Treasured (20 page)

“Oh. No. I—” Her head was buzzing; the last thing she could think of right now was errands or purchases. “No.”

He nodded and walked away. Isobel watched him go, then turned back to her task. But she was too restless to work, and she drifted aimlessly down the aisle until finally she wound up sitting on one of the trunks and staring into space, lost in her thoughts. Why was he traveling to Inverness? Why now? And why was he being so mysterious about it all? Did he really intend to return for the wedding? Or was he, in fact, just running away?

The sound of steps on the stairs sometime later broke her
reverie, and Isobel turned, rising. Perhaps Jack had returned. Or decided not to go. He would take her into his confidence and explain what was taking him to Inverness. Maybe he would even ask her to accompany him.

Cousin Robert came through the doorway.

Isobel sighed. “Cousin Robert. I am surprised to see you.”

“I can’t think why. I told you I would help you sort out the attic.”

“Yes, but, well . . .” She could hardly tell him she had not believed him. “I did not expect you so soon.”

“Might as well get to it.” He cast a disparaging look around the dusty, dimly lit room. “Did no one ever toss anything out?”

“I wondered that, as well.”

“Elizabeth tells me the Englishman has run off.”

“He has gone on a trip to Inverness,” Isobel replied stiffly. “That is not what I would call running away.”

Robert shrugged. “If he comes back.”

It was exactly what she feared, but Robert’s saying so irritated her. “I see no reason not to believe him.” She picked up the basket of items she had accumulated and carried it to the door.

“I suppose at this point we have to hope he will,” her cousin replied darkly. “If he jilts you, it will be a terrible embarrassment for us all.”

“Somewhat worse for me, I would think,” Isobel said drily.

“And it would mean we lose all hope of Baillannan.”

“We, Cousin?” She faced him, hand on hip. “I believe
I
am the only one marrying Mr. Kensington.”

“You know what I mean.” Robert grimaced. “The Rose family. At least your children and their descendants will continue to rule Baillannan, even if it does mean that the bloodline’s been tainted by a common Englishman.”

“I am surprised to hear that you are now in favor of the marriage.” Isobel’s stomach clenched at his mention of children. “Since only the other day you were storming about telling me I was disgracing the family by marrying him.”

“It is still a disgrace. But I realized you were right,” he admitted grimly. “’Tis the only way a Rose can hold Baillannan. In the end, that is what’s important. The family. All we can do is hope that the Englishman has some sense of honor.”

“He has a name, Cousin—Jack Kensington. Since he is about to be your relative, I think it would behoove you to use it.”

“Yes, of course, of course.” The older man waved aside her words. “Enough of that. Let us get to work.”

Robert’s version of work, apparently, was not to lift, stack, unpack, or organize, but to putter about, poking into this trunk and that corner until he found something he thought might have belonged to his father and then to order the maid to carry it out to his carriage. All the while, he favored Isobel with advice on a number of topics ranging from her attitude, which he sadly felt sometimes bordered on the disrespectful, to the Rose family’s lost position of power, to hints on how to run the estate much more efficiently.

Isobel grew thoroughly tired of his presence and wished he would leave, but he clearly enjoyed having a captive audience, and even after he ceased working at all, he sat down on a nearby trunk and continued to lecture her. Finally her aunt stuck her head into the attic to tell them it was time for tea.

Silently blessing her aunt, with great relief Isobel rose and brushed the dust from her hands. “Thank you for coming today, Cousin Robert. It was most generous of you. We accomplished so much, I think I am finished with the attic now.” She hoped that would ward off any more “helpful” visits from the man.

“I thought you would find it a wearying task,” her cousin replied with a patronizing smile that made Isobel grind her teeth. He continued as they descended the stairs, “I trust you have decided to leave your grandmother’s room as it is?”

“There is no hurry, but eventually I shall pack up her personal items and store them away. That room has the loveliest view in the house. It would make an excellent chamber for guests.”

“You are going to move Mother’s things?” A furrow formed on Elizabeth’s forehead, and Isobel mentally chastised herself for letting Robert’s condescending tone goad her into mentioning the task in front of her aunt.

“Really, Isobel, don’t you think you are taking this a bit too far?” Robert harrumphed.

“I’m not getting rid of any of her things, Aunt Elizabeth. But it has been years since Grandmother’s been gone. I am sure she would like for the room to be brightened up and used instead of staying dark and shrouded in dustcovers.”

“Perhaps . . . though Mother was not very fond of brightening things up.” Elizabeth’s frown eased a little.

“Why don’t you help me, Auntie?” Isobel suggested, seeing that she had made a little headway with her aunt. “You can decide what should be packed away. You might want to keep some of her things with you. We could start after the wedding.”

As Elizabeth wavered, Robert said, “I shall be happy to take Aunt Cordelia’s keepsakes off your hands, Isobel, since you seem so anxious to move them out.”

“You?” Elizabeth gave him a scornful look. “I cannot imagine why you would want Mother’s things.”

“I was very fond of Aunt Cordelia,” he said frostily.

“Don’t be nonsensical, Robby. You were scared of her. Don’t you remember the time you ran and hid in the root cellar because you broke her favorite vase?”

Robert flushed. “I was eight at the time. As I grew older, I came to value her character and wisdom.”

Elizabeth snorted. “What a plumper!”

Isobel hid a smile. Inadvertently, Cousin Robert had probably just secured her aunt’s approval for clearing the bedroom simply by setting himself against it. Unsurprisingly, Robert refused Aunt Elizabeth’s invitation to take tea with them, bidding them a stiff adieu and stalking off to his carriage.

“Well. The nerve of that man.” Elizabeth turned to Isobel, her eyes sparkling. “Fond of my mother, indeed! He just wants to pick through her things in the hopes of finding something valuable.”

“He did think there were a number of items he should take home, including an elegant snuffbox and the first Robert Rose’s claymore.”

“I hope you did not let him take that!” Elizabeth looked at her in alarm. “Your father would never let him have it. He told Robby that sharing a name with the laird did not entitle him to the man’s possessions. Papa always hung the old laird’s claymore in a place of honor. Mother stuck it up in the attic only because she feared the British might seize it.”

“No. I told him Papa would not have let it leave Baillannan and I could not possibly go against Papa’s wishes. He could scarcely argue with that since he is so wedded to tradition.”

“Clever girl.” Elizabeth linked her arm through Isobel’s. “Now, let us talk about things that are far more important than Cousin Robert. Did you mean it when you said you were finished in the attic? For we have a number of tasks—far more pleasant ones, I might add. They will soon start bringing in food for the wedding, and the barn, of course, must be made presentable for the feast afterwards.”

“I am happy to help.” Isobel glanced over at her aunt as they took their places before the tea tray. In a carefully casual voice she went on, “I was rather surprised when Mr. Kensington came to take his leave earlier. Did you know beforehand that he intended to visit Inverness?”

“No. I knew nothing about it until this morning.” Elizabeth began to pour the tea. “He asked me what nearby town was larger than Kinclannoch, so I told him there was nothing but Wick to the north and Brora to the south, but neither of them are nearly the size of Inverness. I think he was a bit surprised that he had to go so far.”

“So it was a spur-of-the-moment decision?”

“That was the impression I had.”

“Did he tell you why?” Isobel took the cup from her aunt, but did not drink from it.

“Only that he had a few things he needed to purchase. I did not want to pry. You know how men are; no doubt he felt the need to . . . well, be on his own for a while . . . spread his wings a bit.” Pink tinged her cheeks. “After all, he
is
giving up the bachelor life soon.”

It dawned on Isobel what her aunt was trying to say, and she set down her cup and saucer with a clatter. “You mean he was going to—to visit a bawdy house?”

“Isobel! You should not even know of such places. I am not certain that is what he intends. But when he did not explain further, I assumed his purpose was one that it was better we not know.”

“Better for men, doubtless.” Isobel scowled. Jack might have kept silent about his trip for no reason other than to tease her, but he would not have done so to Elizabeth. Clearly he was embarked on something improper—and her aunt’s assumption seemed the likeliest possibility. No wonder he had been so mysterious about the purpose of his trip. “That wretch!”

“I’m sorry, dear, but, well . . .” Her aunt looked at her a little quizzically. “It is not as if it is a love match.”

Her aunt’s words pulled Isobel up short. “No, of course. You are right. It isn’t as if I am jealous. I don’t expect Jack to be a faithful husband. I assumed he would seek out the . . . the company of women when he returns to London. But here, so close to home, it seems insulting, don’t you think?”

“I suppose,” Elizabeth said doubtfully. “But if you are concerned about gossip, Inverness is quite some distance, and it is unlikely anyone in Kinclannoch would ever learn. Mr. Kensington would be discreet.”

“Jack is always most discreet. Secretive, one might say.” Isobel wondered why she had not realized the truth earlier. She had heard that men were apt to react to the prospect of marriage by engaging in a round of their wildest behavior.

Isobel thought of their hot, urgent kisses, remembering the way Jack’s skin had surged with heat and his mouth had
consumed hers. Clearly Jack had a highly sensual nature—and he had none of the loving attachment to her that another man might feel for his future wife. It was easy to imagine that Jack might have gone in search of a woman more willing to satisfy his desires, more attuned to his needs—especially since she had assured him she had no interest in being his wife in anything but name only.

It was a bit lowering to think that any other woman would satisfy his hunger as well as she, but it was better this way. If his desires had been taken care of, he would cease importuning her. They would be able to coexist easily, at least for the few days until their wedding, and after that he would leave for London. She was glad that he would find what he wanted in another woman’s bed.

Really, she was.

T
he week following Jack’s departure
dragged by. Aunt Elizabeth was happily immersed in preparations for the upcoming wedding, but Isobel could not seem to settle down to anything. Finally she was forced to admit to herself that she was bored. She missed the lively conversations at the dinner table. The house was excessively quiet without the sound of Jack’s voice or laugh. All too often she caught herself waiting for the sound of his footsteps in the hall. There was no sense of anticipation each morning when she awoke nor any of the little spark she felt when she entered a room and saw Jack standing there.

It was most annoying.

She tried throwing herself wholeheartedly into her aunt’s plans, but all too often her mind drifted to thoughts of Jack and what he was doing in Inverness. Was he spending his days in debauchery? At this moment, while she stitched flowers on the ruffle of a lawn nightgown, was he lying in bed with
some other woman? Did he smile at her—in Isobel’s mind a voluptuous brunette with a stunningly beautiful face—and wind her curls around his finger? Did his heart hammer and his breath catch when he pulled her to his chest?

Isobel tried to wrench her mind from such pictures. It should not matter what he did. Theirs was a sham of an engagement, just as it would be a sham of a marriage. She did not herself want his attentions. The bitter burn that hovered in her chest was not jealousy. It was . . . it was resentment at his secretiveness. Yes, that was it. He had hidden it from her, deceived her.

Jack might, of course, have had some other, better reason to suddenly decide he must go to Inverness for a few days. Something that did not involve a woman. He could not have gone to visit a friend, for he was as much a stranger to Inverness as he was to Kinclannoch. He might have missed the city life he was used to—though Inverness would be a poor substitute for the lights of London. Maybe he missed gambling or needed money, so he had gone in search of a few nights of gaming. That was not unreasonable. But then she thought about the smoky public room of a tavern in Inverness, the tables of men drinking and playing cards. She did not have any experience of those, but from the remarks she had overheard of Andrew and his friends, that sort of place also had buxom wenches serving ale to the customers. And were not women of easy virtue also involved?