Page 66 of When the Laird Conquers

“Yes, perhaps,” Agnes mumbled, dubious.

Before circumstances had turned her into a recluse, she had not really been too involved in society. She could count her acquaintances on maybe two hands, and her friends on a couple of fingers. Friends who had not bothered to correspond with her after she sequestered herself away with Lizzy, so perhaps they were not friends at all.

Holding Lizzy tightly to her, she turned and left. The fox cub didn’t stir at all, remaining on Gordon’s shoulder like a peculiar fur tippet, making her wonder once again how a man so cruel could be such a comfort to babies.

And to me, at least for a short while.

Even now, she could feel his hand reaching for hers in the bathtub as he knelt there and listened to her to ease her troubles.

How on earth could that be the same man who had spoken so brusquely, so dismissively to her the other morning?

“There ye are!”

Rapid footsteps in the hallway made Agnes stop. She turned to find the housekeeper running toward her with surprising speed, a grin on her lined face… and what looked like a rag mop in her hand.

“I hope ye’re nae avoidin’ me, Miss Agnes,” Iona said, coming to a not-at-all breathless halt. “I’ve been searchin’ high and low for ye.”

Agnes shook her head and put on a smile. “Not at all, Iona. I was merely heading down to the kitchen to see if I might partake in some luncheon before Lizzy wakes up from her nap.”

It had been another day since Agnes had seen Gordon, who seemed content to keep to his study. In four more days, however, she would have no choice but to cross paths with him. At least, if they were to be believed as a betrothed couple at this wretched cèilidh.

“Ah, we must have just missed each other,” Iona said, nodding. “I was just up at the nursery, tryin’ to find ye. I need ye to tell me which fabric ye prefer so I can send the request to the seamstress. She’s houndin’ me with riders from the village three times a day, and if we daenae tell her fast, she’ll make somethin’ ugly just to spite us.”

Agnes chuckled awkwardly, rubbing the back of her neck. While she had not been actively avoiding Iona, she had not sought her out about a gown for the cèilidh either, despite the housekeeper’s excitement about it.

“Apologies, Iona.” She gestured to the ribbons of fabric that dangled from the old woman’s fist. “I’ll choose now.”

None really sang to her, for she preferred pale colors. The housekeeper had chosen an array of bright shades that Agnes would never have picked for herself.

“Goodness, it is impossible.” She laughed stiffly. “They are all pretty. Why don’t you pick for me?”

“Och, I couldnae do that,” Iona replied, shaking her head. “Go on, which do ye like best?”

Agnes stifled a sigh as she studied the gaudy colors: emerald green, rich scarlet, a nauseating goldish-green, a vivid purple, and an offensive yellow, so bright that no one would be able to look at her directly if she wore a gown of it.

“I think… the red,” she said with a half-decisive nod.

Aunt Tabitha would have fainted at the notion of her niece wearing such a brazen color, but it was the best of a bad selection. Besides, when else would Agnes be able to wear such a daring shade?

“The red!” Iona chirped, as if Agnes had made the right choice. “Of course it has to be the red! Och, ye’ll look wonderful. It’ll suit ye very well, indeed.”

Agnes expelled a breath of relief. “Well then, I hope you will have less trouble with the seamstress now… and I thank you for everything you are doing for me. It really isn’t necessary, but I am grateful.”

“It’s nothin’, Miss Agnes,” Iona insisted. “I havenae had somethin’ this excitin’ to do in years, so I’m nae complainin’. I’ll have a messenger ride out now, and I’ll come and find ye once I receive the reply.”

Agnes’s cheeks ached from the smile on her face. “Of course, Iona. I look forward to it.”

The housekeeper hurried off with the same astounding speed as before, while Agnes watched and felt her shoulders grow heavy with the weight of the gathering to come.

She did not like to be the center of attention. She did not like having all eyes on her. She did not like so much fuss. And she did not like the notion that there might be Englishwomen attending the cèilidh, for it rather spun the narrative out of her control.

At this point, she was the one dictating what Edwin knew and how he knew it. She was the one who had spread just enough information so that he was aware she had gone to Scotland and taken Lizzy with her, to marry a fearsome laird who wouldn’t take kindly to interlopers.

But if news reached society through other lairds’ English wives, it would be out of her hands. Their gossip would be splashed across the scandal sheets, with her at the center of it.

Is it too late to rescind the invitations?

Perhaps there wouldn’t be any need for a gown. Perhaps, if her anxieties continued, she would withdraw to her chambers during the party and stay there until it was all over.