In Praise of Younger Men (7 page)

Her tone changed immediately, from one of anger to one of regret. “I was afraid you would not like the dress. I had no idea it would be this . . . this,
scant
. I knew I shouldn’t have worn it, but I had nothing else suitable.”

She thought he disapproved when instead the only thing he’d rather see her in other than that dress was nothing. Tristan looked at her. Standing as she was, sketched by moonlight, Harriet looked more beautiful than he could possibly imagine. “Why are you doing this?”

“Tristan, you know I have no choice—”

“You have every choice, Harriet. All you need do is say you will marry me and we can end this madness tonight.”

Tristan took a step toward her and Harriet could feel the warmth of his body standing now just inches from her own. She looked up at him in the moonlight, waiting, hoping . . . hoping he’d kiss her just one more time. If he would, she told herself, it would be enough to last her a lifetime without him.

Tristan didn’t keep her waiting long.

The kiss was soft and tender and achingly sweet, the sort of kiss that made one feel as if time virtually stood still. Harriet’s breath caught and she let go a blissful sigh, losing herself in the true magic of being held in the strength of his arms. When he deepened the kiss, drawing her farther into the garden shadows, she gave herself over to him yet more, never wanting the kiss to end.

It was Tristan who slowly, reluctantly pulled away from her a moment later.

“Harriet, stop this senselessness.” His voice was a rough whisper wrapping over her. “Do not deny what is between us.”

The pulse of her heart was drumming to her ears as she lost herself in the depths of his blue eyes. How? How could he not be the one for her when everything about him felt so right?

Harriet closed her eyes and leaned into him, whispering, “Kiss me, Tristan, kiss me again . . .”

And he did, this time without the softness, the tenderness of before, but with a desperate hunger that had him taking her by the arms and locking her against him, his mouth seizing hers, tasting, seeking, begging, and she gave, oh, she gave, dropping her head back and opening to him utterly and completely—

—until the sky above them split with an ear-shattering crack.

They parted, looking up at the darkness above them. A moment later, it began to pour as if the floodgates of heaven had burst.

Harriet squealed, covering her head with her shawl, and the two of them ran for the ballroom door. Blessedly, the attentions of everyone else inside were taken up with a musical trio who were in the midst of performing a Mozart sonata. No one noticed that they had been alone together on the garden terrace. No one saw them slip quietly inside. No one except Devorgilla.

Harriet caught Devorgilla’s eye from across the room.

When she saw her aunt’s responding frown, she quickly looked away.

Tristan and Harriet stood for several minutes at the back of the assembly, watching the performance. Neither looked at the other.

Finally, Harriet whispered, “We shouldn’t have done that.”

Tristan drew in a slow breath. “Harriet—”

“Do you not see, Tristan? Whenever we are together, something like this happens. Remember in the cave, how the wind started howling the last time you kissed me? And now this, a perfectly lovely evening and then suddenly, a raging downpour. Someone or something is trying to tell us we cannot be together. It is a sign.”

“Bloody hell, Harriet, it isn’t any sign. It is the weather. Believe it or not, it does rain in Scotland.”

“Yes, I know that. In fact, truth be told, I have spent more time here than you have.”

Tristan mumbled. “That’s your problem.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Nothing. Applaud, Harriet, the performance has ended.”

Any attempt at further conversation ended when the others in the room broke into applause. The crowd began to disperse. Harriet turned, only to find that Tristan had vanished.

Insufferable man . . .

But even as she thought this, she still felt the touch of him on her lips, the taste of him on her mouth, the feel of his hands against her skin . . .

Where so many hours have been spent

in convincing myself that I am right,

is there not some reason to fear

I may be wrong
?

—Sense and Sensibility,
Jane Austen

The morning sun rose on a gloriously clear sky tufted with clumps of white clouds, prompting Harriet to take Robbie out after breakfast for a walk in the gardens behind Charlotte Square. She’d slept later than was her custom, having stayed at the assembly well into the wee hours the night before. After their interlude on the garden terrace, Tristan had vanished and hadn’t returned, leaving Harriet nothing else to do but spend the rest of the evening taking stock of the other gentlemen present.

It hadn’t proved a productive enterprise. She must have seen, and considered, and then ultimately discounted well over a dozen different gentlemen as potential husbands. No matter who she saw, from duke on down to baronet, they all of them somehow fell short of her requirements. Too old, too arrogant. This one fond of drink, another fond of gaming. Except for Sir Duncan, who was perfectly pleasant, had danced with her three times, and had fetched her numerous glasses of ratafia. After everyone else she’d seen, he remained her best prospect for matrimony.

But he still wasn’t Tristan.

Tristan was tall and dark and had a way of looking at , a girl that just made the rest of the world fade away in a shimmering mist like that which hovered above the Galloway hills at sunrise. He was exciting, alive. Sir Duncan was kind, politely so, and utterly proper, but he was the sort of man who would never dream of so much as holding a girl’s hand without first asking permission.

What was she going to do? She had less than a week remaining before her birthday. Only a few days after that, she would be returning to Galloway. Her time was fast running out. There was always Leap Year Day, she supposed, if matters didn’t improve, but she really didn’t relish the idea of running around the streets of Edinburgh in her red petticoat, proposing to every man she encountered under the age of eight-and-twenty. There had to be something else she could do, some place she could go. She’d already tried the bookshop, but had ended up meeting Tristan. Then the assembly—and again, Tristan. Perhaps a walk through the park, Harriet thought with hope, would prove her salvation.

But the park soon proved just as fruitless. Harriet circled the green once, twice, but only came upon nannies with children, or romantic couples of which the men were already plainly spoken for. One such couple, an elder pair, both greeted Harriet with a nod and a smile as they strolled arm-in-arm along the graveled walkway. Harriet found herself stopping on the path to watch them and admire the obvious devotion they had in their eyes for one another. It was the sort of devotion rooted in having spent years—even decades together. She wondered ruefully if she would ever know such happiness.

As they vanished from sight through the trees, Harriet tried to imagine her own life decades from then. Would she have someone to grow old with? Someone who would care for her in sickness, someone to share in the joy of a morning walk through the park with her? What if her marriage was a loveless one? What would she do when she no longer had her family around her? Both Auntie Gill and the baron were getting on in years, and Geoffrey would likely meet someone and fall in love with her and would spend the rest of his life surrounded by the children created of that love. Whenever Harriet tried to imagine such a happy scene for herself, a life surrounded by children and love, there was only one man she pictured beside her—

—the one man Fate wouldn’t allow her to have.

Harriet was sitting on a bench lost deeply in thought, shaded by the winter-bare branches of an oak, when Robbie, who’d been sniffing at the ground by her slippers, shot up suddenly, bounding off for the opposite side of the park. His leash slipped hopelessly from Harriet’s fingers before she could stop him.

“Robbie, no! Stop!”

He paid her no heed as he dashed beneath the cover of an evergreen and disappeared.

Harriet took up a handful of her skirts and ran as quickly as she could toward the trees where he’d gone, calling his name as she searched for his familiar brindly shape in the bushes. All she could hear was the distant sound of his barking. And then, a moment later, she could hear nothing more.

She came around a turn and was met by an empty expanse of green echoing with the nearby sounds of the streets. What if she lost Robbie in the city? He’d never been to Edinburgh before, wouldn’t know his way around the twisting narrow alleys and wynds. He could easily dart into the street right as a carriage was driving by. He was so small, so fast, the driver would never see him.

“Robbie?” she called again. Her voice had grown desperate. “Where are you?”

“Good day,” summoned a voice from the other side of a rather large oak. “I think perhaps the chap you’re looking for is over here.”

Harriet circled around to find a man who looked to be in his forties leaning against a vast granite boulder. A tall brown-and-white deerhound stood beside him, quite obviously the object of Robbie’s attention, since Robbie, himself, stood right beside them, his pink tongue hanging out as he blinked at Harriet with his bright dark eyes.

“Oh, yes. That is him.” Harriet bent down to retrieve his trailing leash. “I am so sorry we disturbed you, sir. I was lost in thought and he bolted before I ever had a chance to stop him. He never behaves this badly.” She glared at him crossly. “That was very naughty of you, Robbie.”

Robbie lowered his pointed ears in a gesture of repentance, but only for a moment.

The man, who was dressed as a gentleman in a brown frock coat and buff-colored breeches, simply smiled. He had light-colored hair, sort of a silvery sand, that was cut short and fell somewhat scattered about a high forehead. His rounded cheeks were rosy from the cold morning air, and his pale bluish-gray colored eyes beneath bushy brows had a weary sort of look about them.

“It was no trouble at all,” he said. “Maida here didn’t mind having some canine company.”

Harriet reached to pet the other dog’s slender snout. He was a beautiful creature, dwarfing Robbie beside him, with an elegant arch to his neck as he lifted his head to oblige her stroking fingers. “Well, I thank you for catching Robbie for me, sir,” she said. “Naughty or not, I don’t know what I would do without the little beast.” She turned to the man. “By the way, sir, my name is Miss Ha—”

“Harriet,” came a sudden unexpected third voice. “I would never have expected to see you here today.”

Harriet turned about just as Tristan slipped from behind the cover of a tree. Harriet’s heartbeat leapt at the mere sight of him. He looked incredibly handsome in nankeen breeches and coat with his dark hair ruffled by the breeze. He held a stick in his hand as he approached them, which he tossed a few yards away for Maida to fetch. Robbie bounded off behind the other dog.

“Tristan,” she finally said. “What are you doing here?”

“Just taking a bit of the morning air with my godfather and Maida.”

“You two are acquainted?” asked Tristan’s godfather.

“Aye, sir. Harriet is Geoffrey Drynan’s sister.”

The man offered his hand in greeting. “Miss Drynan, I’ve heard much of you and your family over the years and am glad to finally make your acquaintance.”

“As am I, Mr. ... ?”

“Scott.” He held up a small, leather-bound volume. “You’re from Galloway. Tristan and I were just discussing your local poet, Robbie Burns.” Harriet’s dog scampered back to them at the sound of his name. “Would it be a fair guess to say that this little one was named for our fine poet?”

“Actually, no,” Harriet replied. “I do enjoy Mr. Burns’s poetry, although, truthfully, I much prefer novels. No, my Robbie is named for Rob Roy.”

“Ah,” he nodded. “The MacGregor.”

“Yes, sir. One of my mother’s ancestors actually knew the man. They haunted the hills of the Trossachs together, outwitting the government troops who sought to take the MacGregor in.”

“He must have passed down many tales.”

“Actually, according to my aunt, who knew the man when she was a child, he used to say that the exploits of the MacGregor written by the likes of Defoe and others had been so greatly exaggerated, that people no longer knew where fact left off and fiction took over. The Highland Scots, who knew the MacGregor, are the ones who keep the real legend of Rob Roy and his now vanished way of life for the succeeding generations.”

“Indeed, it would be fascinating to talk to some of them.” After a few moments, the man stood. “Well, I’d best be off. The skies to the north are fast growing dark and I’ve some work to finish while the day is yet light.” He bowed his head to Harriet. “It was a pleasure meeting you, Miss Drynan.” He stooped to scratch Robbie between the ears, “Likewise to you, Little Mr. MacGregor. Tristan, I will see you later for supper at the house. Charlotte will expect you at seven.”

At Tristan’s nod, he stood and turned, calling to Maida who walked without a leash, never running ahead or falling behind, but staying close to his side. They made a genteel picture as they walked away together, and Harriet and Tristan watched them go until they’d faded from sight through the trees and they could hear the
thunk
of his godfather’s walking cane no more.

“Your godfather is a very pleasant man, Tristan. I enjoyed meeting him.” And then she realized they were alone again together. She turned, looking at the sky. “It is getting late. I probably should be going.”

“May I see you and Robbie home?”

Harriet looked at Tristan. After the events of the previous night, she knew she shouldn’t accept his offer. She shouldn’t even be with him there in the park as it was. Whenever Tristan was near, her thoughts became clouded, distracted, just like the sky overhead. But there was something about this man that made her feel truly alive, somehow more aware of her own femininity. And for this reason, Harriet found herself taking the arm he offered her. A walk home from the park would do no harm, she told herself. Her life, the one without Tristan in it, could wait one more day.