Bridegroom Wore Plaid (35 page)

He scanned the contents of the Prince Consort’s epistle, then got up to pace. It wasn’t simply a rejection of the weekend’s invitation. It was a regret for the ball but an acceptance for the next day’s hunt—along with a tidily noted addendum to the body of the letter. Those few words contained information that could bring everything the baron held dear—his wealth, his rank, his influence, his
title
—crashing down around him in disgrace if he were not exceedingly careful.

He pocketed the letter and headed for his room.

***

Mary Fran’s full lips were compressed, and her expression suggested to Augusta that she hated the summer ball. Not the planning and organizing of it, not seeing her brothers in all their Highland finery, not seeing how excited Fee got as the day drew closer.

She hated the ball itself.

“You are glowering, my lady. Have I done something to offend?” Augusta posed the question gently, lest Mary Fran direct that glower at her.

“All this nonsense offends,” Mary Fran said, glancing around the ballroom. “There won’t be a flower left in the garden, and the ice alone will beggar us.”

“He’ll come back, Mary Fran.” Augusta couldn’t keep the words behind her teeth, given the memories Mary Fran had of balls and swains and the consequences those associations had to bear for her. “Matthew is honorable. If he told you and Fee he’d be back, he will be.”

“I’m that obvious?”

“You’re that in love.”

Rather than meet Mary Fran’s gaze, Augusta busied herself arranging flowers for a small centerpiece. To her pleasure and surprise, Mary Fran had been willing to follow Augusta’s suggestion to keep the centerpieces low and therefore simple, and to use mostly heather to keep the air fresh and the tenor of the gathering Scottish.

“You wouldn’t begrudge me your cousin’s affections?” Mary Fran put her question quite casually and nudged at the flowers on the next table over.

“Let’s take a break,” Augusta said. “And no, we will not ring for tea.”

She linked her arm through Mary Fran’s and led the way out to the terraces, where footmen were setting up torches and tables, and maids scurried in all directions. Mary Fran drew out her pocket flask when she and Augusta got to the first bench behind the privet hedge.

“A medicinal nip is in order.” Mary Fran passed over the little leather-covered flask, and Augusta opened the thing without even glancing around to see which of the maids and footmen were remarking this departure from strict decorum.

“Powerful medicine.” And there was a kind of nourishment in its heat that had nothing to do with keeping the belly quiet.

“Each time we put on one of these fancy-dress affairs, I hate it a little more.” Mary Fran had never sounded so weary of spirit, so disenchanted.

After a few more desultory exchanges, Mary Fran closed her eyes and tipped her head back to rest it against the sturdy gray stones of Balfour House.

“Matthew will lead you out, and then you won’t hate it so much ever again,” Augusta said.

Mary Fran was quiet for a moment before replying. “What gave us away?”

The whisky was making them brave, or foolish. In either case, Augusta wasn’t going to dissemble. “You look at Matthew the way I look at Ian.”

***

“You don’t wait up for me.” Ian’s first boot hit the floor with a thump. “Is that because you know I’ll spend every minute I can with you—despite all sense and intentions to the contrary—or because you believe each visit is the last?”

His second boot came off, and then he was removing his clothing in an order Augusta had come to know as his routine: waistcoat, shirt, stockings, breeches. He was completely at home in his skin, which only made what she had to tell him all the more difficult.

“You might have reason not to stay with me tonight.”

He looked up from where he was using the wash water across the room, his expression wary. “And why is that?”

She searched for words while he frowned at her. “I am indisposed.”

“Indis—oh.” His expression shifted from guarded to sympathetic in a blink. “I can fetch you a wee dram. Mary Fran swears by it when she’s crampy.”

“No, thank you. I’m not uncomfortable, just untidy.”

“Augusta Merrick, if you think I’m going to let that stop me from joining you in that bed… The ball is in a few days, the shoot the following morning. Our time is running out.”

“I read over the contracts again today.” Twice, and she couldn’t escape the nagging feeling there were loopholes in them somewhere. Loopholes large enough that she could sight some happiness through them—for Ian, for Genie, and maybe even a little bit for herself.

“You should have the documents damned well memorized by now. Scoot over.” He took over the bed like an incoming tide. She could scoot or not; it made no difference, because he’d put her exactly where he wanted her. With equal parts strength and care, he’d shift her around on the bed, move pillows, and rearrange covers until things were to his liking.

“What do you know of the Gribbony barony, my heart?” He enveloped her from behind, his arm coming around her waist.

“You’ve asked me that before. I’m not even sure where it is—not far from the border, I think.”

“North or south of the border?” Through her nightgown she could feel his hand move lower, over her womb.

“North. It’s an old Scottish title. That’s all I know of it. My grandfather was quite proud of it, and Papa referred to it as part of my birthright.”

“You’re sure it’s Scottish?”

“A Lord of Parliament, which I think can only be Scottish.”

“Aye, our version of a barony. You’d tell me if you hurt, wouldn’t you, Augusta?”

She sighed as his hand began to gently knead her belly. “I’d tell you that feels lovely.”

He was silent for a long moment, his hand working wonders, his very presence a comfort beyond words. “I never meant to hurt you, Augusta. I’m more sorry for that than I can say.”

She rolled over to peer at him in the moon shadows. “It isn’t like that, Ian. To think of you having to marry another… that is painful, but I want you to be happy. To think of never having shared this bed with you, to think of never having known you intimately… that would be
unbearable
.” She meant every word, despite the lump in her throat, despite the tears pricking the backs of her eyes.

This was what it meant to love a man, to be in love with him, but those words would only hurt him.

“I do not deserve these sentiments, lass.”

“You do not deserve to be forced into marriage with a woman who cannot appreciate you.”

He again looked like he’d say something, then sighed and nuzzled her neck instead—an admission that they were once more at
point
non
plus
. She arranged him in her arms, his cheek pillowed on her shoulder, and held him until sleep claimed them both.

***

Ian sifted and sorted through his mail one more time, but the contents remained the same.

“What are you looking for?” Gil closed the door as he entered the library.

“I don’t know. A sign from God, a letter from the damned solicitors, something from that Post-Williams fellow…”

Gil sidled over and propped a hip on the desk. “Post-who fellow?”

“He jilted Augusta, though he thinks she did the jilting.”

“That doesn’t make sense. Who jilted whom is hard to mistake, but what relevance is it to you?”

“Augusta Merrick’s situation troubles me.”

Gil crossed his arms, pursed his lips and quirked one eyebrow. Ian shoved out of his chair and crossed to the sideboard.

“She’s the poor relation, Gil, but she had marital prospects that mysteriously disappeared exactly when she needed them most. I’m in a position to investigate this mystery, and I owe the woman.”

“What do you owe her?”

“Excuse me?” Hester Daniels stood in the door, looking young, pretty, and uncertain. How much had she overheard?

“Miss Hester, you’re looking quite fetching today.” Ian smiled at the girl, glad to have somebody derail Gil’s interrogation.

“Miss Hester.” Gil’s signature smile would have blinded entire convents of nuns. “What have you there?”

“It’s a letter addressed to his lordship.” She advanced into the room, pulling the door closed behind her. “I’m not sure how it came to be with my own correspondence, but I thought you should have it.” She passed Ian a plain missive with a return address in Kent.

“My thanks, Miss Hester. Will you be joining the ladies on the lawn when we shoot this weekend?”

She grimaced. “The sight of dead animals…”

“We’ll spare you that,” Gil assured her. “We field dress the game in the woods, and it goes straight to the venison locker or the kitchens. Have you ever fired a gun, Miss Hester?”

“Papa is a crack shot, but no, I’ve never felt the inclination.”

“Perhaps you’ll let me show you how it’s done?” Gil somehow put humility into his flirtation. The man was truly amazing. “When we’re finished in the woods, I’ll find you.”

“I’ll be guarding the desserts.” She dipped a little curtsy and left them alone, taking Gil’s smiles with her.

“What was that about?” Ian asked. He frowned at the envelope she’d passed him. Whom did he know in Kent?

“Hester goes with Annie down to the village to get the mail each morning,” Gil said. “If something showed up in her correspondence, it’s because she put it there.”

“What are you saying, Gilgallon? I do not attribute nefarious motives to that girl, though her father is another matter.”

Gil’s frown became thoughtful. “Maybe it’s her father’s tampering she’s trying to protect us from.”

“What do you mean?” But as he asked the question, Ian had a mental vision of the baron sitting by the windows reading, every morning after breakfast. Reading while the post would have been brought in…

“The baron tampered with Augusta’s mail,” Ian said slowly. “She’s almost sure of it. The only letters to get through to her were from Hester, who was off in boarding school. Her cousins never got her letters to them, either.”

Gil grimaced. “One or two letters going astray is not unusual… Whom is this one from?”

Ian opened the letter, a single page in a tidy, legible handwriting.

“Henry Post-Williams, Augusta’s jilt. I honestly didn’t expect to hear back from him.”

“What does he have to say?”

Ian started reading, and when he was through, he began cursing in four different languages.

***

“I took the liberty of having Genie execute the contracts.” The baron smiled at his host as he fired off that cannon, but Balfour did an admirable job of showing no reaction.

“Is that prudent, Baron? I might make changes to the documents after she’s put her hand to them.”

“And then she’d have to initial each change, or I’d have grounds for accusing you of bad faith.”

Balfour appeared to consider the baron’s friendly reminder, passing over a tumbler of whisky as he did. “Did you have her signature witnessed?”

“Of course, Balfour. She’s of age, so I had my valet and footman serve as witnesses. Excellent drink, as always.”

“To your health.” Balfour saluted with his drink, the man’s hands remarkably steady for an earl who’d just lost his every freedom. He’d marry Genie; he’d vote the way Altsax told him to; he’d be seen where and when Altsax directed. All in all, the earl was about to become a neutered Scottish hound on a very short, tight English leash.

The pleasure of that image was almost… sexual.

“You will understand if I am not quite ready to sign the documents myself?” Balfour sauntered over to the window. “I have yet to hear from any reliable source regarding the income from the Gribbony barony.”

Nor would he. Altsax pasted a comparably bland expression on his face and joined his host at the window. “The Gribbony barony is more ceremonial than anything else, not even a true barony, really, but one of those old Scottish squiredoms. The income is negligible. I can give you my word on that.”

Balfour studied his drink. “That leaves me with a mystery, then, Altsax, because the income reflected from the Altsax properties is also negligible—your solicitors were forthcoming in that regard—and I’m unaware of investments that would account for the rest of what you claim is the family’s income.”

“What exactly are you implying?” Altsax injected as much frost as possible into his tone. “You bruit it about that my finances are anything but spotlessly in order, Balfour, and I will shut down this little hostel you’re running in the Queen’s backyard, ruin your brothers’ prospects in trade, and see what remains of your sister’s reputation dragged through the sewers.”

Balfour smiled slightly and took a measured sip of his drink. “Bad form, Baron, threatening the prospective groom before the documents are signed. I want the funds Genie will bring to the marriage—on that let there be no mistake—but I’m beginning to see those funds might come at too high a price.”