Bridegroom Wore Plaid (25 page)

“As a man considering offering for my sister, you are in a position to make certain inquiries.”

“I am.” After tossing and turning half the night, Ian had gotten up at dawn and started drafting those inquiries. He wasn’t
nearly
finished.

“I trust you will find all in order with respect to the barony’s finances, my lord, but I have occasion to feel some concern regarding my cousin’s situation.”

“Your… cousin?” Ian’s irritation vanished, replaced with a taut focus. “Miss Augusta?”

Daniels nodded, his expression hard to read. “Shall we sit?”

Damned
English
and
their
infernal
good
manners.
“Of course.”

Ian’s guest sauntered over to the nearest bench, which was at least in shade and not visible from the house. He flipped out his tails, shot his cuffs, and generally tormented Ian with his fussing.

“What I’m going to relate to you is a family matter, one that has troubled me for some time. You’re courting my sister, or working up to it. Years ago there was another man, Henry Post-Williams, in a similar posture regarding my cousin. I think you’d be well within your rights to make some inquiries, because the situation was all but solemnized, and he withdrew his suit. My hands are tied, you understand.”

Ian nodded once to show he did understand. Altsax would not countenance his heir asking difficult questions. Young Daniels frowned as if gathering his thoughts for a moment then went on.

“Post-Williams was a decent fellow of modest means, but he was smitten, and I thought Gus was too… Truly smitten.”

Ian listened. He didn’t listen like a suitor intent on finding leverage before undertaking settlement negotiations—though he could smell leverage playing right into his hands. He listened like a lawyer, sifting facts and details, putting things in sequence and measuring cause and effect. He asked a few questions and listened some more.

When Daniels had thoroughly unburdened himself, Ian had to concede the Englishmen had been right to be troubled.

Bloody damned troubled.

And to hell with polite epistles to various solicitors and connections of his aunt’s in the South. Ian dashed those off—going into battle against an unscrupulous enemy a man needed every weapon he could find—but when the letters were posted, Ian also sent off a note to his neighbors.

***

“This is preposterous!
Pre
-posterous!” The baron slammed his glass down on the sideboard for emphasis. “The negotiations have opened, Balfour. You can’t tell me now you need time for further inquiries.”

“I only just met the young lady, Baron.” Balfour might be a barbarian in kilted evening attire, but he could affect a convincing lordly drawl. “Of course I have additional inquiries. Then too, I’ve only just met you.”

Damn the man! He put a world of innuendo into his tone and took a leisurely sip of his drink. The baron made a show of pacing to the window, where the interminable Scottish evening was coming to a close, the fading light showing the grounds to spectacular advantage.

Altsax had chosen so carefully. Chosen a man whose holdings were distant from Kent and London, a man who spent very little time anywhere but on his own property. He’d chosen from the Scottish peerage—a minor aristocracy if ever there was one—but grabbed for the highest title he could find. And the whole point of that careful sifting and sorting had been to ensure there would be
no
questions.

Balfour was supposed to be pathetically grateful for his good fortune,
ask
no
questions
, and cheerfully bestow his damned title on an obedient and unprotesting new wife.

The baron turned back to his host.
They’d see who could condescend to whom.
“You’re looking for a way to cry off. Not well done of you, Balfour.”

“I can hardly cry off when there’s no betrothal yet, can I? More brandy?” Balfour lifted an elaborately cut crystal decanter in one hand, the one he’d referred to as distinctive.

“Just a bit.”

Altsax let a silence stretch while he watched Balfour pour the amber liquid into his glass. Rather than bring him his drink, though, Balfour put the stopper in the decanter and left the baron’s serving sitting on the sideboard.

“I’ve directed my solicitors into the usual areas of interest,” Balfour said. “Finances, social standing, voting record in Parliament.”

“Voting record? A man votes his conscience and his duty, Balfour. My voting record can be of no interest to you.” Not that the baron troubled himself to vote unless the issue affected his own pocketbook.

“One wouldn’t want to publicly oppose one’s father-in-law on the important issues, would one?” Balfour frowned at his drink. “That’s assuming I ever join the Scottish delegation to the Lords and find the strength to tear myself away from my doting wife, hmm?”

Instincts served a man of sophistication and parts as well as education and shrewd observation, and the baron’s instincts were telling him something in the wind had shifted. Genie was spending most of her Scottish holiday in her damned room, not in flirtation with Balfour.

And earlier this week, Balfour had taken most of a morning to march around the hills with an opinionated spinster of limited means—and even more limited life expectancy.

Starting a rockslide that might have ended the earl’s life along with Augusta’s hadn’t been the most prudent course. Altsax could admit that in hindsight, but this dithering and questioning…

An idea bloomed in the baron’s awareness, a connection between seemingly unrelated events. If Augusta were to die in the near future, Genie would be cast into mourning. The wedding would have to be immediate and very quiet—very inexpensive—or the earl would have to wait at least a year for his money.

One didn’t generally mourn a cousin for a year, but one could. If one were very devoted to that cousin, one certainly could.

Altsax crossed the room to pick up his drink and salute Balfour graciously. “Make your inquiries, Balfour. Take all the time you need. When we’re enjoying your hospitality so thoroughly, what’s the rush?”

Though Genie was going to have done with cowering in her room. Rebellious females weren’t attractive to anybody.

***

Ian had thought meals were the worst. The long, leisurely suppers where the best of the estate’s produce was put before strangers to be consumed without thought on their part, and a parody of gracious company was manufactured for hours on end.

Augusta shot him curious looks, not hurt, not angry, but… considering. He tried not to look at her at all, but failed miserably. His body seemed know where she was even when his gaze was resolutely turned elsewhere.

His hands ached for the feel of her, and his heart…

God damn his bloody, stupid heart.

The meals weren’t the worst, and the nights weren’t the worst. At night he at least had the privacy of his thoughts and the pleasure of his dreams, dreams in which familial duty didn’t force him to make choices his heart knew were a recipe for misery.

The worst part of his day was the hour after dinner, when he was required by manners to retire with his brothers, the baron, and the baron’s son to the parlor designated for exclusively male congregation. Altsax smoked and hadn’t the courtesy to take his filthy habit onto the terrace.

Daniels—he was really no younger than Gilgallon—brooded and read correspondence in the corner, while Con, Gil, and Ian tried to make conversation that included guests but didn’t wander onto familial topics. In previous years, the exercise hadn’t seemed anywhere near as nerve-wracking.

“I’m for bed.” The baron weaved a little as he got to his feet. “The thin air here has me fatigued, Balfour. Meaning no insult.” The idiot smiled and took an uncertain step toward the door.

“I’ll light you up,” Gil said, getting to his feet. He rolled his eyes at Ian, out of Altsax’s line of sight, and plucked a single candle from the mantel.

Daniels rose and folded his letters and reports into a leather satchel. “I’ll join you. Balfour, good night, and thank you again for a pleasant day. Another pleasant day.”

When Ian was left alone with Con, he realized his brother had the look of a man with something to say.

“Spit it out, Connor. I’m about dead on my feet from the effort of being charming the livelong damned day.”

Con cocked his head and regarded Ian with the aggravating acumen of a younger sibling. “It never seemed to wear on you before.”

“I was never stalking a bride before.” Ian considered another drink and decided against it. “Let’s go out on the terrace. Altsax has left this place reeking.”

Con nodded but said nothing further until they’d gained the fresh night air.

“Are you stalking your bride, Ian?”

“Fair question.”
Awkward
, fair question. “She rode between me and Gil yesterday, she walked in the garden with me today after lunch, she sat next to me this morning at breakfast, and yet all the while, I have the sense she’s not really
here
.”

“Like I have the sense you’re not really here?”

Ian blew out a breath and scrubbed a hand over his face. “What are you trying to tell me, Connor?”

Con ambled off a few steps and kept his back to Ian. There was light coming from a few of the windows, which meant had he been facing his brother, Ian might have had a chance to read his brother’s expression. He read his posture instead—tense, burdened, tired.

“Connor, we’ve always been honest with each other. I’m too exhausted to settle anything with fists tonight.”

“And Gil’s not on hand to referee. Do you want to marry this woman, Ian?”

“I want to provide for my family. I want to
have
a family. It’s one of the many burdens attendant to bearing a title. Fee needs cousins.”

“Yes, and we all want Asher to come home, but that’s not going to happen. If you don’t marry Genie…”

“I’m going to marry Genie if it kills me.”

“I’ve been a wee bit naughty.” Con didn’t sound even a wee bit contrite—he sounded bemused. Ian walked around his brother so they were facing each other.

“At least somebody’s having some fun. Am I to be an uncle again, Con?”

“Not on my account, but Gil saw me leaving Mrs. Redmond’s bedroom of a night.”

Ian chose his words carefully and spoke with studied neutrality. “You would not force yourself on an unwilling woman, and Mrs. Redmond is a widow.” Widows were fair game;
spinsters
were
not.
Not even the ones who’d been misguided into surrendering their virginity long, lonely years ago, much less the ones who’d indulged in a single, understandable,
unforgettable
lapse thereafter.

“So you wouldn’t banish me to the west for trifling with a guest?” Con made the question an even greater study in neutrality.

“Who’d keep the stable lads in line if you took to the mountains?” Con’s shoulders relaxed a trifle at Ian’s rejoinder. “So have you trifled with her?”

“I have not.”
Yet.
Ian understood his brother clearly. Connor enjoyed the ladies, and the ladies enjoyed Con. The lucky little widow’s fate was sealed. “Or, I haven’t trifled with her any more than she’s trifled with me.”

“One likes a sense of fairness in one’s recreation.”

“So if Gil tattles, you’ll be surprised? He hates keeping confidences.”

“If Gil tattles, I shall reel with indignation that you were so clumsy as to be caught by your brother somewhere that might reflect poorly on a lady’s reputation. Now get to bed. I have to practice my reeling in private.”

Con grinned, nodded, and sauntered back toward the house, punching Ian on the arm as he passed him.

At
least
somebody
was
enjoying
himself
this
summer.
Ian eyed the house behind him and concluded more fresh air was in order. He had just decided which shadowed bench would best serve for a bout of sighing and brooding when a voice came out of the darkness.

“For a man intent on marriage to my cousin, you’ve done precious little proposing to her.”

Ten

Matthew and his pretentious little schoolboy sack of letters turned right at the bottom of the stairs. The baron watched his son disappear down a gloomy corridor, wondering why such a devoted papa as himself was abruptly being cursed with multiple displays of rebellion among his progeny.

When the baron and the Balfour spare got to the first landing, the baron headed left. “I’d like to bid my daughter good night, if you don’t mind.”