A Scot to the Heart (Desperately Seeking Duke #2) - Caroline Linden Page 0,32

fear if ’tis sensible! What would your father say, if something happened to you on my watch?”

“Aunt Jean.” Ilsa leveled a firm but loving look at her. “I am no longer a child under your watch.”

“Yes, you are! If anything were to happen to you, your father—”

Ilsa felt a growl rising in her throat; it must have been loud enough for Jean to hear, for her aunt fell silent, although her eyes flashed and her mouth was a flat line.

“Ye’ve become such a headstrong lass since Malcolm died,” she said with withering reproach before she marched out.

Alone in the silent room, Ilsa regarded her pot of paint. Under Jean’s watch. She should have guessed as much, when her father persuaded her to have her aunt to stay after Malcolm’s death. You can keep each other company, he’d said. Ilsa had reluctantly agreed. Aunt Jean was the closest thing she’d known to a mother, and though Jean had been strict and protective, she’d also been loving.

Ilsa had thought Papa meant well, putting together the widow and the spinster, two women without children to occupy them. She’d thought Papa wanted a bachelor’s residence again. But no; Papa had meant the child and the guardian, keeping a close eye on her again now that she had no husband to do it.

She set down her paint and noticed for the first time the drapes, hung again in front of the drawing room window. The view was once more narrow, the room once more shadowed.

Stay in, bar the doors, curtain the windows, post a guard. It was too much like Malcolm’s edicts. Now that she’d had a few months of freedom, it felt like being buried alive.

That night she put on her favorite gown, a glorious emerald silk with silver spangles and miles of lace. It fluttered when she walked and made her feel like a butterfly, capable of soaring wherever her fancy took her. Malcolm would have hated it, for the brilliant color and low-cut bodice. She would not be held captive by her aunt’s rigid rules, nor by her father’s manipulations. She ignored Jean’s furious protests and stepped into the sedan chair Mr. MacLeod had summoned for her.

The Assembly Rooms were full when she walked in. Obviously no one else in Edinburgh was huddling behind their doors in fear of thieves. In fact, her father met her almost immediately. “Ilsa! What are you doing here?”

She kissed his cheek. “The same thing you are, I expect.”

He flushed even as he scowled. Papa came to flirt and dance and show off. He fancied himself a favorite of the ladies, and tonight he was dressed like a macaroni, in a striped yellow waistcoat and burgundy coat with diamond buckles on his shoes. “ʼTain’t the same! You ought not to be out.”

“Don’t tell me you’re as fussy and fretful as Jean.”

“Certainly not,” he scoffed in outrage. “But you can’t go about alone—”

“I came in a sedan chair,” she told him. “And if it’s not safe to walk the streets, how did you get here?” He scowled anew, and she smiled as she patted his arm. “I never thought you’d turn into a worried old woman, Papa.”

His mouth firmed—to stop the smile twitching at his lips. “Saucy wench. I do not approve, but I’ll see you safely home. And now that you are here, you must meet someone. By happy chance, Mr. Grant is in attendance, and he’ll be pleased to solicit your hand for the quadrille.” Without waiting for her reply, he towed her through the crowd and introduced her to the genial wine merchant.

From the polite surprise on Mr. Grant’s face, Ilsa was sure her guess had been correct. All interest in a union between them was Papa’s, and Papa’s alone. Still, she smiled at Mr. Grant and even agreed to dance with him later, when Papa shamelessly maneuvered the poor man into asking.

Ilsa did love to dance, and she had nothing against Mr. Grant. But she had higher hopes tonight.

The St. James girls were at the far end of the room. Ilsa’s eyes skimmed over the crowd, and finally spotted the captain. She had missed him, despite his height, because he was stooped over listening to dainty Miss Flora Clapperton, eldest daughter of a wealthy gentleman and rumored to have ten thousand pounds in dowry. Flora was flighty but sweet, and she could talk for an hour without drawing breath—especially if encouraged, as Winifred St. James appeared to be doing, standing beaming at her side