Free A Slip In Time by Kathleen Kirkwood

departure, a castoff but lovely. Drawing it on, she
found its square neckline fell a trifle low, though not
objectionably so.
    Julia tugged up the bodice, refusing to be
detained one second longer than required. Once cinched, hooked,
and buttoned, Julia whisked from the room, putting distance between
herself and the tower as rapidly as possible.
    Dinner proved a wearisome affair, the
conversation revolving about the day’s near-tragic hunt, the
details recounted ad nauseam. Lord Eaton’s gaze strayed
periodically to Julia’s décolletage as did those of several other
gentlemen including Mr. Dilcox, who had skillfully maneuvered
himself into the seat beside her. With the men’s added height,
Julia realized too late, they could glimpse a tantalizing hint of
cleavage.
    A pox on you, Aunt
Rachel, Julia fumed silently as the
servants cleared away the soiled plates, replacing them with small
crystal bowls.
    “I mean, do these Scots
eat nothing besides oats?” Lady Henrietta Downs complained several
seats away, drawing Julia’s attention back to the conversation
which had blessedly taken a new turn. “Cook has served little else
since our arrival — for breakfast, lunch, tea, or dinner.”
    Lord Eaton turned to the butler, who
stood beside him, holding a silver bowl. “Lady Henrietta is quite
right, Angus. Cook even sent us into the field with cold bars of
porridge in our pockets instead of sandwiches.”
    “Most traditional, m’lord.”
    “And what of dinner just now? Oats in
the soup, the stuffing, the pud, even the fish was coated with
oats.”
    “A tasty way it is to prepare fresh
fish, m’ lord.”
    “Hmm, yes. What is that you have in
the bowl there?” Everyone’s eyes turned to the silver bowl and its
fluffy contents.
    “Cranachan, m’ lord, a traditional
sweet.”
    “And what, precisely,
is cranachan ?
    “A delightful creation — lightly
whipped cream served with raspberries.”
    Lord Eaton frowned. “What are those
flecks in the cream?”
    “Toasted oats, of course,
m’lord.”
    A moan echoed around the table.
    Later, retiring to the salon, the guests
broke into small groups, some playing at whist and varied parlor
games, most sinking into overstuffed chairs and sofas simply to
continue their dinner discourse or read.
    Julia saw that Lord Eaton continued to be
surrounded with constant attentions. She could not possibly speak
to him of her room openly. Making matters worse, Lilith perched on
the arm of his chair and Aunt Sybil stood behind, both with the
vigilant looks of watchdogs.
    Julia fidgeted with her ring. Somehow,
she must make arrangements for another room. And there were still
questions she would have answered. She scanned the salon for Mr.
McNab and spied him delivering the last of the drinks from his tray
and heading toward the door. Julia quickened across the room,
catching him just outside, in the hall.
    “Mr. McNab, I would speak with you. I
must know your objections to my staying in the tower room. What is
wrong with it?”
    “Wrong, miss?” His brows rumpled.
“There is nothing wrong with the room. ‘Tis simply my employer’s —
Lord Muir’s — practice not to billet guests in the tower, that and
no more.”
    “Yet, the room is kept in readiness,
the linens fresh and the furniture dusted. Betty told me as much.”
The Scotsman only shrugged. “Why then did Lord Eaton ignore his
uncle’s desires and place me there after all?”
    The Scotsman shifted his weight,
avoiding her gaze. “It would be indelicate of me to point out the
obvious, miss.”
    Oh, but the man was annoying. “And
just what is the ‘obvious,’ Mr. McNab?”
    “Why the proximity of m’lord’s room in
the adjoining corridor, of course.” He tucked his tray under his
arm and set off down the hallway.
    Shock rooted her in place. Several
minutes passed before she collected herself enough to return to the
salon. She leveled a murderous gaze at their insufferable host, who
sprawled in a deep cushioned