Bridegroom Wore Plaid (37 page)

That stopped whatever tirade the baron had been winding up to. “Julia is going to stoop to taking that… that kilted brute to the altar?”

“That brute is my baby brother, Baron. Smile. This is a social occasion, and these people are my friends and neighbors.”

The baron didn’t smile, but he wiped the incredulity from his face. “I’ll take matters into my own hands, Balfour. Make the announcement myself.”

“And won’t that look odd, with nary a single Scottish groom to be seen when you do?”

Ian walked off, letting the baron sputter himself to silence. From the corner of Ian’s eye, he saw Mary Fran standing by the door, her expression perfectly serene except for the anxiety pinching the corners of her smile. Daniels the Younger had better be showing up soon, or Ian would be the one sputtering.

He conferred with the concertmaster—his third cousin, Doungal MacGregor—and made sure the drink was flowing freely. Ian was running out of ways to stall when he spotted his quarry.

In a gown that appeared to have been sewn onto her, Augusta looked magnificent. She’d piled some of her hair softly upon her head but left long, fat curls draping down over her pale shoulders. Ian took the space of two breaths just to drink in the sight of her.

Magnificent, lovely, beautiful… neither English nor Gaelic had vocabulary sufficient to do justice to the lady, or to the feelings the sight of her engendered in Ian’s heart.

Doungal caught Ian’s nod and signaled to the orchestra to put down their drinks and take their places. While the entire room looked on, Ian crossed the empty dance floor to Augusta’s side.

“My lady, you are a vision.”

She dipped a graceful curtsy. “My lord, I am indebted to your sister for my borrowed finery.”

He leaned nearer but spoke loudly enough to be overheard by the crowd. “Perhaps your finery is borrowed, but as for what’s in it, we can give fervent thanks only to the Almighty. May I have this dance, Miss Merrick?”

A little color came into her cheeks, though she remained composed. Her smile was sweet and genuine, not a ballroom showpiece intended to condescend. “I would be honored.”

He led her out to the center of the room, her gloved hand resting on his knuckles. He’d quite honestly expected a little more of a fight from her, but he wanted the baron—and the baron’s society—to understand that Augusta Merrick had allies. Admirers, even, because Con and Gil were going to see to it the woman danced every dance.

“I need to speak to you.” Augusta’s voice was calm, but as he took her in his arms, Ian felt the tension in her body.

“Can’t we just enjoy a dance, Augusta? The damned baron is yapping at my heels, Genie’s looking tragic, Gil is muttering about hanging felonies, Mary Fran can’t take her eyes off the door, and Con has gone calf-eyed over the widow.”

The orchestra started the introduction. Augusta curtsied, Ian bowed, and the waltz began.

She was like holding music in his arms. Sweet, lyrical, warm, and feminine, but substantial too. Ian thought back to his first glimpse of her—gangly, awkward, graceless, and plain but for her startling eyes. How wrong he’d been, except he had the sense she hadn’t even seen herself accurately that day at the train station.

“You’re fretting,” he said as Con and Julia joined them on the floor, followed by Gil and Genie.

“I’ve done something, Ian.” Like Mary Fran, Augusta’s anxiety was well hidden unless a man knew where to look. “Something you will not like, but I assure you, I had the consent of all parties. All the relevant parties.”

She spoke so earnestly while she floated in his arms.

“Well, we’re even then, because I’m going to do things tonight I can’t expect anybody to approve of.”

“Ian?”

“I’m the head of this family, Augusta. I have to do what I think is right for the whole family.”

“What does that mean?”

He pulled her a little closer on a sweeping turn, wishing he could just waltz her out to the gardens and explain himself to her—though he couldn’t. Not until Matthew Daniels was again in their midst.

“It means whatever you hear the baron saying, whatever announcements he might trump up, you must not lose faith in me. I cannot marry Genie.”

She searched his face, seeming to come to some conclusion. “No, you cannot.” She smiled a little—wistfully, it seemed to him—and came more fully into his arms. It wasn’t so much a matter of their bodies being closer as it was of her allowing him more responsibility for her balance.

And for the rest of the dance, he was torn between the pleasure of holding the woman he loved in his arms—for he did love her—and the need to keep a sharp eye on the baron.

And on Mary Fran.

And Con.

And Gil.

And even on Fiona, who was spying on them from the minstrel’s gallery, her face pressed between the balusters.

“Ian?”

“
Beloved?
” He kept his voice down, because many in the room would understand the Gaelic.

“Whatever transpires later tonight, please know that”—Augusta met his gaze only fleetingly—“I will never care for another as I do for you.”

He should have grabbed those words to his heart and hoarded them up for his own pleasure. Instead, he frowned down at her.

“You’re scaring me, Augusta Merrick. What have you done?” If she’d taken on the old bastard Altsax by herself, he was going to shake her, assembled nobility be damned.

Before she could answer, the music drew to a close, and yet, Ian did not let her go. “Augusta, tell me.”

She reached up to run her fingers down the soft wool of his plaid waistcoat. “I did what I had to do, Ian. Don’t be angry.”

And then she was gone, leaving Ian to realize the baron was scowling mightily and angling to intercept her. Smart lady, she shifted course for the punch bowl, which was thronged with neighbors all too willing to get to know the woman whom Ian had broken protocol to dance with.

“He’s still not here.” Mary Fran spoke through clenched teeth as Ian gained the edge of the ballroom.

“He sent a telegram, Mary Fran. He’ll be here.” Ian gave her shoulder a squeeze. “Stay close to Augusta. She’s done something to incur Altsax’s wrath, and I can’t be by her side every minute.”

Mary Fran looked intrigued, then nodded and moved off toward Augusta.

One disaster averted. Gil was escorting Genie off the dance floor, trading partners with Con as if by arrangement. Genie was still looking haunted, probably dreading the dance Ian himself would share with her.

His moment came before supper, when he’d danced and flirted and charmed and smiled until his teeth ached—all the while intercepting desperate looks from Mary Fran and trying to keep watch over Augusta. The neighbors—mindful of whose plaid Augusta wore—were keeping Altsax from Augusta’s side, and Ian’s opportunities to speak with his former intended were dwindling.

“May I have this dance?” He recited his part of the litany, but Genie just stared at him, so he moved a little closer. “For God’s sake, smile, or your papa will be here to know the reason why.”

Her lips curved woodenly.

It was a landler, an old-fashioned partner dance enjoying a revival on the Continent, a dance that would allow Ian some chance to warn the lady of the brewing storm.

“Pay attention, Genie.” He smiled and nodded, then turned away in the prescribed steps of the dance. “When you see your brother in the ballroom, get you to Gilgallon’s side. Tear a hem, develop a megrim, do what you need to do to get to Gil.”

She nodded, holding his gaze, but Ian honestly couldn’t say if she comprehended his words.

“I’m not going to marry you, Genie Daniels.”

“What will you do?”

Ah, so there was intelligent life behind those frightened blue eyes.

“You’ll be safe,” he said. “Gil will make sure of that.”

“You should marry Augusta.”

He nearly stumbled, so great was his surprise. “Miss Augusta can look forward to being courted by a Mr. Henry Post-Williams, a wealthy man much respected in English social circles.”

Impatience flashed across Genie’s features. “Don’t be an ass, Ian MacGregor. She belongs with you, and you belong with her. I saw you coming across the park when you came back from that hike, and she’d nearly been hurt by the landslide. You didn’t want to let her out of your sight.”

He lost his rhythm for a moment then recovered. “I need to marry money, and Augusta deserves to resume her place in proper society. You’ll keep an eye on Gil?”

“I always do.”

Her smile was sad but genuine, and Ian realized whatever her hesitations and fears regarding marriage to the titled stranger chosen by her parents, they surely did not apply where Gil was concerned.

Which was a fine thing, considering she was going to end up wedded to the man.

***

“You’re up to something.” The baron’s breath would have knocked a Highland regiment flat, but Augusta stood her ground among the potted ferns at the edge of the ballroom.

“I’m enjoying my first ball in years, Uncle. I think Hester and Genie are having a fine time as well.”

His fingers closed painfully around her arm just above the elbow, where her evening gloves would hide any bruises. “Let them dance. This time tomorrow, Genie will be all but leg-shackled to Balfour, and I can depart for more civilized surrounds shortly thereafter.”

Augusta turned so she broke his hold. “Genie has already signed the contracts.”

“Of course she has, and I had her signature witnessed. Her tears of happiness were very affecting.” He made another grab for her arm, one Augusta thought might have been rendered a tad clumsy with drink. She lifted her wrist corsage to her nose, blocking his maneuver easily.

“The groom has signed the documents as well, Uncle. His own brother witnessed his signature. You need not fret any further over Genie’s future.”

“The groom…?” Altsax’s expression turned crafty. “I knew he’d see reason. Has a certain animal cunning, Balfour does. And the settlements are really most favorable to him monetarily.”

“I’ve wondered about that.” Augusta took a step back and shook out her skirts. “Where does the money come from, Uncle? Your baronies are not that lucrative, and you claim Trevisham was riddled with debt. How can you afford to buy Genie this title and still plan on doing the same for Hester?”

His expression became, if anything, uglier. “You’re as bad as Balfour, insinuating and implying about you know not what. The contracts are signed, and I don’t owe you any explanations, my girl. You’ve been luckier than you know to rusticate away these years. Luckier than you deserve.”

He spun on his heel, listed a little into a man standing to his left, righted himself, and stalked off, leaving Augusta to eye the door and wonder how much longer she could bear to watch Ian dancing and smiling as if he hadn’t a care in the world.

***

Ian had spent supper at a table reserved for him, his siblings, his intended bride, her father, sister, and aunt. Augusta was noticeably absent from the family group, but Mary Fran was at his elbow, her every other glance going toward the door. Con and Gil were looking no more settled than their sister, while Julia and Hester’s attempts to carry the small talk were flagging.

The baron raised his wine glass and aimed a tobacco-stained grin at Ian. “Balfour, I commend you on a delightful evening, but it’s time to accept your fate. People are drifting off to the gardens, and the dancing will soon resume. Let’s have an announcement, shall we?”

Where
the
hell
was
Augusta?

“Matthew!” Mary Fran’s whisper carried directly to Ian’s heart, the relief in her gaze suggesting she’d known exactly what Ian had charged the man with before his departure.

“Fine, Baron.” Ian took a sip of good whisky. “An announcement you shall have.” He dithered, straightening his sporran and fussing with the tucks of his kilt until Daniels had made his way across the dining room.

“Balfour, apologies for my tardiness. Baron, sisters, Aunt, Lady Mary Fran, I bid you a very good evening.” Daniels’s grave tone was at variance with his convivial words. Contrary to the rest of the gathering, he was in riding attire, his hair windblown, his clothes still reeking of dust and horse.

“Daniels, I trust your sortie was successful?” Ian put the question quietly as he got to his feet.

“Entirely successful, my lord.”

Ian passed him his unfinished whisky, catching a surreptitious wink from Daniels as he accepted the glass.

The man did have Scots blood in him, a cheering thought given the occasion.

“My lords, my ladies, friends, and neighbors.” Ian’s voice carried across the room, creating a hush worthy of a royal proclamation. “It is always a fine occasion when we gather with our dear ones to celebrate the joys of summer, and this year my family is particularly blessed. It is my privilege and my pleasure as head of the MacGregor family to announce that Miss Eugenia Daniels, daughter of Willard Daniels, Baron of Altsax and Gribbony, and our guest for these past few weeks, will be joining the MacGregor family. Her brother, Matthew, has been good enough to procure a special license for the occasion, and I’m sure you’ll join with me in congratulating
my
brother
Gilgallon
Concannon
MacGregor
on his great good fortune.”