Cormac shook his head. “I need to talk to her.”
“You cannot undo the things you said,” he continued. “The question is what action you will take now. Will you defend her in theton? Or merely spread more rumors?”
Cormac stood from the chair, his own frustration rising. “I already tried to defend her, and it failed. Then I offered an apology and asked her to wed me. She refused.”
“And are you surprised by this?”
“No.” He paused a moment, “But I’m wanting to make things right if I can. And perhaps find out what I can do to help her.”
Mr. Gregor crossed his arms and leaned back against the wall. “Why not choose another debutante? You have a title and wealth enough, it seems. Why her?”
Because there was no time. And also because the other ladies had already refused. But he didn’t want to reveal that to Mr. Gregor, so he answered honestly, “I like Miss Bartholomew. She suits me well enough.”
A slight smile tipped the man’s mouth. “I’ve heard it said that you’ve asked women to wed you within an hour of meeting them.”
True enough. But he needed a better answer than to admit he was dying. Instead, he answered, “Most women do not want to live in Ireland. It seems to me that if she isn’t wanting to live somewhere else, it’s best to find that out sooner.”
“They might consider marrying you if you gave them a better chance to know you.” Mr. Gregor sent him a chiding look. “Why are you so eager to wed quickly?”
Cormac didn’t quite know how to answer that, but he avoided the whole truth. “I do need to return to Dunmeath. I’ve responsibilities back at home.” He hoped the reason would shut down the man’s questioning.
Cedric Gregor studied him for a long moment, as if searching for answers. “I would advise—if you are truly interested in wedding Miss Bartholomew—that you take the time to get acquainted. After you apologize, that is.” He paused a moment. “I shall send her to the library—without telling her you are here—and then it is up to you to win her forgiveness.”
“That’s fair enough.” Cormac inclined his head. “I will do my best.”
After Mr. Gregor had left, Cormac explored the library titles, running his hands over each book spine. It reminded him of the first story he’d read—about a boy and his dog.
But it wasn’t the story that remained fixed in his memory—it was the moment when he’d actually been able to read it on his own. His new tutor, Mr. MacPherson, had taken pity on him. Instead of beating him when he couldn’t finish his lessons as the others had done, he’d taught Cormac how to use a piece of paper and slide it down the book to keep the sentences separated. He’d chosen adventure stories and fairy tales, and when he’d offered Cormac the chance to try new stories in French and German, it had startled him to realize that he was good with languages.
He wondered if anyone had ever read stories to Miss Bartholomew. Did she know what it was to get lost in a world of heroes and adventures? Somehow, he suspected not. He was beginning to consider new ways of courtship, showing her all that she had missed while growing up. That is, if she would give him the opportunity to try again.
It was nearly half an hour before the door opened, and Miss Bartholomew entered the library. She took a few steps inside and glanced around.
Cormac stared at her, and before he could speak, she asked, “What is it you want, Lord Dunmeath?”
“You look... beautiful, Miss Bartholomew.”
He’d always found her pretty in an unassumed way—but today, her deep blue gown brought out the blue in her eyes. Despite his headache, he found himself captivated by her. A sudden rush of attraction pushed away the pain, provoking a new desire. He wanted to touch the edge of her jaw, to lean in and feel her breath against his mouth. Then he wanted to discover the shape of her mouth by kissing her, tracing every part of her lips.
“Here. I brought you these.” He offered her the flowers, and she seemed uncertain about them, though she took the bouquet and lifted them to her nose.
“Thank you.”
There was no denying the wariness in her voice. Flowers weren’t enough to fix the mistakes he’d made. But he’d been truthful with Mr. Gregor, for he liked Miss Bartholomew a great deal. And as far as he was concerned, if he could convince her to accept him, he need look no further for a wife. He could give her a title, a grand estate, and even wealth and servants to look after her every need. And for whatever time they had remaining before he died, they could try to conceive an heir. But first, he had to convince her to forgive him and grant him another chance.
He struggled to find the right words, and the apology tangled up inside him. “You really are quite lovely.”
Her face flushed, and she remained standing near the door. “Mrs. Harding brought the modiste and a hairdresser to style my hair. I don’t know what they did with it. Something with curling tongs.”
He studied her and described it for her. “It’s still long and dark brown. They’ve twisted and pinned it up, and there are small pearl combs tucked within it. Some longer strands are curled beside your face.”
Her expression turned wistful, and she said, “They gave me this ballgown to try on. I know it’s blue, but that’s all.”
“There’s some embroidery on the bodice,” he said. “It looks like an intertwined pattern.” The gown she wore skimmed the edges of her figure, baring her arms and revealing every curve. He wanted to unfasten those buttons to see more of her lovely skin.
He took a step close to her and took her hand, drawing it to her own bodice. “Here. Trace it with your fingers.”
For a moment, he rested his hands upon hers, just at her waist. At this close distance, he could smell the honeysuckle scent of her skin. She froze, almost fearful of his nearness. He kept his hands where they were for a moment longer, but he could see the light rise of goosebumps on her arm. He probably shouldn’t have touched her, but he’d wanted her to “see” the gown in her own way.
