Page 22 of Who’s That Earl

“That would be Aphrodite,” Jane said. Both dogs readily tolerated the girl’s exuberant affection, but Athena’s tolerance had limits.

So, with a nod, Jane followed Mrs. Abernathy up the narrow staircase at the back of the shop to the suite of rooms above, which had been perfectly adequate living quarters for Mr. Abernathy, the bachelor. But last winter, on a visit to Glasgow, the apothecary had met and married Mrs. Abernathy, and she had proceeded to cram the apartment with fine furniture and feminine touches. If the couple were ever blessed with children, they would have to be stacked like cordwood along one side of the sitting room, between Mrs. Abernathy’s tambour and her harp.

It was nonetheless a pleasant spot, which Jane had discovered she enjoyed visiting occasionally. Though she cherished her independence, sometimes the cavernous, empty rooms of Dunnock were too much to bear.

While Mrs. Abernathy laid aside her bonnet and drew off her gloves, Jane began to follow suit, then paused, wondering at the state of her hair beneath her hood, remembering the touch of Thomas’s hand against those heavy coils. Uneasily, she reached beneath to check that the pins were still in place.

“There’s a glass above the table at the top of the stairs,” Mrs. Abernathy reminded her with a speculative look.

“And have you think me vain?” Jane brushed off the suggestion with a laugh and flipped the fur-trimmed hood away from her face. Three or four hairpins clattered onto the floor, and a lock of hair slipped down over her shoulder. Silently, Mrs. Abernathy bent and picked up the pins, then held them out to Jane, who scrambled to tuck the sign of her almost-indiscretion out of sight.

Not, of course, that anyone in Balisaig had any reason to suspect that Jane’s cheeks were flushed and her hair was mussed because Thomas Sutherland had very nearly kissed her.

Perhaps she ought to have let him. As a purgative, of course. To be rid of unwanted memories and to prove herself master of the situation.

But she couldn’t deny she was curious. That kiss so long ago had been brief, chaste—the kiss of a young man, though eager, determined to act the gentleman. Still it had fueled her imagination and left her wanting more. Time had changed both of them. It was impossible not to wonder what his kiss would be like now.

Her fingers trembled as she tucked the last pin into place, arranging her hair into a more than usually severe knot. She winced as she grazed her scalp with its sharp points.

Better not to tempt fate. One kiss might lead to another...and another…

Afterward, she sat down hard in her customary chair before the window, at the little piecrust table the Abernathys used for breakfast and tea. Her clumsy movements rattled the china. Mrs. Abernathy, who surely must be observing Jane’s odd behavior with interest, merely seated herself opposite and rang the bell for the maid.

“Coffee, please,” she said when the maid entered, then tipped her head and studied her guest with a quirk of concern across her brow. “On second thought, it looks to me as if Mrs. Higginbotham could use a cup of tea.”

A short time later, when the tea steamed from two delicate cups and the maid had retreated to her work in the other rooms, washing the breakfast dishes or airing the beds, Mrs. Abernathy held out the sugar bowl and declared, seemingly out of nowhere, “Company is well enough, but houseguests can be such a bother.”

Jane dragged her attention back to the present moment. “Yes,” she agreed, dropping two lumps of sugar into her cup. “Particularly uninvited ones.”

“Particularly handsome ones.” Mrs. Abernathy smiled around the edge of her cup as she sipped her tea. “Or so I’ve heard.”

Jane gave the contents of her cup an unnecessarily vigorous stir. “Have you? Well, handsome is as handsome does, they say. In any case, I cannot think Mr. Sutherland will stay long. He has business with Mr. Ratliff but did not find him at home. My employer has gone to Edinburgh, and I do not expect him to return anytime soon.”

“Ah, well. He’s given Balisaig somethin’ to see, at any rate.” Mrs. Abernathy returned her cup to its saucer. “January always welcomes a distraction, I find. This winter has been particularly dreary.”

More talk of distractions. Thomas had been right, of course. No one was ever entirely free of them, though in coming to the Highlands, Jane had made every effort to minimize them. But what if Mrs. Abernathy was also right? Maybe Jane did crave a distraction. Maybe that was why she’d almost let herself kiss Thomas. It had nothing to do with him, per se, or with their past, or with what they might be to one another if either of them could trust enough to tell the truth.

Fortunately, she had a great deal of experience in working through distractions. And this one wouldn’t last long. He would learn little of interest at the pub. He would grow bored waiting for Robin Ratliff to return. Things would surely return to their normal course soon enough.

A normal course that did not include suggestive banter or ill-advised touches or almost-kisses on the path into Balisaig.

“Speaking of distractions…” Mrs. Abernathy’s voice recalled her attention to the table, as she refilled Jane’s cup from a teapot painted with pink cabbage roses. “Let’s talk of something else. It seems our Mr. Donaldson ordered a new book of sermons. They arrived on the late coach yesterday.”

“I hope they’re more inspiring than whatever model he’s been using.”

Mrs. Abernathy pretended to be shocked at Jane’s wickedness. But Jane could tell by the twinkle in the other woman’s eye that she had had similar thoughts—and also that the book of sermons was not the most interesting information she had to share.

“He had a letter too.”

“Oh?”

“From Edinburgh. Some friend—a fellow clergyman, I presume—has heard that a gentleman arrived from abroad earlier this month to claim the title of Lord Magnus. Mr. Donaldson speculated, and I’m inclined to agree, that if he’s traveled as far as that, it will not be long before he pays Balisaig and Dunnock Castle a visit.”

Jane shaped her lips into another oh, but in the end she could not muster even that monosyllable.

The solicitor’s letter had made the new earl’s interference sound like a remote possibility. How could he have been so wrong? Shouldn’t he have known at least as much as Mr. Donaldson’s friend?

Then again, she realized belatedly, the solicitor’s letter might not have been up to date in its information. It could have been posted quite some time ago, then left to sit on Mr. Canfield’s desk for weeks while that man was enjoying the society of Bath. Even now, another might be on its way, announcing Lord Magnus’s imminent arrival. Why, she probably had last night’s snowfall to thank for the fact that the earl wasn’t even now on her—or rather, his—doorstep.