“You must try everything before deciding that. We can take the train to Edinburgh. Effie, you must come, too.” The old woman nodded.
Dora smiled. “I do like the train, and so does Grannie.”
“We can stop in Milngavie and bring your baskets to Mrs. Farquharson’s shop.”
“Thank you. But what if—Doctor MacBain canna help me?”
“Either way, he will be honest about it, and give you the best medical attention you can find. I think you and dear Effie would both enjoy a couple of days in Edinburgh. I bet Effie would like to try some fruit ice creams there.” He grinned.
“Ice creams? I’ll go, even if Dora doesna.” Effie gave him a conspiratorial wink.
Dora laughed. “Ice creams! I will think about it!”
Chapter Ten
Reluctant to callout into the hallway for a maid’s help as Mrs. Gunn had suggested, Christina was determined to take care of dressing for dinner herself. Opening the wardrobe holding the few gowns she had brought with her, she searched for something suitable for a dinner party at Dundrennan. As neither a personal guest nor an employee, she had not been sure what to bring.
Most of her clothing still leaned toward dark and somber, even though she had been widowed long enough that she need not choose black or shades of gray and purple. She was simply more comfortable in colors that allowed her to keep to the shadows.
Finally, she chose a silk gown in a muted plaid of gray, indigo, and a fine creamy stripe. Its blousy bodice was trimmed with a high-necked inset of lace so fine it was translucent. Tying black slippers on her feet, she pulled a lace-edged camisole over her corset and stays and stepped into cotton petticoats and a full but lightweight crinoline. Smoothing the gown, she snugged a black velvet waister around her slender middle and took up a black cashmere shawl.
Her hands were trembling. Just a simple dinner party, she reminded herself, among relative strangers but for her brother. And Sir Aedan MacBride had been unhappy with her earlier that day, so she expected some tension in him that evening. Her feelings about him hovered somewhere between sizzlingattraction and equally sizzling exasperation. But a lady should express neither, so she would display quiet dignity.
At the mirror over the washstand, she smoothed her bronze-sheened dark hair, knotted and pinned at the nape of her neck. Adding a black net snood and jet earbobs, she bit her lips for a little color. Aedan had called her “Miss Burn” for her tendency to blush easily. The very thought brought high pink into her cheeks, whether she wanted it or not.
Remembering their surprising kiss on the first night of her arrival, she felt her cheeks and throat grow even hotter. She should have felt scandalized and insulted by his advances—but fresh, wild excitement had tingled all through her, and the very memory brought that back. His tenderness had been unexpected and she had felt lovely and desirable again after so long without much attention. But since then, he had been polite, even curt at times, though part of her longed for another passionate response.
Do not be daft,she told herself. Nothing he did should matter. They would never share kisses again, and besides, the man was not looking for love or courtship, subject to a curse, so she had gathered. She was not looking for anything either, she told herself firmly.
But if he had passionate intentions because she had once posed for a risqué painting, he could think again, she thought crisply.
Yanking on ivory kid gloves, she resolved not to fret over him any longer. And she should stop imagining his touch and his deep velvet voice. He was capable of kindness, but she had seen his temper too, especially regarding his infernal road.
Truly, if she was hoping to have a man in her life again, she should not anticipate any attachment from Dundrennan. She shook her head at the thought. A spinsterish, scholarly life had brought a sense of safety. If she wanted to change that status,she could marry Edgar Neaves, who offered only intellectual passion. That suited her fine.
Her tempestuous marriage to Stephen Blackburn had been a heartbreaking folly. Never again would she mistake hot passion for deep love.
She swept in silk plaid skirts toward the door.
*
“Mrs. Blackburn.” DougalStewart smiled as he bowed over her hand. “It is nice to see you again. You look lovely tonight.”
“Thank you, Mr. Stewart.” She smiled, her voice slightly hoarse.
Hearing that, Aedan tilted his head, wondering if she had acquired a head cold. And well she might catch cold, he thought sourly, in that thin film of a bodice. She was so damn fetching. Even Dougal, happily wed, was flirting a bit. What man could help it, Aedan wondered, near so beguiling a young woman?
Subtle feminine allure emanated from Mrs. Blackburn in veritable waves, but she seemed ignorant of her effect on men, including him. A siren, but an innocent one. Her appeal was guileless and genuine.
Then she looked at him, and he glanced away, straightening his shoulders, keeping his expression neutral.
“Aedan, you must agree.” Dougal glanced at him. “Mrs. Blackburn looks a picture.”
Unfortunate choice of words. “Aye,” Aedan said casually, and saw her fierce blush.
“He’s a surly lad,” Dougal told her. “Scarcely notices a bonny lass in a pretty gown.”
Oh, he had noticed. From the moment she had entered the room, skirts floating, mahogany hair knotted at the curve of her nape, he had watched her discreetly. He had noticedhow the sheer upper curve of her bodice veiled creamy skin, graceful shoulders, and tantalizing breasts swelling above a lacy undergarment. He had noticed her trim waist, snug in black velvet, imagining his fingers spanning there. He would have imagined more, but he forced himself to look away, only to look back again.
