Quest of the Highlander (Crowns & Kilts #5) - Cynthia Wright Page 0,98

father’s discomfort with the viscount’s emotional remarks. He had been told that the two men had been friends since boyhood, and it seemed that the viscount himself was grieving for Charles.

Lennox glanced toward Viscount St. John’s daughter, Betsy. As Grant had observed, she was both elegant and lovely, fresh as a dewy pink rosebud on this warm August afternoon. Willowy, golden-haired Betsy was blessed with blue eyes and a demure smile that she turned his way every few minutes.

“Yes, it has been so difficult for all of us who cared for Charles,” the viscount was saying. He inclined his head toward Betsy. “At times it seemed the world might end, and yet it did not. God has favored you with another son!”

To Lennox’s surprise, Betsy murmured, “Favored us all.”

The two fathers raised their glasses in a silent toast to her.

As the meal wound to a close, footmen appeared with another of the cook’s sugar-paste creations. This time a gilded Cupid rose up from the platter, colored with spices and bright fruit juices. Lennox felt an odd twinge at the sight of it, pointing its bow toward him.

Betsy blushed and looked at Lennox under her lashes. “Your Grace, your cook is quite ingenious, for I have never found Cupid looking more appealing.”

After the meal, Viscount St. John announced, “Hastings and I have business to discuss.” Turning to Lennox, he said, “Would you be kind enough to take my lovely daughter outside for a stroll?”

The duke answered on Lennox’s behalf. “My son would be honored. It’s time these two attractive young people became better acquainted.”

* * *

“Oh, look at the roses,” exclaimed Betsy as they wandered through the knot gardens of boxwood and roses. “They are my favorite flower. Will you choose one for me, kind sir?”

Lennox found a white bloom that was just beginning to open. It had very few thorns and was easy enough to break off at its juncture with the branch. It was the sort of thing he had done countless times in the past, while charming the many lasses on Skye, but this time he could not feel lighthearted as he presented Betsy with the flower.

“I love it that you chose white for me,” she said softly, gazing into his eyes. “It is apt, you know. I have kept myself pure for my husband.”

Staring at the rose, Lennox thought back to the day on the Isle of Mull, when he’d returned from trying to save those seamen lost in a shipwreck. He had ached for Nora during that long absence, and even now he could clearly see her on the windswept bluff, waiting to greet him, a crown of bright wildflowers on her wild red-gold tresses. That night, he had made love to her with all his heart and soul, but there had been so much he didn’t yet know. Secrets that were already building a wall between them.

“I had been saving myself for someone else,” Betsy was saying.

Lennox came back to the present moment with a start, realizing what she meant. He looked at her. “Charles.”

“How did you guess?” She came close enough to touch his arm with graceful fingers. “I loved him. He was a very fine person.”

“I have no doubt of that.”

“But Charles is gone, and all of my life is still ahead of me.” She paused, her hand shaking slightly against the sleeve of his doublet. “My father tells me that His Grace has plans for you, in spite of the circumstances of your birth.”

Although Lennox had no idea what plans she referred to, he could guess what Betsy had in mind for herself. He managed a smile.

“I can see in your eyes that you are a rare sort of man, but I should not say any more. I know all of this is new for you, and our ways must be different from those of Scotland.” She stood on tiptoe and pressed a warm kiss to the edge of his jaw. “I just wanted you to know, I’m very glad you are now an Englishman, Lennox.”

* * *

Later that afternoon, Lennox and the duke stood in the courtyard, watching as the coach bearing their guests passed by the gatehouse and turned down the long drive.

“I thought I’d go for a ride before the light goes,” Lennox said, feeling a strong, familiar urge to get away. “Chaucer must be missing me.”

“Chaucer?” the duke repeated distractedly. “Oh, you mean the horse that Scots lad brought.”

“That’s right. Chaucer and I had many fine adventures together