Page 22 of A Tartan Love (The Earls of Cairnfell #1)

Kingswell House

Aberdeenshire, Scotland

I sla cut her beef into precise squares, the murmur of voices washing over her from every corner of the dining room table.

If this had been a normal sort of house party, she would have found the food and company delightful.

The situation of the dining room at Kingswell House was everything a hostess desired—a long, elegant table set with fine Sèvres china and polished silver cutlery, blush ranunculus and white roses spilling from vases, a gentle fire flickering in the hearth.

The food was excellent—tender beef in a well-set aspic atop flaky puff pastry—courtesy of Lady Milmouth’s skilled French cook.

The company laughed and talked at ease, particularly Colonel Archer at Isla’s elbow.

Even Gray, seated to the right of Lord Milmouth at the head of the table, had managed to relax into a semblance of his London self.

Her brother charmed Lady Forsyth at his elbow and laughed at a quip Lord Milmouth offered.

All in all, it should have been an enchanting evening.

But the weight of Captain Balfour’s presence pressed down on every lighter emotion Isla might feel.

He sat down the table from Isla. Miss Lydia Crowley, a pretty young lady with sparkling dark eyes and a far-too-generous bosom, sat to his right and repeatedly drew him into conversation.

Isla wanted nothing more than to ignore the captain completely. But the man himself made that task difficult.

First was the matter of his clothing. Not once had she seen Tavish Balfour in evening attire.

Most certainly not kitted out like a Corinthian of the first stare as he was this evening.

The fact that Captain Balfour wore his well-tailored coat with the practiced ease of a high-born gentleman overset her thinking.

Obviously, he was a high-born gentleman. But Isla had never specifically envisioned him at a ton event. She had never considered how he would draw the eye. How he would stand out as a particularly spectacular example of aristocratic breeding.

Clearly, she lacked imagination.

Had she no prior knowledge of him before this evening, Isla would have found herself drawn in.

She would currently be stealing furtive glances of his handsome profile.

Perhaps even admiring how the crisp brightness of his neckcloth and the high collar of his coat accentuated the deep dent in his chin and the fullness of his pillow lips.

She once had tried to determine how many features of his face could hold a pencil without assistance. The perfect dent in his chin? Yes. The deep shadow under his bottom lip? Absolutely, yes.

Truly, his lips were nearly obscene. Far too full for a man.

How was a woman to think of anything other than how those lips would feel atop her own?

Or remember, once she had kissed them, that they felt like silk-covered goose down .

. . which truthfully was a hundred times worse. Had the man no mercy?

Isla tried to concentrate on Colonel Archer’s voice in her ear. To make banal replies to his questions. Yes, the weather had been lovely of late. Yes, her bedchamber was to her liking.

But Miss Crowley’s tinkling laughter and murmured questions constantly intruded, particularly when Captain Balfour, those damnable pillow lips pursed into a smile, leaned his head down to better hear the lady.

Abruptly, Isla remembered being sixteen years old and giggling with Tavish as they attempted to best each other at draughts.

Her mind had raced for words, anything to fuel the rumble of his laughter.

Surely, her expression then had mimicked Miss Crowley’s now, flushing and gazing up at Captain Balfour with awestruck delight.

Isla feared she had lost that open-hearted girl somewhere along the way.

Granted, Captain Balfour didn’t smile the same now either, Isla noted. Not his true smile. The one that had once caused her pulse to skip with gladness. The smile that mirrored his heart in his eyes.

But what did Isla know? Perhaps Captain Balfour didn’t smile like that anymore.

He is a stranger , she reminded herself. He is not the boy you knew. Your Tavish died long ago.

If only the present weren’t so determined to resurrect the past. To force Isla to ponder the boy he had been and the man he had become. To confront and understand the changes in her own self.

But . . . this was what she had wanted. Why she had encouraged Gray to remain at Kingswell House. A week of penance to purge any lingering sentiment for Tavish Balfour.

Surely navigating the treacherous shoals of her memories would become easier as the days passed.

Unfortunately, relinquishing the men to their port and withdrawing with the ladies did not grant Isla the expected reprieve.

Lady Milmouth instantly cozied up with Lady Forsyth before the fire, leaving Isla alone with Miss Forsyth, Miss Anne Forsyth, and Miss Crowley. As young unmarried ladies were wont to do, their conversation rapidly turned to the unattached gentlemen.

“Do you not find Captain Balfour excessively handsome?” Miss Crowley asked. “I think he is the most well-favored gentleman here. ”

“You are only saying that because he complimented your gown, Lydia.” Miss Anne Forsyth nodded to the pink silk of Miss Crowley’s evening dress.

Miss Crowley flushed. “Yes, but he complimented it so prettily.”

Miss Forsyth fixed her younger sister with a look . “I know you find Captain Balfour to your liking, too, Anne. You are just sore that he didn’t compliment your gown, as well.”

Miss Anne Forsyth glared. Isla had the distinct sense that, were they not in company, Miss Anne might have stuck out her tongue at her sister.

“I agree with Lydia,” Miss Forsyth continued. “There is simply something arresting about Captain Balfour. As if the entire world could fracture to pieces, and he would simply set about tidying up. I cannot imagine anything would overset him.”

“I agree. Such self-possession would be an excellent quality in a husband,” Miss Crowley added with another blush.

Oh, gracious.

It was all Isla could do not to press a hand to her stomach.

This was her husband the young ladies discussed.

“What do you think, Lady Isla?” Miss Forsyth asked.

“Of . . . Captain Balfour?” Isla managed to croak.

“Yes.” Miss Crowley leaned forward. “I know your family is not friendly with the Balfours, but surely there is no harm in appreciating the fine figure of an attractive man?”

Isla opened her mouth, but struggled to form words. What was she to say?

Why, yes, I do find the captain decidedly alluring. His kisses rather melt one’s knees.

Or, perhaps . . .

I am not sure he would make the best of husbands, to be truthful. It’s been over seven years since our own wedding, and in that time, I don’t think we’ve spent above an hour in one another’s company.

But even as the thoughts tumbled through, she recalled Tavish on their wedding day. How they had stood before a retired doctor and his wife in Stonehaven and pledged their vows.

It always astonished Isla how easily she could recall that moment. The wide wonder in Tavish’s gray eyes. As if he could scarcely believe that this moment had finally— finally! —arrived. That they would be bound as one, never to be parted.

His hand had trembled in hers. Her tears had wet the tartan ribbon of their handfasting. He had kissed her afterward, a tender touching of lips. A promise of a world to come.

She still kept that strip of tartan, along with the written witness of their marriage vows, tucked in a box slid to the back of a drawer.

Perhaps, she would burn that ribbon . . . maybe on the day their divorce became final.

The silence stretched too long.

Miss Anne Forsyth pursed her lips at Miss Crowley.

“You place Lady Isla in a most indelicate situation, Lydia. She cannot say anything lavish about Captain Balfour without betraying her family. Besides, we know Lady Isla’s interests lie elsewhere.

” She aimed a pointed look at Lady Milmouth, implying Isla’s connection with Colonel Archer.

Isla willed herself not to blush.

Miss Crowley at least had the decency to appear abashed. “My apologies, Lady Isla.”

“There is no need for an apology.”

Silence descended.

“Lady Isla, may we ask you a question?” Miss Forsyth motioned to her sister and friend.

“Of course.”

“Do you consider it likely that your brother will speak a full sentence to any of us this week?”

Oh.

The abrupt change in topic had Isla sitting upright in her seat.

“Gray?”

All three young ladies nodded.

Miss Crowley tittered. “Your brother is so handsome and noble, Lady Isla, one scarcely notices his faint limp.”

Right.

The fact of Gray’s uneven legs was rather common knowledge.

No one ever spoke of it directly, of course, but Isla overheard whispered conversations about both her brothers.

People always voiced the same question: What dreadful sin had the previous Duke of Grayburn committed to so kindle the wrath of God?

After all, two sons with a similar deformity must be a sign of divine displeasure.

Such whispers were one of the many reasons why Matt never ventured into company.

“But will His Grace speak with any of us?” Miss Forsyth pressed.

“Gray is rather . . .” How to finish that sentence? Circumspect? Uninterested in marriage at the moment?

In short, Isla could scarcely imagine her brother looking at any woman in fondness or— shudder— love. Gray kept a healthy distance between himself and tenderness.

She assumed that eventually, when he decided to take a bride, he would meticulously survey the field, make a list, and conduct interviews before choosing the most eligible young woman to marry. No love or passion involved.

Fortunately, the gentlemen chose that moment to enter from the dining room.

Unfortunately, Isla met Captain Balfour’s gaze as he stepped into the drawing room.

They both looked away almost instantly, but the intensity of his gray eyes burned in her mind’s eye.