Bridegroom Wore Plaid (13 page)

“Yes, Ma.” The girl’s shoulders slumped as she crossed the terrace without another word.

“Please don’t blame Fiona,” Augusta said when the little figure had disappeared into the house. “She didn’t want me to get lost in the woods.”

Mary Fran’s brows knit. “I almost believe you. She’s that tenderhearted, she’d even worry about an Englishwoman.”

“We had a wonderful talk about her cows and the sheep and all manner of things having to do with Balfour.”

Mary Fran’s expression shifted, from guarded to a little bewildered. “I can’t keep a close eye on her, not when we’re entertaining, and the days are so long, and she’s so… she’s quick, haring all over.” She fell silent, her mouth flattening. “You don’t have children.”

“To my sorrow.” Augusta slipped her arm through Mary Fran’s and started toward the house. “If I did have a child, I’d want her to be exactly like Fiona. She reminds me of myself.”

“You?”

Such incredulity, and not the least ill intended.

“I was raised on a large estate, expecting to inherit that property or at least to manage one like it. My mother did not enjoy good health, so it was probably apparent I was going to be an only child. My father took this in stride—he wasn’t burdened by a title—and treated me as his heir, if not his son. I wandered my summers away much as Fiona seems to. I knew all the gardeners and shepherds, the gamekeepers, the woodsmen, the dairymen, the tenants, the beekeeper, the stable boys, groundsmen, the goose girl, and the milkmaids—everybody, and they knew me. Papa took me with him when he rode out, first up before him on his horse, then on a leading line on my own pony. It was a wonderful childhood.”

A happy childhood, one Augusta hadn’t thought about for years.

Mary Fran walked along with her in silence for a few moments then paused.

“Her uncles spoil her. I worry about that. They can’t spoil me, so they spoil her instead.”

“And you spoil them.”

Mary Fran’s smile broke over her face like the sun stealing out from behind a cloud. “Yes. Yes, I do. Every chance I get. And if we don’t get into the house soon, we’ll miss breakfast.”

“You most assuredly will, if you haven’t already.”

They both looked up at that masculine voice to see the Earl of Balfour lounging in the door to the back hallway of the house, looking splendid in his kilt and morning attire. “And we can’t have that.” He stepped away to allow the ladies to pass before him inside, then accompanied them into the breakfast parlor.

Augusta chose to sit beside Mary Fran rather than take a place near the earl. He was cordial, of course, holding her chair and offering to fill her plate at the sideboard, but Augusta put him off with a few polite words.

He was going to wed Genie. Once again reminding herself of this truth should have brought Augusta a sense of satisfaction at her cousin’s good fortune.

It really should have.

***

“You need to goddamned woo your infernal bride, Brother.” Gil yanked Ian by the arm along the corridor as he spoke.

“I am wooing her.” Or Ian would be if she’d venture out of her room for more than the space of a meal. Her turned ankle had been healing for three days, and still she hid.

“You need to woo her trust, Ian.” Gil pulled him into the family parlor and closed the door.

“What else does a man woo in a prospective bride?”

“You’re not…” Gil ran a hand through blond hair already disheveled. In the past few days, Ian’s brother—his heir—had been oddly silent, taking the place at meals beside Miss Hester, Mrs. Redmond, or Augusta.

That’s
Miss
Augusta
to
you, laddie.

She’d been acting peculiarly too, taking herself out sketching with another of the ladies or spending an inordinate amount of time with Fiona. Grieving for her cat, perhaps.

Or avoiding her host.

“What’s amiss, Gilgallon? The ladies have long since lost the ability to overset you.”

“Your intended is dead set against the match, Ian. You need to inspire her confidences.”

“Does she love another?”

Gil’s expression became stricken. “God, I hope not.”

“I’m prepared to observe the same civilities as the next titled gentleman,” Ian said, feeling the weight of a long day, a long week, and a long, lonely future press down on him. “When we’ve a few heirs, she’ll be free to share her affections elsewhere.”

“With Englishmen, Ian? Have you thought about that? We’re brutes in their opinions, and…”

Gil fell silent, which allowed Ian to take in the fatigue in his brother’s eyes, the blister gracing the inside of his right fourth finger, the relative pallor of his complexion.

Drinking and riding at all hours, then. Gil’s recipe for dealing with English under their roof, among other upsets.

“She can dally with Englishmen, Gilgallon, with the stable boys,
with
you
, if that’s what it takes to secure her fortune. We put on a good show here each summer, and we make some coin. It keeps us going; it keeps us thinking we’re making progress. Another blight, a dose of hoof and mouth, a bad market…”

“I know.
I
know, Ian.
”

“I know too.” Ian reached out and squeezed his brother’s shoulder. “I’ll woo the damned girl until her eyes cross and she lies panting at my booted feet.”

He could too. He hadn’t been applying himself was all. Giving the girl time, letting her settle in… Putting off the inevitable.

“She likes poetry,” Gil said dully. “That sentimental, idle tears, English bastard-fellow. I forget his name.”

“Tennyson. I’ll read her pretty little ears off until the splendor is damned falling on our castle walls.”

“Do that.” Gil looked around the parlor like he’d no clue how they’d arrived there. “I’m going for a ride.”

Ian headed for the library to pick up a volume of Tennyson, walked resolutely past the ladies’ parlor where Augusta—
Miss
Augusta—had been stitching at something in solitude earlier in the day, and prepared to read his intended’s ears off.

Though if he recalled his Tennyson aright, the menfolk fought themselves to injury and coma, while the princess remained unmoved up in her tower.

Splendor, indeed.

***

The library door crashed on its hinges when the Earl of Balfour disturbed Augusta’s reading.

“I beg your pardon.” He looked disgruntled, like he wasn’t in the mood to beg anything of anybody. “I thought you were in the ladies’ parlor.”

Augusta supposed this was part of a host’s function, to keep track of which guest was where. She rose and put aside
Waverley
. “I can remove to the ladies’ parlor if you have need of some solitude here.”

He’d closed the door behind him too, and removing to the ladies’ parlor—to anywhere else—would have been the decision of a prudent chaperone.

“I’ll not be but a moment.” He scrubbed a hand over his chin and seemed to visually canvass the room. “Fiona isn’t lurking under the table, is she? Dragooning you into hide-and-seek or some other nonsense?”

“I think Lady Mary Fran is trying to keep Fiona entertained below stairs for the present. Truly, I can leave if you need the library for business, my lord.”

Except she didn’t want to leave. It made no sense, but Augusta wanted to linger wherever she could study him, wherever she could observe him. She’d noticed, for example, that in bright sunlight, his dark hair had red highlights, and the lines of fatigue around his mouth and laughter around his eyes were more pronounced.

He blew out a breath, some of the temper leaving his expression to be replaced with humor. “You’re my-lording me, Augusta Merrick. I must be exuding about as much charm as my damn—my blasted bull doddy. I’m fetching some poetry to read to Miss Genie.”

“Very considerate of you.”

He advanced into the room and went to stand by the window. “Come here, if you please.”

The command was casual, but a command no matter how politely stated. Augusta went, rather than dwell any longer on the resentment she felt that Genie was going to be hearing poetry in that lovely, masculine burr, while Augusta had… solitude. Tea and solitude, chickens and solitude.

But also a few memories and solitude.

She went to him, stopping a few feet away.

“Here.” He waggled his fingers at her but kept his gaze turned toward the window. “I want to show you something.”

She came a couple of steps closer. He was being an attentive host, nothing more, pausing in the more important business of wooing Genie to show Augusta some small consideration.

He shifted, putting a hand on each of Augusta’s shoulders and guiding her to the sill. “You can see the path behind the stables from here. Just there, where Lavelle is leading that draft team.”

Augusta forced herself to stop focusing on the earl’s proximity, on the heather and wool scent of him, on the feel his hands, one on each of her shoulders. “Where is he taking those horses?”

“The path winds just inside the tree line for a good way, then jogs over toward Balmoral. There’s a lot of construction debris there, some of it worth saving, some of it useful for burning. Her Majesty is generous, and His Highness is practical.”

Augusta turned slightly, and still her host did not drop his hands. “What does that mean?”

“We show our appreciation with the occasional gift of whisky. Albert and his wife appreciate decent libation.”

She watched his mouth while he spoke, which was hardly polite. Augusta stepped back, out of his grasp. “Thank you for showing me the path. I’m sure Fiona will agree to explore it with me.”

“Fiona.” His dark brows lowered. “I suppose she will, but you’re going on an outing with me tomorrow at first light.” He looked surprised by his invitation—if one could call it that—and then resolute.

And yet, an invitation could be declined.

“A walk first thing sounds lovely.” She had meant to refuse—to gently, politely, absolutely refuse—though it was impossible to recall why she must when Ian’s heathery scent was teasing at her wits. “Where will our outing take us?”

The ambiguity of the question felt vaguely unsuitable, particularly when Ian’s handsome features split into a devilish grin.

“I’ll show you the path to the high tor. It’s an hour’s good walking with a fine view of the shire.”

Before Augusta could think up a witty rejoinder—his smile was unlike any she’d seen in London ballrooms—the earl strode off toward the door.

“My lord?”

He turned, the smile muted but still in evidence. “Ian, if you please.”

“Your book of poetry?”

She heard him curse quite clearly. Only when he had retrieved a slim volume from a middle shelf, departed, and closed the door did Augusta permit herself to smile over it.

***

Con caught the shadow falling across the stable door out of his peripheral vision and straightened, muck fork in hand.

Julia Redmond stood there in a smart brown riding habit trimmed with green piping. The colors would have looked wonderful on Mary Fran, though Con’s sister hadn’t had a new habit in years.

The pretty English widow radiated… not exactly anger, but tension. “Mr. MacGregor.”

“I think you can use my name, seeing as how we’re on kissing-and-groping-each-other-in-public terms.” He took his time shrugging into his shirt. Petty of him, but no more petty than she’d been.

And then he went back to his mucking.

She clenched her fists and closed her eyes as if praying for fortitude. When she looked at him again her expression was unreadable. “I came here to apologize to you. If you’re just going to bait me, I’ll leave.”

He wanted her to leave. Leave the stables, the estate, Scotland. Hell, she could go pan for gold in California and take her damned insulting English condescension with her.

“Apologize then, but I’m not used to being made a fool of.”

She crossed into the barn aisle, walked past him, and stood with her back to him. “I am. I am used to being made to feel like an idiot.”

“You expect me to believe a wealthy young English widow can easily be made a fool of?” He set his muck fork aside and went to stand behind her. He smelled of horse and sweat and worse, but still her rose-and-cinnamon scent came to him.

“To you, Connor, I’m wealthy and young. By London standards, I’m old, and compared to the American heiresses, barely solvent. My property is so far north no man in his right mind would spend time there except for grouse season. I’m… I have been regarded as foolish in the extreme, more than once.”

He could make no sense of her words. “What are you trying to say?”

“I’m turning thirty this fall, Connor, and I have no children.”

“Then you’re approaching your prime without any bairns clinging to your skirts. Go find some horny Englishman to celebrate with, why don’t you?”