Page 23 of Wouldn’t it Be Scottish?

And Richard knew her well, and he had noticed. His eyes narrowed. “It is the man you were with, Agatha, that is the problem!” She saw him shoot an accusing glance at Donal.

Donal raised an eyebrow. “Surely there are worse fates than to be linked to a duke’s son?”

Agatha wasn’t sure that was helpful. “We will just ignore the gossips,” she said quickly, nervously watching the two men. “We are innocent, so why should we allow them to make us feel guilty?”

Her father sighed loudly, but there was a glint in his eyes Agatha did not understand. “I wish it were as easy as that, my dear, but don’t pretend you don’t know how these things work. I will start making plans to go home to Setholm.”

“Archie, is that really necessary?” Miriam interrupted. “Shouldn’t you wait until you know the full extent of the damage?”

“I will marry you. It is the only way.” It was Richard, sounding as if he were a martyr going to the stake to be burned alive.

Agatha turned to him in disbelief. “Marry you?” she breathed, as if at one point in her life she had not wanted to do that more than anything. She had always thought that marrying her childhood sweetheart would mean a lifetime of domestic bliss. Now she knew that even if she had still wanted to marry him, her life would be nothing like her previous imaginings. The two of them would be completely miserable, in fact, so miserable that Agatha cringed at the thought of it.

And Richard was thinking that, too, his expression one of determined stoicism. He probably thought he was being a good friend, but he didn’t love her. Perhaps he never had. Agatha was beginning to realize that it was familiarity that had drawn them together. They had been comfortable friends. Now Richard loved Charlotte Elliot, and if he put aside his dreams and married Agatha, he would grow to hate her.

And Agatha would hate him.

All of these thoughts passed through her head in mere seconds. She had to say no, and she had opened her mouth to do just that, but then she saw that Donal had come to stand in front of her. He looked more perturbed than she had ever seen him, his face flushed and his eyes glittering.

“This is nothing to do with you,” he growled at Richard. “If anyone marries Agatha, it will be me. According to you, this is my fault, so I will fix it.”

Agatha stared up at him, and her heart seemed to give a stutter. This was not exactly the proposal of her dreams, but all the same, she knew it was what she wanted. But then she remembered Mary, the girl that Donal loved. Just like Charlotte Elliot, Mary would always be between them.

Richard started protesting. “I have more right to marry Agatha than you, you . . . you Highland barbarian!”

Donal raised his voice. “And you have proved yoursel’ a wee bawbag! Why should she marry you?”

“Be quiet, both of you!” Miriam cried, stepping into the fray. “Let the girl think!”

Agatha blinked at her. “I don’t want . . .” she began. I don’t want to marry Richard, she meant. But how can I marry Donal?

“You do not need to answer either of them now,” Miriam went on in calm, soothing tones. “Agatha, this is an important decision. Do not allow yourself to be rushed.”

Agatha wondered if, at some point in her life, the other woman had known what it was like to be rushed, but she could not think of that now. Suddenly, it was all too much. She lurched to her feet. “I don’t want to marry either of you!” she burst out, and ran from the room, slamming the door behind her.

Upstairs, she flung herself on her bed like a little girl and tried to smother herself in her pillows. What a disaster! Richard had come back to her, but only because he thought he was being kind, although she admitted he hadn’t been very kind recently. But marry him? No, it wasn’t what she wanted. But did she want to marry Donal, knowing he was in love with his Mary? How could she agree to that when his heart would always belong to another woman?

And yet if her father was right, then Agatha would find herself at the center of some horrid gossip, and the only way to escape was to leave London for Setholm. And what waited for her there? A lonely future with many regrets. But what if she did become engaged to Donal? What if . . .?

Suddenly, a scheme began to unfurl inside her head, so devious and yet so unselfish that she gave a shaky laugh. She turned over and stared at the ceiling, her mind working through it. What if she pretended that she was engaged to Donal? But really it would be another pretense, a last-ditch effort to bring Mary to her senses. If the silly chit finally realized she was going to lose Donal forever and the scales finally fell from her eyes, then Agatha would immediately break off the engagement and give Donal his freedom, so that he could go to his true love.

Agatha sat up, her hair falling about her in a tangled mess. She could hardly believe her own brilliance. She needed to tell Donal immediately!

If he hadn’t already left.

Hastily, she left her bedchamber and rushed down the stairs, relieved to see the three men and Miriam gathered in the hall near the front door. They turned in surprise and then stared, because Agatha knew she was not looking her best. She was also behaving in a manner that was very unlike her usual measured and sensible conduct. Indeed, she hardly recognized herself, but Agatha was too full of her marvelous plan to pause and reconsider her actions.

“You have to marry one of them,” her father announced, sounding strained. “It makes more sense for you to choose Lord Donal, but I will not press you on that.”

Agatha wondered why he was suddenly so determined to marry her off, but she did not have time to untangle that puzzle.

“Yes, I will marry Lord Donal,” she blurted out. “If he agrees. And we will have a long engagement, a very long engagement. But first I need to speak to him in private.”

Her father breathed a heartfelt sigh of relief and Richard began to splutter, but she ignored them both.

“Me?” Donal sounded incredulous. His blue eyes were very wide as she caught hold of his arm and led him back into the drawing room and closed the door.

Chapter Fourteen