A Scot to the Heart (Desperately Seeking Duke #2) - Caroline Linden Page 0,59

freedom to do as he pleased, and much like bookkeeping, he’d supposed he would get used to it.

Then Ilsa Ramsay had blazed into his life, like a comet through a midnight sky, fascinating and attracting him like no other woman ever had—perhaps ever would. But every time he hinted at anything beyond flirtation, she skittered backward. Her kiss was full of passion and joy, but her eyes held shadows he couldn’t penetrate.

He’d told himself to let it happen, or not, naturally. He’d promised not to press her. And yet, every time he saw her, something inside him reacted helplessly—like an iron nail to a magnet. He didn’t know what to do, half-afraid of spoiling whatever might be growing between them and half-afraid that it would wither away if he did nothing.

“Your sisters like Mrs. Ramsay very much,” remarked his mother when he took another sandwich instead of replying.

“But you don’t,” he murmured.

Her hands stilled. “It’s not that,” she said carefully. “She is lovely and polite, and has been kind and generous to the girls. But . . .” She shook her head. “She’s had an odd life.”

He shouldn’t pry; it wasn’t his business; if there was anything he ought to know, Ilsa should be the one to tell him. “What do you mean?” he still heard himself ask.

“Her father is gregarious and charming, known to all Edinburgh, but she never made her debut. I suspect her aunt, Miss Fletcher, kept the young lady under tight supervision, which is unremarkable. But then she married, quite privately, and still was reclusive. I hardly ever heard her name until Agnes met her in a bookshop and they became friendly. But in the last few months . . .” A little frown wrinkled Louisa’s brow. “I’m afraid I don’t know what to think.”

Mad, eccentric, wild . . . everyone in Edinburgh says so, whispered Ilsa’s voice in his memory. She’d tried to make light of it but he’d heard the thread of pique. “What do you think changed her?”

“That disgraceful business with Malcolm Ramsay.” His mother’s face set in disapproving lines. “A duel! The Englishman who shot him was loud and uncouth, and the trial—” She stabbed the needle forcefully into her cloth. “I do sympathize with Mrs. Ramsay for enduring that nightmare. I only wonder if it didn’t . . . unsettle her.”

Drew had been gleaning scraps of information about Ilsa, and the picture they formed made his heart ache. A lonely childhood, raised by a strict aunt while her father worked. More tutors and instructors than friends. A husband who wouldn’t allow her to ride, even though she relished it.

He studied the sandwich he’d been holding for several minutes now. Nothing about Ilsa suggested she was deranged or unstable—that’s what his mother meant by unsettled. “What was her husband like?” he asked abruptly.

“An arrogant fool,” declared his mother. “A gambler and a scoundrel. Nothing reclusive or retiring about him! He flirted once with Agnes and I sent him off with a flea in his ear. I’d not have let him near any of your sisters.” Drew glanced at her, startled. “Others saw him more favorably, I suppose,” added Louisa self-consciously. “He was handsome and he was rich.”

But not a kind husband. Ramsay didn’t allow Ilsa to go see the balloonist.

“How do you think she’s . . . unsettled?”

This time his mother took her time replying. “It’s the marked swing from quiet and retiring to bold and independent that startles me. Who is her true self? I wonder if she knows. Some people never can decide and settle down to be happy. They are always seeking something, never satisfied, even if they don’t know what would satisfy them.”

Drew thought of a woman who kissed a stranger in an oyster cellar, kept a pet pony in her house, and painted her drawing room to look like Calton Hill. He remembered her open joy when they went riding, and her longing to glide on the wind like a hawk. She didn’t seem unsettled to him, but rather . . . adventurous. Open in her enthusiasms and decidedly not reclusive. It was hard to believe a solitary, secluded life had been entirely her choice.

“She’s not unstable,” he said, very softly. “And I do like her.”

His mother sewed in silence for several minutes. “Does she know how much?”

He didn’t reply.

“I only advise you to be clear about your intentions with a lady—any lady,” she added.

That would be easier if he knew what his intentions were. Drew ate