingly shocked. And Ian would be, if not embarrassed, then certainly startled. It would not be a pleasant scene….

But it would also not be a scene that was any concern of hers. If Miss Smyth was going to barge into bedchambers, she needed to be prepared to face whatever she discovered there. And if Ian was going to be a cabbage-headed clod pole—a
naked
cabbage-headed clod pole—well, she didn’t have any sympathy for him.

She grasped the banister firmly and proceeded down the stairs.

He was an idiot, a beef-witted, cabbage-headed clod pole, a great lobcock, a—

“Good morning, Kilgorn.” Motton glanced up from his newspaper and the remnants of his breakfast. His eyes paused and then traveled the length of Ian’s admittedly disheveled form. “Too much whisky last night?”

Ian grunted and turned to the sideboard. He captured a kidney and dumped it on his plate. Aye, he’d had too much whisky last night and it had led him to act the colossal ass. The truth was he’d been thinking with his cock, not his cockloft.

“And how is Lady Kilgorn this morning? Better than you, I do hope.”

Ian ground his teeth together and added a few kippers to his plate. He would like to upend the whole thing on Motton’s head, but the man
was
his host. Still, the fellow was normally awake on every suit. He must know this teasing did not sit well.

“Feeling a bit peevish, are you?” Motton’s right eyebrow rose.

Ian counted to ten. He would
not
dump his kippers and kidneys on the viscount, no matter how tempted he was.

“The sleeping”—damn, was he flushing?—“accommodations are not at all agreeable, as you know. Has Miss Smyth made any progress in finding me a separate room?”

“After you and I spoke last night, I got the distinct impression a change would not be required.”

“Well, it
is
required. Lady Kilgorn does not find the current situation at all comfortable.” Nor did he, of course. He did not care for sleeping on the floor.

Motton returned his attention to the paper. “I will speak to Aunt Winifred when I see her. I don’t believe she has risen yet.”

“There must be an empty bed somewhere in this vast pile.” Ian snapped his teeth shut. Yelling at the viscount was not an inspired notion, but his temper was not at its best.

Motton shrugged and stood up. “One would think there would be, but Aunt Winifred was quite definite on the issue.”

Ian kept his teeth clenched.

“If you’ll excuse me,” Motton was saying. “I have estate business to attend to.” He held out the paper. “Care to peruse the
Post
?”

“Thank you.” He’d rather roll the blasted paper up and hit someone with it—Miss Smyth came immediately to mind.

He sat down in blessed solitude and stared at his plate. His stomach had finally alerted him to the fact that a few corners of toast might have been a better selection. He poured himself some coffee.

Dawson arrived but had the good sense to remain mute, as did Wilton, who appeared not long afterward.

But then Miss Smyth entered and peace exited. She was so bloody cheerful. And talking to her—trying to get a sensible answer from her about a new bedchamber—was impossible. Like trying to converse with her demented parrot or silly wee monkey. He left as soon as he could, stepping out into the fresh, raw air. It was chill and damp and reminded him of home.

He headed off across the lawn, quickly lengthening his stride. He’d heard Motton had a lake somewhere on his estate. A plunge into clear, cold water would be just the thing to clear his head.

Nell walked and walked, but found no peace.

How could Ian think she’d done…
that
with Mr. Pennington? How could he think she’d done that with anyone? Surely he’d never credited Mr. MacNeill’s daft tales that she was dallying with all the males around Pentforth Hall, had he?

No, Ian believed she’d been unfaithful because he’d been unfaithful. Many, many times, starting with the Countess of Wexmore. And while his current mistress was a widow, many of the women he’d gone to bed with had been married when he’d climbed between their sheets. Did he think she was like them? That she was as…soulless as those Sassenach whores? Did he know her so little?

Ian was welcome to the London women. She’d been beyond stupid to consider letting the man give her a child. Divorce was a very welcome solution to their problem. She could hardly wait to be free of him.

She followed a path through some trees and emerged by an ornamental lake. A swan glided along the water’s surface. Beautiful—but swans could be quite nasty. Like many London ladies. She gave the creature a wide berth.

Had she been just a little nasty herself?

No, of course not. She’d had good reason to leave Ian. She’d—

She’d refused to see him when he’d come to Pentforth Hall—but the wound had still been too raw then. He hadn’t come again. But had she given him any encouragement to come? She’d burned all his letters unread. She’d never written to him—the post did travel from Scotland to London. She could have written.

No, if she were honest—completely, painfully honest—she had to admit she was at least a little to blame. She’d been almost happy when she’d heard about the countess. Well, not
happy,
really. She’d felt betrayed, but she’d also felt just a little bit relieved. She’d not been willing to have Ian in her bed. She’d not been ready to be a wife to him again.

Had he really betrayed her, or had she abandoned him?

Did she hear splashing up ahead? What…oh. She ducked behind a large willow and peered out from behind its trunk. Someone—some man—was swimming. Ian. His arms flashed out of the water as he stroked across the lake. Then he dove beneath the surface, his back, buttocks, and legs flashing white before disappearing.

The water must be very cold, but that wouldn’t bother Ian. He’d liked to swim at Kilgorn, where the loch was frigid. He’d try to lure her in to join him, but she’d only go if the day was very warm. Even then she could never last long.

She tilted her face to the sun, a smile curving her lips. Mmm. When she had gone swimming, Ian had been very, very good at warming her once they came out of the water. They’d lie on a blanket in the sun and heather, a slight breeze teasing their hot, entwined limbs, and make love till the chill of dusk finally sent them inside.

How she had loved him. He had been her life until she’d lost their baby. After that—well, her heart had been as cold as the loch, too cold for the sun or Ian to warm.

Was it still?

He was swimming toward the shore. He’d be getting out in just a few minutes. She would see—

What was that? A twig snapping? She looked to her left. A path climbed up through the trees and at its top, about twenty-five yards away, was Lady Grace.

The girl couldn’t see Ian! Grace was unwed and, well, Nell did not want yet another woman seeing her husband—her estranged husband—naked.

Ian was still swimming. She had time to intercept Lady Grace. She darted out from behind the willow and hurried up to meet her.

“Lady Grace, how lovely to see you.”

Lady Grace smiled. “Lady Kilgorn. I was looking for you.”

“You were?” What could the woman want with her? She took her arm and directed her back the way she’d come. “You must call me Nell.”

“Nell, then. I”—Lady Grace cleared her throat—“I was wondering…Well, I wanted to…You see, I thought perhaps…”

Nell frowned. What was this? “Yes? Is there something of a particular nature you wish to speak to me about?”

Grace looked distinctly relieved. “Yes. That is, if you don’t mind…if you don’t find me impertinent.”

“Impertinent? Of course not.” What could this be about? She was sure she’d exchanged no more than a handful of pleasantries with Lady Grace since they’d met yesterday. Why was she seeking her out?

“You see, I am struggling with an issue. I can’t ask my aunt since she has problems of her own, but I need the advice of an older, experienced woman.”

“Ah.” That was all Nell could manage to say. Older and experienced? There could be only three or four years between them. She swallowed, trying to gather her scattered wits. “And this issue would be…?”

“Love.” Lady Grace blurted out the word and then turned bright red.

“Oh.”

Apparently that little four-letter word was the plug that, ejected, opened the floodgates.

“Yes, love. I don’t know what to do. Lord Dawson has been very attentive, and I lo—like him very much, but my father hates him.”

Not a small problem. “Does your father have a good reason for his feelings?” Nell would not have thought Lord Dawson a blackguard, but then what did she know? “Sometimes men are more aware than we of another man’s background and”—how to say this?—“unsavory habits.”

Lady Grace shook her head. “I’m sure Papa knows nothing about Da—Lord Dawson. He’s never met him.”

“What?” Well, perhaps an actual meeting wasn’t necessary. Reputations did precede people. “Why do you think your father hates the man? Perhaps you are mistaken.”

“Oh, no, I am not mistaken. Papa would definitely hate Da—Lord Dawson if he knew about him. He hates all Wiltons on principle for something that happened years ago when Papa was young.”

“Oh.” A family feud à la Romeo and Juliet, perhaps. However entertaining the play might be, it would not act well in real life. “That doesn’t seem particularly enlightened.”

“No, it isn’t, but Papa isn’t particularly enlightened. He’s stubborn and opinionated and, well, somewhat overbearing. But he
is
my father. My mother died when I was very young, so it’s been just the two of us for such a long time.” Lady Grace’s voice caught slightly. “I love him. I don’t want to hurt him.”

“Of course you don’t.”

Grace glanced at Nell and then looked away. “He’s arranged for me to marry a neighbor.” She might have been talking of darning socks, she sounded so unenthusiastic.

“Is the neighbor old and fat?”

Grace laughed. “Oh, no. John is perfectly presentable. Quite unexceptional. He would make someone an excellent husband.”

“But not you.”

“No, um, that is he would make me an excel—a suitable husband. I do like him when he’s not prosing on about his plants.”

“Hmm. Are you certain you can’t discuss this with Lady Oxbury? She did bring you to London for the Season. She must have had in mind finding you a more appropriate husband.”

Lady Grace shook her head vehemently. “Oh, no. Definitely not. As I said, Aunt Kate has troubles of her own, not that she has shared them with me. But something is amiss between her and Lord Dawson’s uncle, Mr. Wilton.”

“I see.” They were almost back to the house and Nell still had no clue why Lady Grace was telling her any of this. “Well, you must know that I am not one to give advice of a marital nature.”

“But that is exactly why I wanted to speak to you, Lady Kilgorn. I mean, I don’t wish to pry, but, well, married love…it doesn’t last, does it? It’s not important for contentment?” Lady Grace frowned. “I don’t have the experience of my parents to advise me since my mother died when I was so young, but from what I know of Aunt Kate’s marriage, she rubbed along tolerably well with Lord Oxbury even though she didn’t love him. And looking around the ton—there just aren’t that many love matches.”

“I wouldn’t know. I’ve never been to London.” The house was very close now. Could she break into a run and end this uncomfortable conversation?

“But—I know it is none of my concern, I am fully aware of that, but…was yours a love match, Lady Kilgorn?”

“Yes.” There had been no question of that. She’d been completely, insanely in love with Ian as perhaps only a seventeen-year-old girl could be. He’d been almost a god to her—certainly a hero. She’d been blind to all his faults…as he’d been blind to hers. She’d never doubted he’d loved her. And if life had been different…

But life was as it was.

“And so love isn’t enough.” Lady Grace gave her a sad little smile. “I thought so.”

“Perhaps.” They were at the door now. Nell put her hand out to stop Grace. “But it is a lot. I still love my husband.” It was true. The love was tangled with hurt and disappointment, but it was still there.

“And yet you have no real marriage.” Grace touched Nell’s hand lightly. “I don’t mean to criticize. I thank you most sincerely for your candor. Only, I don’t believe I could live your life. I would be too lonely.”

Ah. Loneliness. Now
that
was something Nell could speak about with authority.

Ian cut his venison into precise pieces. The lake’s ice-cold water had helped clarify his thinking. He had made his decision. He would get through this damn house party and then he would see about starting divorce proceedings.

He stared down at his dinner plate. He had no appetite. He slanted a look to his right. Nell appeared to be similarly afflicted. She was ignoring her meal entirely.

He glanced around the table. In fact, very little food was being consumed. Well, Motton and his aunt were doing a credible job on their dinners and the Addison twins were heaping their plates with second helpings—not to mention Mr. Boland’s single-minded attention to his victuals—but Wilton and Lady Oxbury, Dawson and Lady Grace were exercising their forks much as he and Nell were—using them to push their food from one side of their dish to the other.

He took a sip of wine. He was not going to touch a drop of whisky tonight. He was going up to that bloody room stone sober. He brought a forkful of venison to his mouth—and then returned it to his plate. He felt like he had a rock in his stomach.

He didn’t want to divorce Nell, but what could he do? He needed an heir. They had no real marriage—and now no hope of one. He’d trampled his chances good and well last night.

He sneered at his green beans. He hadn’t thought he was so stupid.

“Is something amiss with your vegetables, Lord Kilgorn? I hope you didn’t find a twig or other indigestible bit. The kitchen maids occasionally get to gossiping and don’t pay as strict attention to their task as they should.” Miss Smyth leaned forward, pointing her fork at his plate as if she intended to pick through his beans herself to ascertain that all was well.

He held his knife ready to beat back—or at least nudge away—her utensil if necessary. “No, no, there is nothing amiss. The beans are fine. Perfect.” It certainly wasn’t the kitchen’s fault everything tasted like ashes tonight.

“Are you sure? You’ve hardly touched your dinner.”

Good God, Miss Smyth sounded like his nursery maid. “I assure you, madam, the dinner is fine. I merely lack an appetite to do it justice.”