Page 7 of Wouldn’t it Be Scottish?

He gave her a puzzled look. “There is nothing wrong with a healthy appetite, Miss Kilsyth. You might no’ think it to look at her, but Mary eats like a starving horse.”

Agatha brightened. “I believe Lord Byron has a peculiar diet he uses to lose weight,” she said. “Potatoes soaked in vinegar.”

Donal scrunched up his face. “Dear God,” he muttered.

“I heard he once spent a week on nothing but biscuits and tea. I considered it for myself, but I knew I would never get past breakfast on the first day.”

He laughed but then asked in a bewildered fashion, “Why would you do that? You are perfect as you are.”

He was jesting, surely, and yet . . . He seemed genuinely confused as to why she felt the need to reduce her curves. He was not pretending to be polite. His gaze, as it slid over her bosom and down to her hips, was warm and admiring.

Agatha felt giddy with delight. “That is very . . . that is . . .” she stammered.

Suddenly Donal stilled as he caught sight of someone over her shoulder. His smile froze and his blue eyes turned wild. “Mary is coming,” he whispered. “What should I do?”

“For goodness sake, pull yourself together!” Agatha said. “We are in love, remember? Look at me as if you love me.”

She assumed a look of adoration, or at least she hoped that was what it was, and awaited Mary’s arrival.

Chapter Four

Suddenly Agatha was gazing up at him in a way that made Donal feel very confused. How did she change so suddenly from being very obviously annoyed with him to looking as if she truly was besotted with him? She must be a very good actress. Donal reminded himself he was supposed to be in love with her too and quickly rearranged his features into something he hoped looked appropriate.

“Would you drink some punch with me?” he asked her, gesturing toward the bowl on the table beside them.

“Thank you, Lord Donal,” she said sweetly, “I would love some punch.”

“Perhaps we could ride tomorrow morning,” Donal went on. “Or stroll in the park? The weather promises to hold.”

“I do not ride, but I would like nothing better than to stroll with you in the park,” Agatha said fervently.

Donal blinked. “Overdoing it slightly,” he muttered.

“Shut up,” she said through clenched teeth.

That was the moment when Mary reached them. She looked perplexed and maybe even upset, her dark eyes darting from Donal to Agatha and then back again. “What are you doing here, Donal?” she demanded. “I told you I was no’ coming back to Scotland until I was ready, and . . . and I may never be ready!”

Donal felt his heart sink down into his boots, but before he could begin to do something foolish, like beg her forgiveness, Agatha spoke up for him.

“I think you are under a misapprehension, Miss Davidson. Lord Donal is here tonight with me. My father is a friend of his brother.”

Mary’s gaze fixed on her as if trying to make sense of her words. “Donal is here with you?”

The insult was apparent, but Agatha continued to smile smugly. “That’s right. We are very well acquainted.” She sent Donal a flirtatious glance so that there could be no mistaking her meaning.

“It is true.” Donal wished he could cross his fingers in that childish way of negating a lie. “Rory is a friend of Lord Kilsyth who is Miss Kilsyth’s father. We are already firm friends,” he added, in case she was still in doubt.

“I have heard Rory speak of Lord Kilsyth,” Mary admitted. “But why are you here in London, Donal, if you are not following me? I don’t understand.”

“I am staying with Aunt Jennie,” he said, not quite answering her question. “I just felt like a change of scenery. Like you,” he added.

Mary stared, as if she was trying to see inside his head. She knew him well enough to understand that Donal was very unlikely to want to leave Bonnyrigg on a whim. He would need a crucial reason to do so. A change of scenery? Unlikely.

“Aunt Jennie is lonely,” he said hastily before she could challenge him. “She wrote to ask me to come and stay with her. And as there was nothing at home to keep me, it seemed like a bonny idea.”

There, that was better! Donal waited for Mary to respond—she was still looking doubtful. Just then a man appeared behind her with the sort of expression he often saw on the faces of privileged, indulged gentlemen.

He was older than Donal by about ten years and fashionably dressed, with his tawny-brown hair cut in the latest style. “I say, Miss Davidson,” he said petulantly. “We are missing our dance.”