Page 18 of A Tartan Love (The Earls of Cairnfell #1)

Kingswell House

Aberdeenshire, Scotland

H er hand in Gray’s, Isla stepped from the carriage onto the gravel drive, shaking out her skirts. Taking in a lungful of Highland air, she smiled up at the elegant facade of Kingswell House.

At last, they had arrived.

Hope felt buoyant in her chest.

Yes, a week-long house party with Colonel Archer and his parents was precisely the reprieve that Isla required.

A week of deepening her relationship with the colonel and coming to better know the man behind his unperturbed surface.

A space to ponder her impending divorce, her long-awaited future at Malton Hill, and how best to maneuver the chessboard of her relationship with Gray through both obstacles.

Honestly, a woman’s work was never done.

Though she had traveled scarcely fifty miles north from Pettercairn, being somewhere new—a place the ghost of Tavish Balfour did not haunt—was like waking up to sunshine after weeks of never-ending rain.

She could breathe again.

Kingswell House was just as Gray had reported—modern and imposing. No one would ever call it a hunting lodge . Palace was a more apt descriptor.

Built in a similar style to Dunmore, the house featured a pedimented, Palladian facade, sweeping front stairs, and symmetrical tall windows. In short, it appeared a comfortable location to spend a week when deciding whether or not to marry a gentleman.

At her side, Gray proffered his arm, a smile on his lips. Isla knew her brother felt similarly relieved to be out of the Balfours’ circle.

They hadn’t quite reached the stairs when the front door opened and their hosts streamed out to greet them—Lord and Lady Milmouth with Colonel Archer on their heels. A series of servants followed, intent on the trunks strapped to the gleaming ducal carriage.

“At last!” Lady Milmouth grasped Isla’s hands, pressing them warmly. “We had nearly despaired of seeing you today.”

The lady and her husband were cut of standard, English stock—broad cheekbones and foreheads, slightly florid cheeks, sturdy of figure.

“I apologize for our tardy arrival. The road was rather boggy outside Aberdeen.” Gray shook Lord Milmouth’s hand, followed by Colonel Archer.

The colonel wasted no time in bowing low over Isla’s knuckles.

“Lady Isla,” he murmured, his eyes glowing with warmth.

He was a younger version of his parents—brown hair, blue eyes, and a chin that would soften rapidly with age.

His even features and expressive face lent him a boyish handsomeness.

There was a sort of trusting goodness about Colonel Edward Archer.

He was a gentleman who smiled with ease and always saw the best in people and situations.

A man Isla would be content to call her husband.

More to the point, she doubted Colonel Archer would ever make her cry. First, he was far too amiable and conciliatory. And second, the colonel simply didn’t tug at her heart in what she now recognized as a sort of obsession .

Isla had experienced the frantic love of youth. How had Shakespeare put it? Love is merely a madness.

Yes, that rather summed it up. Such mawkish, immature love was a madness, destined for Bedlam.

Better a truer affection built on respect and sensible feeling, on constancy and a calm steadiness.

In short, the emotions she felt for Colonel Archer.

Isla smiled at the man in question and murmured greetings to his parents.

“We are so glad you have arrived!” Lady Milmouth pressed her palms together. “Please, come!” She motioned for them to follow her.

Colonel Archer offered Isla his arm. She wrapped her fingers around his elbow, appreciating the leashed strength under her fingertips.

Isla could envision their future together. She would bear his children and host dinner parties and embroider handkerchiefs in her spare time. When in London, she would attend the theater and, when in the country, walk the paths around Malton Hill.

It was the life she craved. She only needed to disentangle herself from Tavish Balfour first.

They climbed the stairs, Lady Milmouth asking questions and clucking over the trials of a carriage journey.

Like her son, there was an affable generosity to her ladyship, a sense of sincerity and wide-eyed delight with the world.

As if her ladyship simply couldn’t fathom that terrible things might happen to those in her immediate orbit.

Had Dr. Johnson included portraits to illustrate words in his dictionary, Isla supposed an etching of Lady Milmouth would appear beside the word guileless .

It was yet one more mark in Colonel Archer’s favor—a mother that Isla would happily call her own.

They crossed into the front entry hall with its white marble floor, three symmetrically-placed pedimented doorways, and two parallel fireplaces on the left and right walls. The butler hurried forward to take Isla’s pelisse and bonnet, as well as Gray’s coat and top hat.

“Let me show you to your rooms,” Lady Milmouth said with a motherly tilt of her head. “You must be exhausted after your long journey.”

A loud burst of laughter—both feminine and masculine—carried through one of the pedimented doorways. A crowd of laughter, to be precise.

Isla paused, glancing at Gray. Wasn’t this to be a stay with just Lord and Lady Milmouth and their second son?

A week of Isla and Colonel Archer deepening their relationship, while Gray tromped through fields, shot his fill of pheasant and grouse, and solidified his political alliance with Lord Milmouth.

Gray looked to their hostess with a slight frown.

“Ah, yes, our other guests.” Lady Milmouth cleared her throat.

“There are others besides ourselves?” Gray lifted his eyebrows.

It was a rather intimidating lift, as Isla well knew.

Lady Milmouth was not immune. She flushed, hands clasped at her waist.

“Yes.” She gave a fluttery laugh. “You see, my sister, Lady Forsyth and her husband, Sir John Forsyth—of the Southampton Forsyths, not the Suffolk—were longing for a stay in the country, and I simply couldn’t bear to disappoint them.

They have come with their two daughters and have brought the daughter of another dear friend. ”

“Emmeline loves nothing more than to have a house full of people,” Lord Milmouth said on a fond laugh. “Why return to London when we can ask half of London to join us here?”

“It is true. I do adore hosting a merry house party,” Lady Milmouth sighed, flitting a tentative glance at Gray.

“Emmeline assures me that the other guests shan’t get in the way of our discussions, Grayburn,” Lord Milmouth added.

“Not too much, at least. But I know that single gentlemen always appreciate the company of well-bred young ladies.” Lady Milmouth smiled brightly at Gray.

A bit too brightly, per Isla’s intuition.

Ah.

Of course.

What self-respecting matron could permit a handsome bachelor duke to idle away his days without attempting some match-making?

Enter three eligible young women—all with close ties to Lady Milmouth—who would now spend the week vying for Gray’s attention. After all, what mamma did not wish her daughter to marry the Duke of Grayburn?

The tight clench of Gray’s jaw indicated that he saw through the ploy.

Isla had to pinch her lips together to prevent a smile escaping.

Hah! She rather liked the idea of watching Gray squirm for a week.

Laughter sounded again from the next-door room.

“And the gentlemen?” Gray ground out.

“Oh, yes!” Lady Milmouth beamed. “Of course, I couldn’t leave our numbers unsettled. Edward was kind enough to invite a pair of fellow officers from his time in the army—his closest friends, actually—to ensure that each lady has a gentlemanly arm to escort her into dinner and such.”

Colonel Archer grinned at his mother. “We shall make a jovial bunch this week, I dare—”

A whoop sounded from the drawing room—male voices rising in unison. A rush of footsteps quickly followed.

Two gentlemen burst into the entrance hall, one after the other.

The man in front had an affable grin on his face.

The gentleman on his heels, however.

Gray hissed in a breath.

Isla nearly gasped.

“Ho, Fletch!” the first man called, seizing Colonel Archer’s shoulder in a strong grip. “Remember that night in Porto when we were deep in our cups over . . . . Och , I beg your pardon.”

The gentleman paused, noting the new arrivals.

“The last of our guests has arrived,” Colonel Archer said.

Isla stared in horror as Captain Tavish Balfour halted beside the men.

Tavish.

Tavish was here.

Ehr . . . Captain Balfour. Thinking of him as Tavish would be ruinous.

Captain Balfour, who was a close friend—a confidante even—of Colonel Archer.

Isla could scarcely breathe through her shock.

Her separately constructed worlds—i.e., her secret marriage and her role as Lady Isla—had just collided.

Isla had never considered herself to be the swooning sort of lady. Such missishness was for women of lesser constitution. But the room decidedly spun when she met Captain Balfour’s somber gray eyes.

It was little consolation that he appeared as surprised as herself.

Lady Milmouth grinned, oblivious to the undercurrents. “Ah, there you are, gentlemen! Your Grace, Lady Isla, may I introduce Captain Ross and Captain Balfour, two officers who served with our Edward?”

Colonel Archer smiled brightly, clearly delighted for Isla to meet his friends.

The dear man. He hadn’t a clue.

Isla pressed a hand to her midriff.

Gray said nothing. Isla dared a glance at him. He rather resembled a furious bull, nostrils flared beneath wide eyes.

Captain Balfour continued to gaze at her, expression impassive.

He stood a hair taller than the other gentlemen.

Though he wasn’t dressed in the height of fashion like Colonel Archer, nor commanded the might of a wealthy dukedom like Gray, Captain Balfour was the man who drew eyes in the room.

The sheer gravity of him. As if he were a mountain, unmoved and unyielding.

Silence descended.