In Your Wildest Scottish Dreams (16 page)

“While London has its share of fog,” Lennox offered.

She glanced at him. Was he goading Lucy or her?

Charlotte came and joined them on the settee.

“How long has it been since we were all together like this? Too long I say.” She spared a grin for Mr. Whittaker. “We were all the best of friends as children.”

Lucy’s mouth twisted downward as her gaze flitted around the room. Lennox’s mouth curved in a half smile. Mr. Whittaker adopted an interested air, leaning forward and addressing his hostess.

“Surely not that long ago, Mrs. MacNamara.”

Charlotte pinkened, her hands fluttering in the air.

Men from the South had the ability to flatter outrageously, a skill they were probably taught from the cradle.

She caught Lennox’s eye again and looked away. She was not going to let him know she still remembered their kiss.

She’d grown adept at ignoring the difficult or uncomfortable.

When a maid appeared in the doorway, Charlotte stood, waving her hands toward another part of the house.

“Now then, let’s away to the dining room, shall we?”

If the rest of Charlotte’s house could be considered cluttered, the dining room was even more so. Two breakfronts occupied a space designed for one, both pieces of furniture chock full of silver and crystal showing through their glass doors. The rose marble mantel on the fireplace at the end of the room was filled with a selection of porcelain shepherdesses and sheep. Glynis counted nine figurines before being led to her seat opposite Lennox.

The dining table, the largest she’d ever seen in a private home, was a long rectangle with curlicues, flowers, and animals carved on the enormous legs, each taking up the same room as one of the thronelike chairs.

Mr. Whittaker murmured something complimentary about the table, and Charlotte said, “My Archibald had it made especially for me.”

The top of the table could have been the same rich mahogany as the legs, but Glynis couldn’t see it for the lace table runner and the accumulation of silver from the three candelabra, bowls, pitchers, and individual salt and pepper cellars. Each place setting had a charger, a bread and butter plate, and another dish she assumed was a dessert plate, although she had never seen one set out before the dinner began. In addition, each place setting had three goblets, a spoon rest, a fork rest, a cup, saucer, and finger bowl.

She’d never seen anything like it, short of a royal dinner.

The windows no doubt looked out over the front of the house, but the crimson draperies—at least they weren’t green—were closed against the night. The carpet beneath her feet was red as well, and woven with the same type of flowers carved into the table legs.

Charlotte stood at the end of the table, her quick glance at each of her guests almost expectant, as if she were waiting for compliments.

For the sake of their childhood friendship, if not empathy, Glynis provided them to her.

“It’s an exquisite table, Charlotte,” she said.

To her relief, the rest of the guests joined in with compliments, even Lucy.

Mr. MacNamara sat to her right at the head of the table and proved to be a voluble conversationalist. She needn’t contribute more than a nod from time to time.

Dinner started with a fish soup, followed by a pork chop stuffed with Stornoway black pudding and sage.

She concentrated on her meal, ignoring everyone at the table, in violation of all the rules of etiquette she’d learned. When she did speak, she complimented Charlotte on her cook. After a while, however, one could only say so much about wilted greens and mustard cream sauce. To her surprise, the maids served two more courses, the last haggis with clapshot and onion gravy.

She let the conversation flow over her, trying not to respond to Lennox’s glances or Lucy’s petulant silence. The woman pushed her food around on her plate in an insulting manner. Even if she disliked the menu, she could have eaten a few bites to salve Charlotte’s feelings.

Gavin Whittaker appeared to be enjoying himself. Not only did he comment heartily about the meal, but he engaged Mr. MacNamara in a spirited discussion of Scottish history versus that of America.

The dinner reminded her of Washington from a linguistic perspective. Mr. Whittaker had the broad vowels of his southern United States origin, while his wife sounded like a Londoner. The MacNamaras were Glaswegians. She was a hybrid, a Glasgow native trained to speak with a British accent. Even Lennox might be considered the same, enunciating some words with a Russian flair and some with French, since he spoke both languages.

He didn’t talk much, however, being content to stare at her.

Had she something between her teeth? Had she suddenly grown a wart at the end of her nose?

The meal was taking on an almost humorous bent. Lennox was staring at her, while Lucy was glowering at the two of them. Mr. Whittaker was alternately
conversing with Charlotte or her husband, the three of them blissfully unaware of any undercurrents at the table.

She hadn’t been so uncomfortable in a long time. At least Baumann wasn’t there giving her significant glances. Wouldn’t that be a horror?

Why was Lucy frowning at her in such an off-putting fashion? What had she done to the woman other than endure her rudeness?

Weren’t they due to leave Scotland soon?

She should ask Lennox, but if she did he’d probably join Lucy in frowning at her. He was remarkably reticent when it came to his ship, but she could understand why.

Was he in any danger? Would he take care? He’d always been a little foolhardy. Or maybe not foolhardy as much as determined. If he truly thought he could do something or achieve some milestone, he went after it with an intensity that was awe-inspiring.

She had a sudden disturbing thought. His glance hadn’t left her all evening. He smiled when their eyes met and the expression was one of daring.

Taking a sip of her punch, she tried to calm her heartbeat.

She had the feeling she was witnessing Lennox in the midst of pursuing a goal: her.

L
ennox didn’t have any idea what he was eating. Nor did he care. He tried to maintain some interest in the conversations swirling around him, but what he really wanted to do was sit and watch Glynis.

As a child, Glynis had been difficult to contain, as wild as the wind and as fierce as her ancestors. The MacIains had come down from the Highlands to make their mark in the world. Somehow she’d inherited every bit of pride and rebelliousness from them.

Eleanor and Hamish sometimes looked at her as if surprised to find this beautiful, untamed creature in their midst.

On her return to Glasgow, Lennox had the impression she’d been pressed into a mold, shaped and trimmed until she represented the essence of propriety.

At least until she’d kissed him.

In his mind’s eye he’d always seen her as she had been in the anteroom, young and beautiful, poised on the edge of her life. He had no idea that the past seven years would give her a wariness she’d never before had. Even her mannerisms were smaller, as if she were afraid to call attention to herself. She didn’t reveal her emotions easily. Yet beneath the veneer she was still Glynis, still capable of surprising him.

The kiss had reaffirmed it.

W
HEN DESSERT ARRIVED
—lemon posset served with shortbread—Glynis almost sang hosannas because it meant she might be able to leave within the hour.

Charlotte had other ideas.

They stood up from the dinner table, but instead of returning to the parlor, Charlotte insisted on showing them the large lantern-lit patio and the hillside view of Glasgow.

Glynis murmured the appropriate niceties at the shrouded plants, escaping back into the house when she could.

In the parlor, she stood in front of the cold fireplace, staring down at the brass andirons. When someone entered the room, she glanced up, to find Lennox striding toward her.

He was like those steamships he built, proud, dominating, the equal of anything on the oceans. Perhaps he gave part of himself to his creation, like a painter imbues a painting with his essence of himself or a writer gives over part of his soul to his work.

She really shouldn’t be alone with him. Last night she’d kissed him. What would she do now? Throw herself down on the settee and demand to be taken?

What on earth would Charlotte do if she witnessed a scene like that? Scream? She could just imagine the other woman’s expression.

“Why are you smiling?” Lennox asked.

She was definitely not going to tell him. Instead, she asked, “Did you admire the gardens?”

“Admired, praised, admired and praised some more. I also thanked her for the dinner and threw in a bit more praise about the meal.”

They exchanged a glance and she was the first to look away.

Her mouth was suddenly dry. He really mustn’t have an effect on her.

“I’ve met Mr. Lincoln, you know,” she said. “He’s an exceptionally kind man. He wanted to know where I was brought up and what Scotland was like.”

“While I’m not exceptionally kind, is that the point?”

“I haven’t heard anyone say anything bad about you,” she said. “In fact, people normally praise you in my company. You pay your workers more than the other shipbuilders. You donate to a great many causes. I daresay you even feed the poor, albeit anonymously. You are a paragon of virtue, Lennox, and the rest of us have no choice but to be in awe of you.”

“Everyone but you, that is,” he said, nodding once at her. “Not with your experience of meeting the important people of the world. How I must pale in comparison.”

“On the contrary,” she said, “you don’t pale at all. In fact, I would say, of all the people I met, you might rank as one of the most memorable.”

Should she have really admitted that?

No, she shouldn’t, because his eyes warmed. With that look, he created a hollow space in her chest, made her realize how foolish she was in his company.

She went to sit on the settee and he joined her. He really should have sat on the chair opposite her, or farther down the settee. He was close enough to touch. Close enough that if he leaned over just a little, they might be able to kiss.

She closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and tried to regain her poise.

“I would say the same about you, Glynis MacIain. You’re one of the most memorable women I’ve ever known. Perhaps you’re at the very top of my list.”

Her eyes flew open. He shouldn’t have the ability to twist her into knots with a few words.

Thankfully, Mr. Whittaker chose that moment to stroll into the parlor.

“I imagine the garden is nice in the daylight. I can’t tell a rose from the nasturtium, though. My Lucy says her gardens at home are more impressive.”

They chatted about plants for a few minutes before Mr. Whittaker moved away, admiring the collection of music boxes in the corner.

“Is she truly that miserable a person?” Glynis asked in a low voice. “Or am I simply not seeing her attributes? Mr. Whittaker seems to adore her.”

“Men are sometimes blind that way,” he said. “Especially about the women they adore.”

Her eyes met his.

Had he adored Rose? If so, why had he broken their engagement? The gossips of Glasgow had probably spent months talking about it. Had he minded?

“Now I have a little surprise for you,” Charlotte said, bustling into the room followed by four children, two of whom looked to be the same age.

To Glynis’s dismay, Charlotte had an entertainment planned by her offspring. The smallest didn’t want to perform and whined through the entire performance conducted by Archie, with Charlotte beaming with pride.

In Washington the evenings were more formal. The children of the elite were often neither seen nor heard. She’d known women months before she discovered they were also mothers.

She clapped when the off-pitch warblings of the MacNamara clan were done, both in appreciation of their parents’ determination and the fact that the children were finished.

Charlotte had other ideas.

“He has memorized a poem,” she said before stepping back to allow her eldest son to be the focus of attention.

For the sake of Charlotte’s friendship, she kept her
face impassive. She’d endured many an opera diva’s recital in Washington. The last entertainment she’d attended, a day before Richard died, featured a soprano’s performance of war tunes. The woman’s high-pitched rendition of “Battle Hymn of the Republic” had been painful to hear.

Now Charlotte’s poor child had to be prompted through the last part of the poem and looked ready to cry.

She caught Lennox’s look. She suspected he was wondering how soon he could make his escape. His lips quirked as if he caught her thoughts.

After they applauded, the children were led away to be tucked into bed. In his wife’s absence, Archibald moved to the sideboard, helped by a maid. Mr. Whittaker and Lennox were speaking, something to do with the
Raven.
Lucy chose that moment to lean close to her.