“I appreciate any man, particularly a young one, who arrives willing to listen,” he said finally. “Most arrive with only their names and self-importance.”
Alasdair inclined his head. “I hope to be more than either.”
And just like that, the tide shifted.
What began as a test became a conversation. They moved through topics: trade tariffs, agricultural shifts, education, even the gentry’s shifting expectations. The more they spoke, the easier it became for Alasdair to respond thoughtfully, to choose his words the way a fencer chose his footwork—deliberate, balanced, controlled.
He even admitted when he didn’t know a topic well. Surprisingly, that honesty seemed to earn more approval than bluster would have.
They drank tea, not brandy. Another detail Elizabeth would have appreciated.
At last, Farnleigh offered: “You should meet Lord Penrith. Quiet man, but a powerful voice in policy. He may respect what I see in you today. I’ll write to him.”
Alasdair blinked. “I’d be grateful, me lord. More than grateful. Thank ye. And thank ye for listenin’. I ken not every man would welcome a Scot.”
Farnleigh gave him a thin smile, but there was a glint behind it.
“Don’t thank me yet. Penrith is sterner than I am. He values sincerity. Do not lose that.”
They stood, exchanged final courtesies, and Alasdair left.
Once on the street, he paused beneath the cloudy London sky. It had rained, and the damp air clung to his skin. His boots were speckled with grime already.
He had done it.
He’d held his temper. He’d spoken with grace and strength. He’d followed every rule of the game Elizabeth had laid out, and earned not just Farnleigh’s interest, but his respect. He should have felt triumphant.
And he did.
Mostly.
But something else had wedged itself beneath his ribs, aching.
Elizabeth.
He could see her now: eyes wide with mischief, lips curved around a stolen laugh, the way she moaned accidentally over a macaron. Her innocent face wrapped in mischief. Her clever fingers brushing crumbs from her lips.
God help him,he’d nearly dropped the bloody sweet.
It wasn’t just desire that burned in him. It was the thought that she understood him. Helped him.
“She’s no meant for ye,” he muttered to himself. “No matter how much ye learn to behave, she needs an English lord with perfect manners and perfect lineage.”
His pace quickened. The rain had stopped, but puddles still marked the cobbles. He avoided one, barely.
His reflection in the water showed a polished duke in London’s finest.
It didn’t feel like him. And yet, for once, it didn’t feel entirely false either.
He dragged a hand through his hair, untidy now from his thoughts more than the wind.
“I’m goin’ mad,” he muttered.
And still, even in the quiet of the carriage that waited for him, the scent of lemon and sugar lingered in his memory.
And the taste of Lady Elizabeth’s smile refused to fade.
Chapter Fourteen