True Heart (30 page)

“I'd rather show you.”

In the circular drive at Napier House, where anyone within or without the house could see, he pressed her into the corner of the coach. The velvet cloth of his jacket felt baby soft against her skin. Staring at her mouth, he smiled and licked his lips.

An absurd thought popped into her mind. Would he taste of someone else? The fighter in her—the child who'd tended her own blisters and sang herself to sleep—couldn't abide his kissing another woman.

When he touched his mouth to hers, she decided to give him something to remember. Finding pleasure in his embrace was easy. Convincing herself that this was the last intimacy she'd enjoy with him proved more difficult. But she could not, would not, share him. Let him have his English mistress. Let him remember Virginia MacKenzie and the passion and friendship they'd shared.

Her plan worked, for when he drew back, his eyes gleamed with awareness and a familiar desire. “Behold rule number 7,” he said in a husky murmur. “Lovers always part with a kiss.”

Disappointment plagued her. He wanted to master and keep his mistress too. The unfairness of it drained Virginia of strength, but she had her pride.

Because she could think of nothing else, she said, “Are you going somewhere?”

“Aye, to Edinburgh. I've business with Michael Elliot, and he misses Sarah. He'll come back with me.”

Was he taking his mistress along? Her frustration must have shown, for his smile turned crooked, endearing.

“Stay out of trouble until I return.”

Hating her own weakness and vowing to better conceal it in the future, she strove for lightness. “How can I get into trouble with Lottie running the household?”

“Agnes will take care of that—after she's taken care of Napier.”

Virginia fought a blush and lost. “The things you say—they're scandalous, and you do it to discomfit me.”

“Oh, I'd like very much to discomfit you—for days and nights without end.”

Uttered in a breathy whisper, the words and the seduction they bespoke robbed her of a witty reply.

“Hold that thought. We'll explore it when I return on Saturday.”

She wouldn't wish him a pleasant journey. But because he was leaving and because she knew firsthand how capricious fate could be, she spoke from the heart. “Be safe, Cam.”

That night, as she drifted to sleep, her last conscious thought was of Cameron and Adrienne Cholmondeley. It was also the first topic of conversation at the breakfast table.

*  *  *

Lottie slapped the newspaper on the table. “There. Read it for yourself. Adrienne Cholmondeley has taken rooms at Cariton House. Cameron's turned her out.”

Her heart racing, Virginia wanted to snatch up the paper, devour every word, then wave it around the room. Instead, she feigned indifference and casually scanned the column.

According to the
Glasgow Courant,
Miss Cholmondeley, the daughter of the distinguished minister of trade, had taken rooms befitting her station at Cariton House, the elegant quarters owned by the same family as the Cariton Inn.

Curiosity, tempered by the security of family, made Virginia say, “Is she beautiful?”

Lottie paused, a scone in one hand, a knife laden with butter in the other. “Not so pretty as to draw notice.”

“Lottie?” Sarah chastened, a lift in her voice. “Virginia deserves the truth.”

“You weren't here to see Cameron dictating to me the style of dresses and the choice of fabrics Virginia should have. I tell you, Sister, the man is smitten.”

“And I tell you, Sister, be honest with Virginia.”

Lottie slathered butter on the scone, her mouth pursed in stubbornness. “The truth does not always serve.”

“It does if you happened upon a good view of the drive yesterday afternoon and witnessed Virginia and Cameron and their adherence to rule number 7.”

Lottie put down the knife. “You kissed Cameron good-bye in public?”

Papa used to say that in good and faithful company, old habits returned. Virginia knew it was true. “He said he was going away. What if harm befell him?”

Keen-eyed Lottie said, “No softer reason guides you?”

Virginia had lied enough to these women who loved her. “I thought he'd take her with him. I was frightfully jealous.”

“With more than enough cause,” Lottie proclaimed as she nibbled on the scone. “I shudder to think what Agnes would have done in the circumstances.”

“Forget Agnes.” Sarah put down her teacup. “That's not like Cameron. With Virginia back, I knew he'd do the proper thing.”

“That's because you are naive.”

Sliding Virginia a pained look, Sarah tisked and shook her head. “If I am naive, Lottie, you are obtuse.”

“You're just miffed because I got the best of you yesterday when I told the boys you'd buy them ponies.”

“I take back obtuse,” Sarah said to Virginia. “Lottie is mean to the core.”

With Adrienne Cholmondeley out of the way, Virginia relaxed and basked in her sisters' battle of words.

“I'm not mean, not truly. I'm just beset with bad humors.”

Sarah howled with laughter. “You're always beset with bad humors.”

“Oh?” As if gearing up for another verbal assault, Lottie narrowed her eyes and took aim. “Look who's talking.” She glanced at Virginia to enlist her support. “But then, Sarah's chamber pot never stinks, does it?”

Virginia choked on her tea.

Sarah blushed carnation red and threw up her hands. “Once more, I am forced to yield to your vulgar tongue.”

“You yield because you are outwitted.”

“I
withdraw
temporarily because Virginia has forgotten the past, and
I shudder
to think of the impression she must have of us.”

“We're family. She loves us.”

“In spite of the fact that our conversation has run to the selfish.”

“Run? Run where?” Lottie stammered.

“Since you are obviously outwitted, Lottie dear, I will remind you that we have done nothing but talk about ourselves.”

“Nonsense. We discussed Cameron and his turning out of his mistress.”

“A truly delightful topic on which to begin the day.”

“ 'Tis true, I tell you,” Lottie insisted. “Just look at her and you'll see.”

To Virginia, Sarah smiled. “Now that we have exhausted Lottie's limited supply of civility, what would you like to do today?”

“She's going to sit for fittings.”

“Since when does that preclude her from answering a question?”

“I was just trying to be helpful.”

Her patience gone, Sarah snapped, “Will you please let her answer for herself!”

With a self-deprecating grin, Lottie acknowledged the truth of that statement. “Are there other things you'd like to do today?”

“Nothing in particular, but there is some place I'd like to go on Friday night.”

“Of course.” Lottie fluttered her fingers. “At least two of the gowns will be ready.”

“It's a reception.”

“Wonderful! We'll all go. Sarah, you wear the red gown. I'll wear black, and Virginia will dazzle them in the pink.”

Sarah's brow furrowed in confusion. “Who are we going to dazzle and where?”

“It's a reception at the cordiner's hall in honor of Horace Redding.”

Sarah winced. “Oh, my.”

Lottie gaped. “What ever will we do? Redding despises the MacKenzies, thanks to Papa.”

“I'm so sorry, Virginia.”

She wouldn't take no for an answer. “I'll go alone, and I won't stay for long. It's very important to me to meet Redding.”

*  *  *

Agnes solved the dilemma the next day. “ 'Tis simple. Edward will escort you.”

Lottie wasn't convinced. “But what will your Mr. Redding say when you tell him that your father is Lachian MacKenzie?”

As it turned out, Redding was more impressed with Edward Napier, but Virginia hadn't had the opportunity to say more than how do you do. Later, after the men had exhausted their discussion on the merits of the Napier carriage, she planned to approach Redding again.

“It's an odd-shaped contraption, to be sure,” said the constable of Glasgow. “Why is that, Lord Edward?”

Dressed in the bold black and white tartan of the Napiers, with a black velvet jacket and pure white shirt, Edward towered over the constable. “ 'Tis dynamics, Jenkins,” he said. “The principle by which objects move through the air.”

“Nonsense.” The constable laughed. “A carriage moves at the whim of horses. Next you'll tell us with gulls at the harnesses, the carriage will fly.”

As polite as Agnes was bold, Edward smiled and generously said, “Rumor has it you've a yearling that shows promise at six furlongs.”

As their conversation moved to sporting subjects, Virginia eased away, content to simply observe Horace Redding.

He could have had no hair at all under his lightly powdered short wig and her opinion of him would not have changed. Slightly portly, with large blue eyes and a small, thin mouth, he stood shoulder to shoulder with the distinguished and elegant Edward Napier. Comparing them was unfair, for Redding was old enough to be Napier's father. A native of Glasgow, Redding admitted to tracing his ancestors back to the Viking invasions. Yet he was an American. His opinions were uninhibited by traditions, save those favorable to the common and free man. But what captured her most about Redding was the tone and cadence of his voice. He had a way of capturing attention; even Napier listened avidly, although he was far from spellbound by Redding, unlike so many others in the room.

One of those disciples of democracy, as Redding dubbed his followers, broached the subject of English expansion. Virginia visited the refreshment table, then moved to the edge of the room, where a large standing screen marked the entrance to the ladies' necessary. A row of potted palms denoted facilities for the men.

Her petticoats rustled as she walked, and she felt another burst of pride for Lottie's newest creation. Others in the room noticed, too, and she committed every compliment to memory so she could pass them on to her sister. Of pink velvet, the bodice and split overskirt complimented the yards and yards of white silk that formed the underskirt. A border of embroidered green leaves trimmed the lace at her cuffs and the neckline. Down to her matching slippers, Virginia felt like a princess.

“An' who's surprised those MacKenzie women dress so well?” said a harpish voice from behind the screen. “They've the Napier mills at their beck 'n' call.”

Virginia couldn't see the woman or her companion, who chirped, “They've more money than the church.”

A couple walked by, the man dapper in a black suit and white waistcoat. The woman smiled at Virginia, moved away from her companion, and disappeared behind the screen.

“Won't his grace of Ross toss a caber when he learns his daughter came out tonight. He hates that Redding fellow. Blackened his eye when last their paths crossed.”

“Which daughter is she?” said the harpy. “Or is she one of those uppity bastards of his?”

Her companion laughed. “Who's to know where she fits in the MacKenzie litter?”

Virginia went cold inside, and the fruity punch she'd drunk turned bitter on her tongue.

“Someone from the
Courant
should find out what that new MacKenzie girl is doing in Glasgow.”

“Why don't you ask her instead of hovering like fat mice after dirty crumbs of cheese.”

Twin gasps sounded.

Without doubt, Virginia knew the plaintive voice belonged to the woman who'd smiled at her moments before.

“Well, I never,” spat the harpy.

“No, I don't imagine you've ever had the courage to speak openly,” the good-hearted woman continued. “But then, who would be interested in anything you have to say?”

Blustering, the harpy said, “Have we met?”

“Fortunately for me, no.”

Fabric rustled. A moment later, the harpy said, “Who was that woman?”

Her friend lowered her voice. “She's Adrienne Cholmondeley. We read about her in the paper today.”

The bottom dropped out of Virginia's stomach. She hadn't expected kindness from Cameron's mistress. Former mistress. How could she thank her? Did propriety allow it? She didn't know, so she made her way back to Edward Napier, and when the opportunity for privacy presented itself, she asked him.

“You could send her a note and a gift. Perhaps a silk scarf.” Grinning, he added, “I know where a few lengths of cloth can be found.”

Virginia laughed. According to Lottie, the Napier family mill had prospered since medieval times. “I do feel like a bumpkin.”

He pulled a funny face reminiscent of the expression his son Jamie wore when Agnes sent the lad to bed. “Bumpkin? Nay.”

“I
am
out of my depth.”

“Me too.”

“You?”

“Aye. Try explaining dynamics to a man who thinks the moon is purgatory because the face of it resembles his first wife's.”

Gaiety filled her. “Do you know what Americans say about the image on the moon?”

“Tell me. I'm certain it's revolutionary.”

Completely charmed, she said, “I can see why Agnes loves you.”

A hint of color stained his cheeks. Reverently, he said, “She is a gift I never thought to receive, but you of all people know that. Now finish what you were going to say about the moon.”

“May I join you?” Horace Redding said.

“Oh, please.” Virginia stepped closer to Napier. “In fact, Lord Edward and I were just comparing tales. Perhaps you'd convey to him the American opinion of whose face is on the moon.”

“Delighted.” In his orator's voice, he said, “Some Americans believe that the pocked face of the moon is the burial ground for the corrupt souls of English kings.”