A Scot to the Heart (Desperately Seeking Duke #2) - Caroline Linden Page 0,11
of the devil in him. Too bad she would never see him again.
“A dutiful army man who likes to write letters teasing about possible legacies.” Ilsa tapped her chin and pretended to think. “Doesn’t seem likely, but one never knows.” Agnes just laughed.
She walked with her friend down the stairs. “I do hope you’ll meet him.” Agnes put on her hat. “I doubt he’ll be in town long.”
“Perhaps,” said Ilsa vaguely. Even his name was prissy and proper. Andrew the Saint. Saint Andrew the Self-Sacrificing. He sounded dreary and dull. She wouldn’t refuse to meet him, but neither was she eager.
Agnes left for her mother’s shop in Shakespeare Square. Ilsa went into the butler’s room, where Robert stood watching Mr. MacLeod polish the silver. At her entrance, he sighed in relief. “Mrs. Ramsay! I didn’t like to disturb you, but—”
“I know.” She smiled as Robert came up to her, his big brown eyes hopeful. She bent and kissed his forehead. “Yes, my darling, just a moment.” She turned back to Mr. MacLeod. “Two for dinner tonight. Miss St. James will be dining with her family. No fish or shellfish. Lamb, if you can find a prime leg of it.”
“Very good, ma’am.” He smiled and bowed.
Ilsa left the room, Robert at her heels. Jean had disappeared. Ilsa would wager a handsome sum that by dinner, that loose curtain ring would have been repaired, the drapery sponged and pressed, and the whole thing hung back on the rail. Jean vigorously fended off any hint that they weren’t the most eminently proper house on the street.
Ilsa had meant it when she said she didn’t want to argue over that, but it seemed inevitable. Jean militantly maintained her status and respectability. At times it seemed like that was all Jean did—fuss over the china, the draperies, the exact height of a hemline, or the precise way to hold a fan. A slight slip greeting a new acquaintance would provoke a lengthy scold. A low-cut gown might make her tight-lipped for days.
Not only did Ilsa crave an escape from all that fussing and fretting, she didn’t think most of it was important. And she was so tired of toeing the many, many lines laid down by people who told her that all her desires and interests were wrong or unseemly.
She put on her jacket and hat and opened the door, waiting patiently as Robert made his way down the steps. “Well done,” she told him, and he nudged her elbow in reply. She smiled. Robert was the perfect companion. He couldn’t dance in an oyster cellar, but neither did he scold her, or tell her she was too bold, or say anything disagreeable at all. She patted him on the back and they set off, side by side, for the open fields at the foot of Calton Hill.
This was the part of Edinburgh she loved best. Away from the increasingly dingy and cramped confines of the Old Town, away from the construction dust and noise of the New Town, just a bright, windy day on the hill with no one but Robert. Here she felt at peace, free from society and propriety.
“Should we run away to the Highlands?” she wondered aloud. “I’ve heard they are beautiful and wild, and not filled with disapproving matrons.”
Robert shook his head, plodding along beside her.
“Too cold? Too far?” She sighed, running fingers over his back. “You’re probably right. Glasgow? No, too near, and too like Edinburgh.” She gave him a little pat. “I have it! We could hide ourselves on a ship to America and go on a grand adventure.”
He snorted and wandered off, showing her what he thought of that idea. Ilsa smiled fondly, watching him amble across the grass. “You can dismiss the idea that easily because you don’t have to see Mr. MacGill today,” she called after him.
She did not enjoy visiting her solicitor. He was reputed to be the best in Edinburgh, or so said her father. Her late husband, Malcolm, had also employed MacGill, keeping things like money and investments entirely out of Ilsa’s sight, let alone her control.
But then Malcolm died, and suddenly all that money was hers. Papa had wanted to handle it for her, but Ilsa was done with that, even if it meant she had to deal personally with Mr. MacGill, with his pompous manner and patronizing little smile. As if she were very fortunate indeed to have even a moment of his attention.