Scotsman of My Dreams Read Free Page B

either.
    Had she faced Rathsmere’s secretary looking the same? She sincerely hoped not. Why hadn’t Hugh said something to her?
    She fluttered her fingers toward the offending bonnet, now in the housekeeper’s hands.
    â€œThere’s nothing to do but dispose of it, Mrs. Beauchamp. Toss it away in the rubbish. I shall keep to my older bonnets. They’ve never disappointed me.”
    â€œYou need a few furbelows, Miss Minerva. One or two flowers would not be amiss. A touch of color here or there.”
    She removed her gloves, wondering what she could say to this comment, a version of which she’d heard every day for the last two years. For some reason, Mrs. Beauchamp had it in her mind to have her dress in pastels with silly little things in her hair. The housekeeper would have her go to dances and soirees, dinners and balls, as if she had anyone to take her to those places. As if anyone wished to.
    A change of clothing wouldn’t alter who she was. Fine feathers make fine birds, but she was neither fine-­feathered nor a bird. Her wardrobe was more than adequate for what she needed. Most of the time she­­ forgot what she was wearing anyway.
    What did it matter?
    She truly didn’t need to be cosseted, but she often found herself the object of Mrs. Beauchamp’s not inconsiderable attention.
    Each one of her bureau drawers was sprinkled with a spicy potpourri. While it was an agreeable scent, it was strangely strong, reminding her of the scones she ate every morning.
    Mrs. Beauchamp was evidently a seamstress of great talent. A week after the housekeeper arrived, two years ago, Minerva’s unmentionables suddenly began boasting lace. She truly didn’t need lace or ribbons on her pantaloons or her corset covers, but she didn’t have a choice. One day she opened her bureau and a favorite shift had been adorned. Over the next weeks every single one of her undergarments had been altered.
    There was a direct correlation between the number of Mrs. Beauchamp’s tasks and the amount of lace appearing on Minerva’s undergarments, which is why she tried to keep the estimable woman busy at all times.
    Still, the woman hovered. When Minerva wasn’t hungry, it was as if she had insulted Mrs. Beauchamp’s menu selection on purpose. That led to at least a quarter hour of the housekeeper offering a selection of other foods that might tempt her appetite. On more than one occasion Minerva had attempted to explain to the older woman that she wasn’t an invalid and that the lack of one meal was not going to alter her health in any regard.
    Mrs. Beauchamp was a tyrant with good intentions.
    Minerva had the thought that it was a good thing the woman never accompanied her on one of her expeditions. She would have been horrified at the lack of proper meals, not to mention the primitive conditions.
    The housekeeper had recently taken on a new role—­guardian of Minerva’s virtue.
    â€œIt’s not at all proper the way he looks at you,” Mrs. Beauchamp said one day after Hugh left the kitchen. “It’s too familiar.” The housekeeper leaned over the table and whispered, “It’s as if he’s lusting after you.”
    For a moment Minerva actually considered feigning shock, then realized that if she did so she’d have to continue that faux emotion in the future. Better to simply be herself.
    â€œHugh and I are old friends,” she said, deciding to leave it at that.
    Before Mrs. Beauchamp’s employ, she and Hugh had been a great deal more than that. The affair hadn’t lasted more than a month, but if Hugh had his way, it might still be ongoing. Passion, however, was a dangerous addiction, especially when it wasn’t accompanied by any other emotion.
    She had made him her lover. She had taken him to her bed, and it had been a worthwhile and laudable decision at the time. At twenty-­eight, she was certain no one would ever