My Fair Lily(2)

And where were her spectacles? She recalled Ewan Cameron had taken them off her nose before he put his arms around her…and then she’d gazed into his eyes and simply forgotten about everything.

“Can ye walk on your own, lass? Shall I help ye into the house?”

“Thank you, Mr. Cameron. I can manage the rest of the way.” She couldn’t very well say it had been a pleasure to meet him, since it hadn’t been. Anyway, they hadn’t been properly introduced. “It was a most unusual… well, unexpected… encounter. I don’t suppose we shall ever meet again. Goodbye.”

She turned to walk back into the house, took a step, and squished. Took another halting step, then another. Squish, squish.

Her humiliation was now complete.

“Lass, I had better go with ye,” he said, clearing his throat and once again smothering the laughter Lily knew was desperate to burst out of him. “I can explain to your father. It wouldn’t sit right with me if ye were punished for something that was entirely my fault.”

“It isn’t necessary,” she insisted, holding her head up proudly even as droplets of water dripped off her nose. She wished he would stop acting kindly and simply go away.

The sooner this embarrassment was forgotten, the better.

Jasper, now standing between her and the Farthingale entry gate, began to whimper again.

“That’s right. Ye ought to be ashamed, ye great beastie,” his owner muttered. “Look at the mess ye’ve made of the pretty girl.”

As though understanding his every word, the dog gazed at Lily with the softest, most innocent brown eyes. His tail wagged hesitantly, once… twice. Oh, his big chocolate eyes! Too adorable to resist. Lily succumbed with a sigh. “You’re forgiven, Jasper. Now, to find my book—”

Jasper was off in a shot and back in a trice with the volume, a work written by the Scottish scientist Colin MacLaurin about sixty years ago on the theory of fluxions. Tail wagging, eyes gleaming with pride, he dropped it at her feet…and into the puddle from which she’d just emerged.

His owner let out an agonized groan. “Lass, I’ll pay for that, too.”

***

“Please don’t trouble yourself, Mr. Cameron. It was an accident and nothing more.”

Ewan Cameron stared at the girl with the prettiest blue eyes he’d seen in an age while she assured him that he was not responsible for his dog’s actions. Of course, he was. However, he held his tongue, preferring to replace the book and stylish gown—a yellow confection that made him think of lemon sweets—as soon as possible, rather than waste time arguing about it with the young thing who was soaking wet and probably shaken from the jolt.

He retrieved the book from the puddle while she busied herself wringing water out of her obviously ruined gown. He also noticed her spectacles on the ground where he’d earlier set them aside, so he reached down and stuck them in his pocket before turning his attention back to her. “Ma… Mac… lau…” he murmured, examining the book’s spine for the title. But he found it hard to make out the words, for they were smeared with mud and water stains.

“MacLaurin,” she repeated smoothly, casting him an encouraging glance. “There’s a symposium exploring his work on elliptic integrals at the Royal Society next week, and I thought to do a little studying on my own ahead of time.”

“You’re a bluestocking,” he said with a chuckle but quickly regretted his words. Though he meant it as a compliment, few females would take it as such. Och, it was a clumsy thing to say—but she didn’t seem to take offense.

“Yes, I suppose. I love to read… er, though many people don’t and there’s certainly nothing wrong with that, not at all. Not being able to read, that is.” She cast him another encouraging glance.

“I enjoy it, too. When I have the time.” He frowned, thinking of how much work he had and how little time he had to attend to all of it while in London. “Lately, I’ve had very little.”

“Of course. I understand completely.” She cast him yet another sympathetic look.

“Ye do?” Suddenly, he realized the girl believed him an ignorant oaf, illiterate and probably unable even to dress himself. And why wouldn’t she think the worst? Ten days of hard riding from the Scottish Highlands to London, ten days of choking dust on the roadway, of not shaving and hardly bathing, had left him looking like the basest ruffian.

The clothes he wore, buff pants made of homespun and heavy brown jacket to ward off the Highland chill, were not in the least fashionable London attire. His brown leather boots were scuffed and stained from several years of use and abuse. His hands were rough and calloused, though he’d tried very hard to be gentle when helping the girl to her feet.