He grinned.
But he did not kneel. Instead, he grasped her hands loosely in his.
“I can’t offer ye much, Isla Kinsey.”
“Are you proposing?”
“Am I on my knees?”
“No.”
“Precisely. I am merely discussing. Exploring possibilities. We both know, if we were to marry, it would be against our families’ wishes. My father will refuse to harbor us.”
“Yes, and Gray will not release my dowry to you.”
“I don’t want your dowry.”
“You should.” She smiled. “I understand it’s thirty thousand pounds plus a pretty estate in Gloucestershire called Malton Hill. I’ve never seen the house, but I’m told it’s a lovely old Tudor building.”
His eyebrows lifted. “I would hate for ye to lose it.”
She placed a hand to his cheek. “But I would be gaining you.”
He kissed her lips. “All is not lost. I have a bit of money set by. My own inheritance from my mother. It’s not something that my father can deny me. It won’t be much to begin our life together, but I am hale and hearty and determined to succeed. I shall explore options and ensure there is a future for us.”
“Yes! I will be at your side, cheering you on with every step.”
Tavish bent down and kissed her lips again. “Someday, our families will see the error of their ways and reconcile.”
“We merely need to set the example.”
“Aye.”
He kissed her longer, lips clinging. Isla stepped into his body, eager to deepen their embrace.
Instead, he held her away from him.
Isla cocked her head in confusion.
And then clapped her hands over her mouth as Tavish dropped to his knees.
12
August 3, 1817
Kingswell House
Aberdeenshire, Scotland
Isla 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 thehead 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.
