“Thank ye, by the way,” Alasdair said under his breath, “for the nightshirt and banyan.”
“You are welcome, sir. I thought we might be of a size.” And he bowed and went to refill the marquess’ teacup.
Alasdair was afraid to look at Arabella eating porridge, certain that the sight of her lips sliding over a spoon would elicit in him the same response of a savage and possessive desire as her kiss on his palm had.
Instead, he looked at Morpeth throughout the meal.
The baron was a big man, tall. Alasdair was over six feet, but Lord Morpeth had at least three inches on him. And Morpeth had a massive chest and shoulders. Alasdair flashed on Ewen saying that Highlanders had come from the Vikings. Morpeth had the body of a Viking—a conqueror, a pillager, a rapist.
But Lord Morpeth was no Viking in his coloring. His hair was dark and overly long, his eyes were dark. There was dark hair on the backs of his large hands and last night his jaw had been shadowed, a sure sign that his valet’s razor could not keep up with his beard.
Alasdair hated his red hair more than ever.
And Lord Morpeth was ... what was the word? Oh, yes, brooding. Probably couldn’t tell a joke to save his life. Definitely couldn’t save a life. Probably modeled himself after that other baron—what was his name? The mad poet? Byron, that was it, Lord Byron. He was a Visigoth Lord Byron.
No wonder women couldn’t resist him.
It was a tedious morning. There were cards, books, idle chat. Alasdair partook in none. The whist playing and the Swintons at the table triggered a memory in Alasdair’s head, but he still could not place it.
He paced the halls, climbed the stairs up and down, but did not like to get too far away from Arabella. She was his sun and he was a comet in a highly eccentric orbit around her. She sat in the drawing room and talked for hours with her friends.
He did not know what there could be so much to talk about. It had only been two years or so since Arabella had last seen her friends. He had had thirteen years separation from his schoolmates, but at Dr. Murray’s funeral he had found five minutes was more than adequate to discuss the events of the intervening years.
He noticed that Lady Lyndmouth hovered around Lord Morpeth in much the same way he circled Arabella. Not directly engaging the baron’s attention but not moving too far away from him either. Always in the periphery.
The snow continued to fall, but the wind did not blow.
Maybe tomorrow he and Paterson would be able to get to the carriage and retrieve Arabella’s trunk. Having her dresses was likely important to her. The borrowed nightdress had been fine—he sucked in his breath at thinking of her in the nightdress, how he had pressed briefly against her body last night when he had kissed her that one time in the bed and how he had wanted to rip away the nightdress this morning—but she was too small to borrow the dresses of her friends.
But maybe he could remedy that for her. He longed to fix something. For her.
Arabella did not enjoy her breakfast. Alasdair did not feed her as he had teased he might. He sat several seats away from her. He conversed politely with Sir Timothy and Mr. Swinton. He did not even look at her.
There had never been such a long morning. Alasdair barely paid her any attention. He was preoccupied, fretting, constantly walking. He probably had never had a day of idleness like this in his life, and he had no idea what to do with himself. His medical journals were all in the carriage.
In one morning, she had caught up on an entire two years of gossip. She still loved Juliana and Rebecca, but to talk to them for so long was wearing when what she really longed to do was to shut herself away with Alasdair, run her fingers through his hair, and continue the kissing from the carriage. Being in a warm house with fewer thick garments might make certain things possible that had not been before. Alasdair might dare more even though he had refused to join her in the bed last night.
At one point, she and Juliana got up and linked their arms and walked the halls and the stairs of the house to get some exercise. Rebecca stayed in the drawing room, looking at an illustrated book with Lady Lyndmouth.
“I wish you so much happiness, Juliana. You married Sir Timothy, after all, just as you said you would.”
“Yes, and I had a dozen new gowns for all the parties before and after the wedding and once married, so many new jewels. And you, Arabella?”
“Me?”
Juliana hugged her arm into her closely. “We are married women now so you can tell me. Is your Scottish doctor all that you thought he would be?”
“He is,” Arabella said slowly, afraid that Juliana might be about to ask questions that she could not answer. “He is and more.”
“Well, he is spying on us.”
Indeed, Arabella turned around and could see Alasdair, down the hall, staring intently at a painting hanging on the wall.
“He doesn’t let you get too far away from him,” said Juliana and led Arabella up the stairs. “He is quite attentive.”
“Yes.”
“And deliciously handsome. I know, of course, what happened to you two years ago and why you disappeared,” Juliana said. “Sir Timothy told me. Rebecca does not know. It has been hard to keep it from her and the rest of my sisters. They all wanted to know why you had left London. But Mama and Papa said, of course, that none of them could know. It wouldn’t be right for them to hear that kind of salacious gossip until they were married. Mama and Papa think now that it was a mistake that they ever let us girls be friends with you. Since your mother was an actress before. They said bad blood will out.”
