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stomach was roiling. She wanted to scream and shred the note, to toss it back in the stranger’s face and tell her men to toss him back out into the rain. But she was a Rose, and so she must put iron into her spine. Isobel blinked back her tears—she refused to let him see her cry.
    He was holding out the deed to her, and she took it, running her eyes down it as if she were reading it, when in truth she could not take in any of the words, her mind overwhelmed by something close to terror. She had no idea what to do, so she clung to the behavior that one expected from the lady of Baillannan, a stoicism that hid the turmoil inside.
    “Welcome to Baillannan, Mr. Kensington,” she said tightly as she handed him back the papers, though she could not manage to look him in the face. “Hamish, show Mr. Kensington to a room. I am sure he would like to get dry. And no doubt he would appreciate a cup of tea, as well.”
    “Miss Izzy!” Hamish went an even deeper shade of red, and his eyes bulged. “You canna mean to give him your home! Your father . . . your grandfather . . .”
    “Hamish,” Isobel said firmly. “I cannot undo what Andrew has done. Baillannan apparently belongs to Mr. Kensington now.”
    Hamish set his face mutinously, but finally he bobbed his head. “Aye, miss.”
    He seized Kensington’s coat and hat, grabbed up the satchel at his feet, then went to speak to the servants, shooing them toward the kitchen.
    Isobel turned back to their visitor in awkward silence, then rushed to speak. “I apologize that your room is not ready.”
    “No, no need to apologize. Indeed, I should do so for the shock I have given you. I thought Sir Andrew would have written, but no doubt his letter has not had time to reach you.”
    “No doubt. If you will excuse me . . .” She gave him as close to a smile as she could muster and turned away.
    “No, wait.” He followed her to the foot of the staircase. “Please.”
    Isobel stopped on the stairs and turned reluctantly to face him. He was a step below her, so that his head was level with hers, only inches away. His eyes, she realized, were not black or brown as she had thought, but a dark blue, shadowed by thick black lashes. The odd color, combined with the high slash of his cheekbones, gave his face a faintly exotic look. She found it unsettling.
    “Are you—I’m not entirely sure I understood what that fellow said, but it seemed—are you related in some way to Sir Andrew?”
    “I am his sister.”
    “His sister!” His eyes widened. “I’m sorry. Sir Andrew never mentioned . . . I didn’t know . . .”
    “There is no reason you should.” This time she could not manage even an attempt at a smile. Whirling, she ran up the stairs.
    “Isobel?” Her aunt stood outside the door of the sitting room, looking a trifle lost.
    Isobel pulled up short, barely suppressing a groan. Aunt Elizabeth’s memory had been growing hazier the last few months, and Isobel had found that any unexpected occurrence tended to make her condition worse. But Isobel was not sure she could explain the situation calmly when she felt as if she might shatter into a storm of tears herself.
    “Isobel, who was that man? Was he talking about Andrew?” Her aunt’s face brightened. “Is Andrew here?”
    “No. Andrew is in London. Or at least I suppose he is, since he has not bothered to write.”
    “He is so careless that way.” Aunt Elizabeth smiledindulgently. “Of course, young men have better things to do than write home.”
    “He might have thought of something besides himself for once.”
    “Isobel? Are you angry with Andrew?”
    “Yes, I am.” She added, softening her tone, “A bit.” She couldn’t give in to her feelings in front of Elizabeth.
    “But why was Hamish upset? Who is that man?”
    “He knows Andrew. I—he is staying here for a time.”
    “Oh. How nice—a visitor. He was quite a handsome young man, I thought.” Elizabeth’s eyes gleamed