But by all that was holy, Tavish intended she would be the last.
9
August 3, 1817
Kingswell House
Aberdeenshire, Scotland
Her 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 hadtraveled 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. Palacewas 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 lovewasa 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.
