Chapter 4

4

D ougal crumpled the letter his aunt had sent him and tossed it in the fire, watching the edges turn black until the entire thing was one orange flame and then gray, smoldering ash.

The reminder from his elderly relation that if he wanted to receive the rest of his inheritance, he had to wed was a reminder he didn't need. Nor did he need or want the reminder that a decade ago, he'd made a declaration to a young lady whom he hadn't seen or heard from in years. To think that she'd decided now, of all times, to pick up a pen and whisk off a note to his aunt. The nerve…the oddity of it all.

Vows from men not yet twenty shouldn't be taken seriously, nor should they be followed up on, and yet that was exactly what his aunt was insinuating. Lucia Steventon was a name he'd rather forget. The folly of youth was really what her name brought to mind. On his nineteenth birthday, he'd met a girl at a house party in Edinburgh. By the end of the night, after one too many drinks, he'd declared that if by his twenty-ninth birthday he was not married, he would marry her.

He poured himself a finger of whisky, thought better of it and made it two, then swallowed it, attempting to quell some irritation, but the drink did not do the trick.

Why on earth would Lucia have taken him seriously?

And why on earth would his aunt recall his letter from ten years ago in which he'd told her all about it? Surely, she would have burned the memory from her mind as he'd burned her reminder.

As if this upcoming twenty-ninth birthday of his would make a difference in his life or his declarations. Aye, he'd like to receive the rest of his inheritance, but not at the price it would cost—marrying Lucia Steventon, who was practically a stranger to him at this point. He wasn't even certain that he would recognize her if he passed her on the street.

Since his drunken declaration, they'd had a few letters passed between the two of them. Danced at a few balls and happened upon each other at a house party or two, but it had been years since he'd seen her, and on none of those occasions had she attempted to solidify the childish attachment.

The idea of marrying her made his mood darken. Hell, the fact that his aunt was demanding he surrender his bachelorhood was what irked him even more, for she was usually entirely rational.

Lucia Steventon had been nice, stoic, and pleasant enough to look at but boring. Not challenging at all, and not a great conversationalist either, from what he could recall. The reason he'd fallen for her was lost on him now.

The idea of marrying her made him cross, but it also brought visions of another woman to the forefront of his mind.

A woman he didn't want to disappoint by telling her that he'd made the stupid mistake of practically proposing marriage to a stranger when he was an adolescent. That when he'd kissed her on the terrace at the ball in London and had seen how she looked at him, the feelings that look had given him... Oh, for feck's sake. He was a coward. That was the real reason he'd left London. Afraid of what it would mean to be a man Poppy Featherstone would depend on.

Afraid to fail her.

Afraid his past would come tunneling up the moment the engagement was printed in the newspaper.

Because even though he'd chalked up his declaration to Lucia as nothing more than boyhood idiocy, it would appear from the current situation, she had clearly not. And because he was a gentleman—and a fecking coward—he'd never had the heart to bring it up to her in the last decade. Which he clearly should have. But ten years was a long time. He'd assumed he'd be married by then—assumed she would have been too. And he would be off on some other adventure with Lucia Steventon nothing more than a fleeting memory.

After all, could they truly call that a proposal? A drunken nineteen-year-old down on one knee promising matrimony a decade from then? It was not a betrothal. Not a promise he was old enough to have made in the first place. Nor sober enough, for that matter.

Dougal sat at his writing desk and penned a note to his aunt saying just that. He was not beholden to a promise made ten years prior when he was barely a man. At the time Lucia had barely been old enough to accept. Had she truly been pining for him all this time? That would make her nearly his own age. What woman in her right mind would wait so long to get married? Men of society considered women past their twenty-second year to be practically expired when it came to child-bearing—a fact he knew was ridiculous considering his mother had been in her thirties when she'd birthed him. But still, why would Lucia risk missing her child-bearing ticking clock?

Guilt ebbed into his chest to think the silly chit had been waiting for him for a decade.

And also, incredulity. If she'd been truly anticipating a knock at her door, a ring presented in earnest, all this time, then why had she waited until now to inform his aunt of the promise? For that matter, why had she contacted his aunt and not him?

Or was this some trick of his aunt's? Very unlike her to do such a thing.

He thought of Mary. How, when he'd arrived in Edinburgh a few days ago, she'd glowered. Was this her way of getting rid of him? Now, he could see being meddlesome. And she certainly didn't like the idea of him hanging around the Featherstone lasses. But as far as he knew, the idiotic declaration he'd made a decade ago was unknown to Mary. Unless his aunt had told her. Or Lucia herself. So many questions converged in his mind, and none of them came with an answer. Just an endless swirl of self-reproach and a mess getting messier the more he thought about it.

Coming to Edinburgh to help the Featherstone lasses had put another complication into his stratosphere. Poppy.

The moment he'd seen her—the shock that had registered on her face. Then, the resentment was swiftly replaced by softness, only to be filled with hurt a moment later. Those expressions had continued throughout their ride in the park and even as they ate their iced creams.

The resentment and hurt he deserved. The softness—which showed she still might have feelings for him—he did not.

Poppy still fascinated him. From the moment he'd first laid eyes on her, he'd fallen for the tease in her eyes and the quirk to her mouth that made him want to spend hours with her. To dig deeper and find out just what made her tick.

And she'd returned his interest until he'd mucked it all up.

Now this. If there'd been any chance of him trying to salvage what they'd started a year ago, Lucia Steventon was here to ruin it. Hell, he was the one ruining it. Lucia just happened to be the catalyst to move his downfall along.

"Blast it," he growled, sealing the envelope to his aunt. He marched out of his library and handed the letter to his butler. "See that this is delivered to my aunt right away."

"Aye, my lord."

Dougal trudged upstairs to his bedchamber, needing to dress for dinner.

He cursed the entire time, imagining every scenario, including one where Lucia happened to be at dinner. Lord help him, he'd leave.

But leaving would mean he lost any chance of being in Poppy's company again. She might be willing to forgive him for the way he'd departed the year before, but there was no way that he could even expect to be allowed in her presence if he disappeared again.

All he could hope for was that today would be the last day he ever heard the name Lucia Steventon. Though he had a feeling the past was coming back to bite him hard on the arse, and there was no way he was going to get away without a chunk of himself missing.