to make any difference to the builder, for the man continued to regard her as if she were merely an overgrown child, and one incapable of understanding simple addition and multiplication, too. “I’m sure, as a former man of business, your father will be able to comprehend the figures better than a young lady. You mustn’t trouble your pretty head with such things as measurements and structure, square feet and raw materials,” Mr. Stamford continued with that same insufferable patronage. “Perhaps you don’t understand, Mr. Stamford, that as the daughter of a man of business who’s been keeping household accounts for ten years, ever since my mother died, I’m not incapable of calculating totals and expenditures,” she said, determined not to let this man think he could flatter her into believing that his estimates of the costs of materials were reasonable when they were so obviously not. “Nor, having had considerable work done on this house, am I ignorant of the costs involved when refurbishing a building. I find your estimate of the price for the necessary materials for the school and labor excessive. You’re building a school, after all, not a manor house.”
The man’s cheeks puffed out with an annoyed huff. “Far be it from me to contradict a lady. However, if one wishes to use the best materials—and I was under the impression you did—then one has to pay accordingly.”
“I want the best for the purpose,” she clarified. “The prices you’re quoting would seem to indicate you’re using wood and stone more suitable for a cathedral than a village school. We recently had the dining room of this house panelled in mahogany brought especially from Jamaica, Mr. Stamford, and the price of that mahogany was less than this quotation for the oak ceiling beams of the main schoolroom. I fail to see how that is possible, unless the oak is gilded.”
The builder’s face turned as red as lip rouge. He reached for the plans spread on the table and began to roll them up, the pages crackling and crinkling with his swift action. “If you don’t like the plans or the cost, my lady, you can always hire another man!”
“Unless you can provide me with a more reasonable quote, I may have to,” Moira replied, not a whit disturbed or intimidated by his bluster, “although I’d hate to think you’ve done so much work for nothing.”
“Nothing?” the man almost shrieked. “I expect to be paid for the time and effort I’ve already—!”
“Of course,” she smoothly interrupted, “it would be a pity to have this assignment come to a premature end.”
“Like some women’s engagements?” he retorted.
Moira managed to control the rage that spiralled through her. She wanted to dismiss him on the spot, but that would lead to a delay, which would surely upset her father. That was always something to be avoided, lest he be tempted to break his vow.
“It would also be unfortunate that you wouldn’t be able to brag about working for the Earl of Dunbrachie’s daughter anymore, as I believe you already have.”
Or so the butler had informed her, having had it from the footman, who’d been in the village tavern the night before last.
The man’s gaze finally faltered and he put the plans back on the table. “Aye, yes, well, perhaps I was a tad hasty, my lady,” he said in a conciliatory tone, “and I’m a hot-tempered fellow. I suppose we could use less oak and more pine, and maybe I don’t have to buy so much slate for the roof.”
Despite his change of manner and her relief that things could proceed as planned, there was something else she considered important to make clear. “I don’t want any corners cut. The building must be safe and sound.”
“That school will be so well built, it’ll still be standing a hundred years from now,” he assured her.
“Excellent, Mr. Stamford,” she conceded, “and if I see more realistic figures, I see no need to tell my father about our difference of opinion. Now I give you good day, sir. I’ll be by to check the progress of the school later in the week.”
“Yes, my lady. Goodbye, my lady, and I’m sure I’ll be able to find ways to economize, my lady.”
With that, he bustled out of the library as if he couldn’t get away fast enough, which was probably the case. She was just as relieved to see him go. She was well aware that her broken engagement to Sir Robert McStuart was no secret, but it was nevertheless galling to have it flung into her face.
It was even more galling to realize that Gordon McHeath had surely heard about her broken engagement by now, and from Robbie McStuart, too, she thought as she walked around the room, brushing her fingertips over the leather spines of the books that had so delighted her when they’d first arrived. Her former fiancé would undoubtedly paint what had happened between them in the worst possible way, making light of his own transgressions and describing her as some sort of narrow-minded, unsophisticated bumpkin.
If only she could stay as angry and indignant as she’d been when she found out the man who had come to her rescue was Robbie McStuart’s friend. Unfortunately, as time had passed, she found herself thinking less of his friendship with Robbie and more of the passion she’d felt in his arms. The excitement. The wish that his embrace would never end. She remembered Gordon McHeath’s smile, his gentlemanly demeanor and the sight of him charging down the hill like a knight errant. Even more vividly, she recalled the urge to kiss him that she hadn’t been able to fight, his passionate response, the sensation of his arms around her and his lips covering hers, seeking, demanding, wanting….
“I beg your pardon, my lady,” the butler intoned from the door. “A gentleman wishes to see you.” He held out a silver salver with a card upon it. “He says it’s a legal matter, my lady.”
Legal matter? “Did you tell him the earl isn’t at home?”
“I did, and he said it doesn’t involve the earl, my lady. His business is with you.”
Perhaps it had something to do with the school, although she couldn’t imagine what. She went to the door and took the card. She glanced at it, then stared.
Gordon McHeath, Solicitor, Edinburgh.
Robbie McStuart’s friend was a solicitor? Even so, what could he possibly want with her? It couldn’t be because of that kiss…could it? That hadn’t violated any law that she was aware of.
Perhaps it had something to do with the dog that had chased her. “Show him in, please.”
Smoothing down her skirt and tucking a stray lock of hair behind her ear, determined to keep the conversation coolly business-like, she perched primly on an armchair covered in emerald-green damask near the hearth.
Mr. McHeath appeared on the threshold. He wasn’t dressed in his caped greatcoat and hat; otherwise, his clothing was similar, down to his riding boots. Without his hat, his tawny hair waved like ripples on a lake, and he was definitely as handsome and well built as she remembered.
He hesitated, and a look passed over his face that made her think he was about to leave just as abruptly.
He didn’t. His visage slightly flushed, as she suspected hers must be, he came farther into the room, his expression solemn to the point of grimness.
Commanding herself to be calm and detached, and above all to forget she had ever kissed him, she said, “So, Mr. McHeath, what is this legal matter that has brought you here today?”
His gaze swept over the room and furnishings, lingering for a moment at the pedestal table
