Fraser pushed his soup bowl aside and winced as hot liquid splashed onto his hand.
“How can you say that after what she did, Ma?”
“She penned a few articles,” Ma replied. “I suspect the world has forgotten about them by now.” She turned to their dinner guest. “What say you, Miss MacKenzie?”
Jennifer scowled and said nothing.
“She did more than that,” Fraser growled. “I was almost ruined because of her.”
“I agree,” Jennifer said. “I always thought her a deceitful creature. There was something in her eyes I didn’t trust.”
“Surely, you can’t blame a woman and her pen for the actions of a bunch of dissenters,” Ma said.
“If I recall, Ma, you told me Jeremiah Smith was the worst sort of man,” Fraser said. “Has your opinion changed merely because that man has turned out to be a woman?”
“Perhaps.”
“Ma, if a woman writes a man’s words, then she should expect a man’s consequences.”
“And so, should you,” Ma said. “Your affairs wouldn’t be in such a sorry state had you taken a more sensible approach to your business. Tell me, when should I expect your numerous creditors to turn up here and seize Glendarron from beneath my feet to pay your debts?”
“Ma!” Fraser cast a glance at Jennifer. “We have a guest.”
“There’s no harm in Miss MacKenzie knowing,” Ma replied. “After all, you’ve known her so long, she’s practically family.” She dipped her spoon into her soup. “Didn’t you tell me Miss Hart’s brother had found a solution? I’ll hazard a guess she asked him to make amends on her behalf.”
Fraser shook his head. “Hart knows nothing of the matter, trust me. His sister has not told him.”
“What makes you think that?” Ma asked.
The fact that Fraser hadn’t found himself with a bullet through his heart for debauching the man’s sister made him think that.
He leaned back while the servants cleared away the soup and began serving the entrée—the Scotch beef ragout which Miss Hart had remarked on as being the finest beef she’d ever tasted. Ma smiled at him across the table. Had she deliberately chosen the menu tonight to remind him of her?
“Hart’s a businessman,” he said. “He’s renting Molineux House for a pittance, just enough to stave off my creditors for a few months. Believe me, he’s not doing it out of kindness. I doubt the man understands the meaning of the word.”
“You can say what you like,” Ma said, “but I think it a shame she won’t be visiting again.”
Fraser sighed. He might have left London behind, but he couldn’t free himself from the memory of her. Not when Ma wouldn’t stop blethering about her.
As for Hamish—if he asked Fraser one more time when he’d next see the ‘lovely wee lassie,’ he’d remove the man’s ballocks and gift them to Ma as earrings. Perhaps then, they’d stop plaguing him.
Hamish had taken quite the shine to her and said she had the Highlands in her heart. Fraser would have laughed at such a preposterous notion, had he not read the beautiful words she’d penned in her poem Mo Chridhe.
The water of life to carry thee home…
Whatever her sins were, her passionate heart deserved to be fed and nurtured. He would forever admire Delilah Hart, the poet. As for Delilah Hart, the woman, whatever passion she ignited, he couldn’t trust her.
“I daresay the lass’s absence explains the sour expression on your face, lad,” Ma said.
“That’s enough, woman!” he roared.
“Fraser!” Jennifer exclaimed. “If London has had such a detrimental effect on your disposition, then I was right when I said last year that no good would come out of your going there.”
“Then rejoice in the fact that you were right,” Fraser said. He nodded toward Ma. “Forgive me, I meant no disrespect.”
He sliced through the beef. The knife scraped against the plate, and he shuddered at the sound. He looked up to see Jennifer staring at him, the hint of a smile on her lips.
“Is the food not to your liking, Miss Mackenzie?” he asked.
“On the contrary,” she replied.
“Well, there’s no need to stay when dinner is finished.”
Her smile disappeared.
“I apologize for my son, Jennifer, lass,” Ma said. “He reigns triumphant when his business prospers but lacks the maturity to accept a downturn in his fortunes without bitterness.”
Ma was right. He was behaving like a brat. Better to say nothing than argue. Ma was not one to back down when they disagreed, and if the creditors were to come calling, he’d need her support and forgiveness.
The meal continued in silence, after which Ma made her excuses and retired, leaving him alone with his former lover in the drawing room. He poured two glasses of whisky and handed her one.
“You seem out of sorts, my love,” she said. “I daresay that delightful young woman is to blame.”
“How do you know that?” Fraser asked.
“So, I’m right,” she said. “Didn’t I say she’d lead you to ruin? You should have heeded my warnings.”
Warnings fueled by petty jealousy.
“I always said she was too particular in her attentions toward you,” Jennifer continued.
“That’s not true,” Fraser said.
“Oh, but it is. Didn’t you first encounter her snooping in your London townhouse? For what purpose would she be there other than to pry into your affairs? Who is she? Nobody! An upstart of inferior birth.”
He drained his glass to dull his senses to her onslaught, but she continued, relentless in her criticism of her rival.
“I always thought she was a hellion, Fraser. And now you’re on the brink of ruination, and she’s nowhere to be seen! Whereas, I am always here for you.”
“What do you mean?”
“It’s perfectly simple,” Jennifer said. “My fortune is at your disposal if only you’d be willing to offer for it.”
Dear God—not that!
“Well?” she prompted.
“Well, what?”
“Don’t you think it’s time we did what our mothers have always expected?”
“A lady should wait to be asked.”
“We’ve known each other too long for niceties, Fraser,” she said. “Despite London’s diversions, you must admit your heart is here. And my fortune would restore your business.”
“Forgive me, Miss MacKenzie…”
“Jennifer, please,” she interrupted.
“Miss, MacKenzie,” he said. “I must speak plain. I will always care for you. But I’m the last man who could make you happy.”
“Who are you to determine what would make me happy?” she asked. “Don’t you know I’ve always loved you?”
“You love the idea of being my wife, Jennifer,” he said, “which is a different thing altogether.”
She took a sip from her glass.
“It’s her, isn’t it?”
He didn’t need to ask who she referred to.
“This has nothing to do with Miss Hart,” he said.