Page 63 of The Mistress of Ashmore Castle (Ashmore Castle #3)

There was plenty to do at Kincraig, and plenty of people to do it with, so Rachel could not claim she was neglected, even though she missed Angus’s special attentions.

She concluded that he had been warned off by his father as she had been by her mother.

When they were in company together, he was pleasant and cousinly.

At least he did not single out anyone else in her place.

But he was now often absent, and she could not enquire more than casually where he was.

On two occasions, when someone said they thought he had ridden over to Alvie, her imagination offered her a picture of the dark hair and dark eyes and swan neck of Diana Huntley, and Angus bowing over her hand.

She tried bringing subtle enquiries as to Diana Huntley’s dowry into the conversation, but either she was too subtle or no-one knew – or, more likely, no-one cared – because she never got any clear idea on the subject.

She was glad, anyway, to be able to avoid the attentions of the Prince of Usingen, who, though he often came over, seemed content – dull dog that he was – to have drawing-room conversations with her mother, or middle-aged walks along the dry paths with the grown-ups.

Twice when there were dances after dinner, he asked her to dance, which was agonising; but she was too popular a partner for him to be able to monopolise her.

In fact, in the absence of Angus, Henry Eassie seemed to be taking over, positioning himself at her side, asking her to dance more often than anyone else, dashing to pick up her fan or catch her slipping shawl, sitting by her at picnics, refilling her glass.

She liked him, and enjoyed his attentions: he was handsome, in the same Scottish way as Diana Huntley – very dark hair and very white skin – and was pleasant company, but he elicited no spark from her.

Low be it whispered, but she found him a little dull.

She often had to think of things to say, whereas with Angus it was he who led the conversation and kept it effortlessly flowing.

It was, perhaps, not quite romantic that Angus had relinquished her so easily, and she often found her eyes drifting to him of their own accord across the crowded room or down the dinner table.

Often, when she looked, she found his eyes just withdrawing from her.

And once, when they passed in a doorway and brushed against each other accidentally, he paused and looked down at her – such an intent look!

– and seemed about to say something, and she caught her breath in quivering expectation.

But the moment passed and he gave her only a brief, tight smile before passing on.

It would be very bad, and wrong, and pointless, but she secretly wished he would resume his attentions to her. She was completely rested now from her Season, and wanted something new and exciting to think about.

When Louis ran to the house, the first person he encountered was Afton.

The valet was just coming back from a walk and had thought to take a turn in the garden if there was nobody about.

He saw the child running towards him, took in the strained expression, the frantic effort of the chubby legs.

Stooping towards him, he said, ‘What’s the matter, young ’un?

’ The boy flung himself into his arms, scaled him like a monkey, and clung on, wrapping tiny arms fiercely round his neck.

Louis couldn’t remember the words he was supposed to say. He couldn’t speak at all.

‘What is it? What’s the matter?’ Afton asked in concern, closing his arms round the trembling body.

The child flung out an arm and one frantic pointing finger in the direction he had come from.

Something was wrong, Afton thought. The child shouldn’t be unattended. What had he run from?

Just then a gardener’s boy appeared, pushing a wheelbarrow full of trimmings, and gave him a startled look. It was one of the new boys taken on that spring – Cox was his name, Afton thought. He tried loosening the child’s arms but they only clung harder. ‘You, boy – Cox! Come with me,’ he said.

Her ladyship was lying on the ground, and there was a lot of blood.

Louis moaned and pushed his face into Afton’s neck.

He held the boy closer and said to Cox, ‘Run to the stables, tell them to send a man on horseback to the village for the doctor, and another to fetch his lordship back. Then run to the house and send anyone you can find here to help me. Quick as you can. Run!’

Luckily the boy seemed to have kept his wits.

He did not stare or ask questions, but whirled on the spot and was gone, showing a good turn of speed.

Afton, hampered by the child, could not go to her ladyship.

There was a stone bench nearby. He unfastened the boy’s legs and set his feet on the bench, then tried to release the clinging arms. ‘You must let me go, Louis, so I can help Mama. Will you be a good boy and stand here? That’s right.

Don’t look, my dear – look over there, look at that tree.

Can you see any birds in it? Stay there. Good boy.’

He had thought for a moment that there was blood on the child’s face too, but it turned out only to be a rose petal, stuck to his forehead.

A ball at Invereshie House – quite a grand ball.

Henry Eassie had been flirting with Rachel all evening, but it had developed an edge, and she thought she knew what it was.

She escaped to the conservatory – not as grand a one as at Alvie Castle, but densely planted with greenery and quite as good for hiding – to think.

Henry was handsome, and obviously smitten with her.

He was an eldest son, and the Alvie estate was a good one (at least, it was a large one – she had no knowledge of their financial standing) but Lord Eassie was only a baron.

What would her mother think about that? She had said she had everything in hand and that a fine marriage would happen, but was she thinking about Paul Usingen?

Would she even consider a baron’s heir, if a prince, albeit a German prince, was hovering?

And suddenly she tired of the whole business.

‘I don’t want to marry anybody,’ she announced petulantly to a fronded palm that was brushing her shoulder.

It wasn’t true, of course: she wanted to marry, but why did it have to be so complicated?

Last year, she had thought it would be simple – dance, fall in love, marry.

She hadn’t imagined anything might disrupt the process.

There were footsteps on the tiled floor, a rustling of foliage, and Henry was there, a little flushed in the face, though that could be from dancing – it was a very warm evening.

‘Rachel,’ he said, in a husky, insinuating voice. He came up close to her, and she could smell his heat through the velvet jacket, the frilled shirt and stock. A hint of sweat, which for some reason came across to her as pink and childish. Sticky – she thought he would be sticky.

Without a further word, he put his arms round her waist and kissed her.

His mouth was soft and hot and damp, and she didn’t like the pink, childish smell of him.

His body pushing against her seemed too soft – like marshmallow.

She struggled against the kiss, but his mouth only pressed harder, and his teeth hurt her lips.

Finally he raised his face and she gasped, ‘No!’

‘No?’ he queried, with half a smirk.

‘I don’t want you to kiss me.’

‘Oh, come on! You’ve been flirting with me all evening, and then you slipped in here. What was I to think?’ His big face loomed closer again.

‘Stop it! Leave me alone,’ Rachel said, shoving him hard in the chest.

‘Oh, come on, Rachel. I’ve been longing to kiss you for days. You gave me every reason to think—’

She shoved him again and he released her, but was still standing close, and looking at her with an honest perplexity that made her want to hit him.

‘But I want to marry you,’ he said, as though she ought to have realised that. ‘I really do. It’s not just . . . you know. I was going to ask you, honestly I was.’

‘Well, I don’t want to marry you,’ Rachel said. Why did she feel so cross about it? It was a nice thing, to receive a proposal, and he was a nice boy. ‘In any case,’ she went on, trying to sound reasonable, ‘our parents would never allow it.’

‘Don’t say that. I’m sure my pa wouldn’t mind.’

‘Well, my mother would. She wants me to marry a duke, or a prince, or something.’

‘But what do you want?’ Henry said. His arms went round her again. ‘I bet I know. I bet your mother would allow it if you made a fuss. Will this change your mind?’

He was going to kiss her again. She struggled against him. ‘Let me go! Leave me alone!’

And then someone else was there, and Henry was plucked away as easily as if he had been a twig caught in her hair.

‘You heard what she said,’ came Angus’s voice. ‘Step away. This is not the way to carry on a courtship.’

‘Oh blast and damn you, Tullamore! What’s it to do with you? You think you can just—’

‘Go back in the ballroom, Eassie, and stop making a fool of yourself.’

A glance at Rachel told him she wanted him to go. ‘All right, I’m going. Keep your hair on,’ he said crossly. And he was gone.

Then there was just her and Angus. The air seemed suddenly cooler and fresher. At all events, a little shiver ran down her spine.

‘Did he hurt you?’ Angus asked neutrally.

‘No. He was just annoying,’ Rachel said.

‘I’m afraid that’s what happens when you encourage the wrong people,’ Angus said, in a flat voice.

She peeped up at him uncertainly. ‘Are you angry with me?’

He sighed. ‘No, of course not. Not with you.’ He looked down at her with a faint, wry smile. ‘I’m always rescuing you from cads, aren’t I? Last time it was Johnny Etteridge. In the orangery at Alvie.’

‘I didn’t think you remembered that,’ she said, in a small voice.