Page 8 of Wouldn’t it Be Scottish?

Mary glanced back at him, but she did not appear to feel the need to hurry away just because he wanted her to. “Just a moment, Belvoir,” she said snappishly.

Belvoir appeared taken aback by this, and Donal choked on a laugh. His lady love could be testy when interrupted, and obviously Belvoir was not used to being asked to wait.

Mary continued her interrogation. “You are telling me that you came to stay with your aunt and that you are best friends with Miss Kilsyth? Why did I not know about her then? If you were such chums, I would have heard.”

Donal smiled, and this time it was a genuine one. “Why should you know about her, Mary? You told me no’ to contact you, and I was only obeying your wishes.”

Mary looked annoyed at being wrong footed. Her gaze went again to Agatha, and whatever she saw there did not seem to impress her. She put her pretty nose in the air. “Then I am very sorry I interrupted you and your friend,” she said. “I dinna expect we will be seeing much of each other. We no longer move in the same circles.”

Donal looked at Agatha and she giggled in a way he was certain was not normal for her. “Oh, but we shall!” she declared. “Lord Donal and I will be attending a great many events this season before we . . .” She giggled again. “I must not say. It is a secret.” She fluttered her eyelashes at Donal in a truly alarming manner.

Mary stared at them stony faced before she gave a disbelieving laugh, tossing her head as she turned away with Belvoir in tow.

Donal shot Agatha a confused look. “What do you mean ‘it is a secret’?” he demanded.

“I don’t know,” Agatha retorted. “I just wanted her to worry that she may have lost you forever. Do you think she looked worried? She was probably expecting you to sit at home pining away and that if things didn’t turn out here in London the way she wanted them to, then she’d know she could go back to you.”

For a moment, Donal’s spirits rose at the idea of Mary coming home to him. Only to sink again a moment later. Did he want to be second best? Was he content to be the man who won Mary by default?

He wasn’t. He wanted Mary back but not because she saw him as second best, and it hurt to think she believed he would always be there, waiting for her like a faithful dog.

Agatha had been watching him and no doubt saw those thoughts flitting across his face. She was wearing a little smirk.

“What now?” he asked her grumpily.

She waved a hand airily. “We carry on. You don’t want to give up yet, do you? Although I suppose you can—I can’t stop you if you want to scurry back to Bonnyrigg.”

Donal should have been insulted, and he was a little. The image of him scampering off, of giving up without even trying, stung. But Agatha didn’t know him if she thought he was about to do that. Before he could assure her that was not going to happen, he noticed her expression had suddenly lost all of its animation until she looked positively bleak.

“What is it?” he said quickly.

“Richard,” she said softly.

Donal could see the dance floor through the door to the supper room, and he followed her gaze to a gentleman of medium height with brown hair who was wearing a garish waistcoat and dancing with a fair-haired woman. As he watched the man seemed to misstep, and the woman grimaced, and then patted his arm and smiled.

“Did Richard just stand on her foot?” he asked incredulously.

“Yes.” Her voice was dull. “He is a terrible dancer. I always forgave him because I loved him.”

Donal felt a sharp pang of sympathy. He understood exactly what Agatha was feeling. He also knew she was right when she said they couldn’t give up after one encounter with their lost loves. They had to keep trying and hope that in the end they would both find their happily ever afters. Because when he tried to imagine a life without Mary, he felt like a dying fish on a riverbank, flapping and gasping and longing for the cool water. He wasn’t even sure what his life would look like if he couldn’t have Mary, and evidently Agatha felt the same about Richard.

Agatha had made an effort to shake off her despondency and now turned back to the supper room, “My father and Mrs. Robinson are seated over there,” she said. “Shall we join them?”

He squeezed her arm. “Aye.”

Lord Kilsyth and his companion were enjoying a glass of champagne and some chicken fricassee. They smiled and chatted and were obviously enjoying themselves. Mrs. Robinson was probably the same age as Aunt Jennie, with graying dark hair swept back to her crown, and intelligent dark eyes. As Agatha and Donal arrived and sat down, Kilsyth gave his daughter a searching look, probably seeing beyond her determination to pretend to be enjoying herself. Donal tried not to sag in his chair.

“Dear me,” Mrs. Robinson said, dabbing at her lips with a napkin. “You seem down in the dumps, Lord Donal.”

Donal forced a smile and an apology.

“Lord Donal has just seen his beloved in the arms of that scoundrel Belvoir,” Agatha explained.

“Oh dear,” Lord Kilsyth looked concerned. “Someone should warn the silly girl about that gentleman.”

“I thought about it,” Agatha said, “but then she was horrible to us.”

“Hmm.” Mrs. Robinson rose to her feet. “I think I will have a word, Agatha. Then none of us can feel guilty if things don’t turn out well for her. Unless you want to do it, Lord Donal?”