A Scot to the Heart (Desperately Seeking Duke #2) - Caroline Linden Page 0,9

the sashes helped, but the drapes still obscured the view, until she took them down.

And after all that effort, Ilsa Ramsay noted with chagrin, she was out of green paint.

Well. Perhaps the hills ought to be more violet than green, now that she thought about it.

Aunt Jean came into the room and stopped short. Ilsa preferred to think it was in appreciation of her painting skill, which had improved tremendously in the last few months. She daubed another burst of heather onto her painting of the distant Calton Hill, replicating the vista out the drawing room windows.

“Are the draperies in need of cleaning?” asked her aunt after a moment.

“No,” said Ilsa. “They were blocking the view.”

Jean picked up one corner of a drapery, lying in a heap on the sofa, and clucked over the loose threads where a ring had torn away. “And did they offend you, as well?”

“I didn’t tear them down, that ring was already loose.” Carefully she added tiny highlights of light blue to the heather. Yes; the hillside did look much better with some heather. Pity the real one couldn’t be so easily improved.

Jean dropped the drapery. “I suppose I’ll have to sew it back on.”

“You needn’t put yourself out. I didn’t mean to create work for you.” She tilted her head critically to survey her work. “I like the room brighter. Perhaps I’ll never rehang the draperies.”

“What? Anyone will be able to see right in!” Jean sounded appalled.

“Only if they climb a ladder propped against the front of the house, which would be notable even in Edinburgh.” Ilsa resisted the urge to roll her eyes. The building across the street was a small concert hall, with blank windows on this level.

Jean threw up her hands. “Ach! What goes through your head, child? Of course we need draperies!”

“We don’t, actually. They’ve been down for an hour and the house is still standing.”

Her aunt’s face puckered in frustration. “That’s not what I meant!”

“But isn’t it the important question? We don’t need draperies. We like them. They demonstrate how stylish we are to anyone who calls. But the panes are well-fitted and there are no draughts, and right now draperies only impede the fresh, clean breeze.” She carefully placed another tiny dot of blue on her painting. “I think it may be far more beneficial to our health not to have them.”

“There’s no arguing with you,” muttered her aunt.

Ilsa smiled in relief. “Thank you, Aunt, I am so pleased we are in agreement.”

“Hmph.” Jean folded her arms. “I never said that.”

“As long as we don’t argue about it, you are quite entitled to disagree with my every word.” She ran the brush around the bottom of the paint pot, then peered inside as if more green paint might spontaneously appear.

“You know, Ilsa, not everyone would be so tolerant of your whims,” warned her aunt, reopening a line of contention that had plagued them many times before. “No gentleman would put up with—”

“Yes!” Ilsa got to her feet and began unbuttoning her smock. “No gentlemen. That is a most excellent rule.”

Jean puffed up in offense. “Such a broad condemnation! ’Tis unfair of you.”

Ilsa laughed. “I’ve not condemned men! Only gentlemen. I adore my papa and Robert.”

Jean put one hand to her brow wearily. “Robert is not a man.”

“Nor is he a gentleman, which makes him perfect.” Ilsa hung her smock on the sconce by the fireplace.

The drawing room door opened. “Oh my, you’ve got rid of the drapes,” exclaimed Agnes St. James.

“No,” said Jean firmly, taking down the smock.

“Yes! What do you think?” asked Ilsa.

Her friend surveyed the bare windows, which appeared much larger without the heavy damask draperies surrounding them. There was a fine view, off to the left, of the distant hill over the rooftops. “It’s much brighter without them.”

“It is. I like it.”

Agnes’s approval soothed the faint rumble in Ilsa’s conscience. Agnes would say something if it were entirely disreputable not to have draperies at her windows. Ilsa didn’t see how it could be, but she’d come to distrust Jean’s opinion on anything regarding propriety. Agnes was at least a neutral judge.

“Robert is pestering the butler,” her friend told her. “He sent me to inform you.”

Ilsa grinned. “You mean, he sent you to scold me about neglecting Robert. He must be fretting for his ramble in the park, poor dear.”

“Poor,” said Jean disapprovingly under her breath.

“I would have taken him myself if Mr. MacLeod had not told me you were up,” Agnes went on. “I didn’t