It's Getting Scot in Here

by Suzanne Enoch

  Taking and holding a deep breath, Amelia-Rose stood, nodded, and ascended the single step to the raised stage. Four dozen faces gazed at her expectantly, at least a third of them more than likely hoping she would be all thumbs. Another third didn’t care and had come to the recital for the punch and biscuits, while the last third claimed to be supportive but knew that a horrid showing made for a much better tale.

  The benefit, then, seemed mainly to play well and leave everyone with nothing to say about her. Well, she could manage that. Sitting before the pianoforte, she set her music on the stand, flexed her fingers, and began playing. “Mungo’s Delight” was a pretty piece, not particularly difficult, but she was only there not to make a mistake. She needed all the perfection she could get hold of.

  Amelia-Rose played the country dance all the way through, careful not to speed up as she neared the end, and then set her hands back in her lap. The applause sounded sincere—and so did the whistle cutting through it. Startled, she turned to look.

  Niall sat a seat away from her mother, a grin on his face as he put two fingers to his mouth and whistled again. Hurriedly she stood, curtsied, and headed for her chair, then had to return for her music again. Dash it all.

  “What are you doing here?” she whispered, taking her place between him and her mother.

  He lifted a bouquet of white and pink roses and handed them to her. “Eloise told me where ye’d be. Since it sounded formal, I thought I’d best bring ye some posies. Ye play well, adae.”

  The flowers were very pretty, and as his hand brushed hers, she felt … No. She felt annoyed. He was making a scene, and it included her. “Thank you,” she said stiffly, “but you haven’t answered my question. What are you doing here?”

  “Coll wanted to come,” he returned, his voice just loud enough that those directly around them could overhear. “I reckon he ate some Sassenach food, because he’s nae too well today. But he wanted me to tell ye that he’d be pleased and proud to escort ye and yer ma and da to the ball tomorrow, and for me to ask what time ye’d care for him to call on ye.”

  Amelia-Rose wasn’t certain she believed a word of that, but it did sound plausible, and it gave him an excuse for being there that didn’t include one of them being infatuated with the other—which neither of them was. One couldn’t be infatuated after only four meetings. Five including this one, though of course she wasn’t keeping count. She looked at her mother. “Shall we say eight o’clock?” she suggested.

  Victoria sent a tight-lipped smile past her in Niall’s direction. “Yes, that would be acceptable. Most persons would send over a note to inquire.”

  “Coll said I should deliver the flowers in person,” he returned, plucking one of the rose petals from her bouquet and lifting it to his nose. “Roses for a rose.”

  “Amelia-Rose,” Mrs. Baxter countered, her teeth clenched. “If you mean to remain here, Mr. MacTaggert, for heaven’s sake do stop whistling and making a scene.”

  “How else is a man to let a lass know he reckons she’s talented?” he drawled, lifting an eyebrow and clearly untroubled by the censure.

  Seeing her mother flummoxed was rather remarkable. “Applause is acceptable,” Victoria said tightly. “As is standing while applauding if it is something you truly admire. Anything else is gauche and barbaric.”

  When Amelia-Rose caught sight of Niall’s profile, he was still smiling. “Stop it,” she breathed.

  “I’m gauche and barbaric,” he returned in the same low tone she’d used. “Even so, by yer own rules, Sassenach, I outrank yer ma. If I didnae, I’ve nae doubt she would have tossed my posies on the floor and stomped on them. But I have the power the lot of ye gave me, and so she cannae.”

  Her breath caught. “Your posies?” she pushed, ignoring the rest of his anarchy. He had brought her flowers. He’d done it. And not on anyone else’s behest.

  His mouth twitched. “Coll’s posies,” he amended.

  She didn’t believe him. The flowers had been his idea, and she imagined that bothering to track her down at a recital, of all things, had been his idea as well. It didn’t have to mean anything, of course; some flowers were a small-enough price to pay to keep his brother in her and her mother’s good graces.

  But it did mean something to her. Or rather, she wanted it to mean something. What, she didn’t dare decipher. “Are you going to stay?” she asked under her breath.

  “Are ye going up there again?”

  “Yes. I’ll play again just before the end of the recital.”

  He sank back on the narrow chair and crossed his ankles in front of him, long, lanky, and indescribably compelling. “Then I reckon I’ll stay. Coll likes music, ye ken.”

  “Bagpipe music, yes? Not pianoforte music.”

  “We’ve nae listened to much pianoforte music. Pipes have an old, mournful sound to ’em, even in a reel. The pianoforte is gentler, like a conversation and nae a lament. I like it.”

  That was surprisingly thoughtful. “I’m impressed,” she whispered.

  “Actually it made me want to dance with ye, but since ye were playing the tune, I reckoned that would be a poor idea.”

  Amelia-Rose was more than half certain he was bamming her again, but it didn’t seem worth taking the risk of assuming he was jesting. “No one dances at a recital, no matter who is playing,” she cautioned, forcing herself to move past the image in her mind of her holding hands with Niall as they stepped through the country dance. Her fingers twitched, the image was so vivid. Stop it, she ordered herself.

  “Good thing ye told me,” he returned, shifting a breath closer to her. “Have ye considered what I said at the picnic?” he said almost soundlessly. “That ye may not want to be what Coll wants ye to be?”

  “I thought you were here on his behalf.”

  “I am. Mostly.”

  Amelia-Rose could hear the other young ladies—and their mamas—around her, discussing in murmured tones how very handsome this Highlander was, even if his manners were atrocious. She could hear them passing on the tale of how while his brother was very nearly promised to Miss Baxter, both of the younger MacTaggerts were unattached.

  “Ye’ve naught to say about that?” he went on, his voice flatter. “I suppose that’s an answer, too, then.”

  “You’re only teasing me.”

  “Am I?”

  “My parents and your mother signed an agreement. I would very much like not to be a part of it, but I am. Don’t make things more difficult.” She took a breath. There she went, being too outspoken again, when mostly she just wanted … No. That wouldn’t help anything. “Tell me something else pleasant about your brother. Be his advocate again.”

  “Nae. I reckon I’m nae in the mood. I reckon I’ll sit here in silence and look solemn and brooding.”

  He wasn’t going to march off and embarrass her. Perhaps that wasn’t what she was supposed to take away from his statement, but that was what took hold in her heart and didn’t let go. Niall MacTaggert liked her, enjoyed her company, and while she felt precisely the same, she’d told him to stop it. And he still remained beside her, when he could easily hurt her fragile reputation.

  Oh, this was confusing. It didn’t help that the man seated and attempting to brood beside her—three inches above six feet, lean and hard-muscled, very like the ancient pagan god she’d imagined him to be when she’d first set eyes on him—simply couldn’t be ignored. That undertone of wildness to him made her wonder whether he meant to behave, or if he might just stand up and dance after all. Or suddenly decide to kiss her. She took a slow breath. Thank goodness she couldn’t be chastised for thinking improper things, or she would be in a great deal of trouble.

  “Tell me, Niall,” she whispered, not satisfied with gazing at his profile in silence, “once your brother is wed, will you return to Scotland?”

  “Are we friendly again, then?”

  “Were we not? It was a disagreement, not a battle.” That sounded like something she should say, anyway.
<
br />   “If ye’d been a Highlander, we’d have to make amends over a whisky and then throw some darts or someaught.”

  “At each other? Good heavens.”

  He snorted. “I’d return if I could,” he said, evidently accepting her explanation. “Lady Aldriss’s got it in her mind that Aden and I both have to marry English lasses. I’m nae certain if it’s because she reckons that’ll see us back in London more often, or if she means for them to civilize us.”

  “That doesn’t seem fair,” she commented, realizing she’d spoken too loudly when her mother sent her an annoyed glance.

  “Aye. I dunnae want to be civilized.”

  She’d been thinking more about the idea of him marrying just because his mother said so. She didn’t have much choice, herself; at nineteen she couldn’t wed without her parents’ approval, and she had no means other than that which they provided her. He, however, didn’t act as if he was beholden to anyone. “You’re a man grown, and not the heir. Couldn’t you do as you wished?”

  “Aldriss’s nae a wealthy property,” he murmured, his tone intimate. His fingers brushed the edge of her gown, and a slow shiver went up her spine. “When someone else holds the purse strings, it’s nae an easy thing to stomp yer boots and declare ye’ve nae wish to be part of the foolishness.”

  Perhaps they weren’t so different after all. “Oh, I understand that. But—”

  “Amelia-Rose,” her mother hissed. “For heaven’s sake. You don’t need to charm him.”

  All the blood left her face. Obviously he’d heard that; half the audience probably had. When she glanced at him, though, a half smile curved his mouth. Before she could face forward again, he caught her gaze with those impossibly light-green eyes of his. “Too late. I’m already charmed, adae. Whether ye dunnae wish me to tell ye so or not.”

  And she was charmed, as well. If only he’d been the oldest MacTaggert. If only her mother wasn’t mad for a title in the family. If only, if only, if only.

  Chapter Seven

  “Ye didnae have to say I would escort them,” Coll grumbled, pulling on his jacket and glowering while Oscar smoothed out any wrinkles across his shoulders. “Meeting them there would’ve sufficed, aye?”

  “It might have,” Niall agreed, tossing an apple in the air and catching it again. “If ye hadnae vanished five minutes into yer first meeting and then become a ghost fer the next five days. I’ve run through my damned list of manly ailments and acceptable business dealings ye could be up to.”

  “That’s nae on me; I told ye I dunnae want an English lass. Even less one that spits back at me after three minutes of conversation. Where are the lasses Da told us about? The ones who’ll do as we say and dunnae care where their husbands might be?”

  Niall dug his fingers into the apple before he resuming tossing it again. “She gave ye the answer ye deserved, ye clod. Be polite to her, and ye may find she’s polite to ye. This isnae her fault. Her parents signed an agreement the same way ours did. Ye might even consider telling her what ye want. Mayhap she’d want to stay behind in London.”

  He could believe that, since she seemed to enjoy Town far more than he could ever imagine doing. The part she might object to was being left behind while Coll went back to the Highlands to bed whomever he wished, only to return when he wanted to get himself an heir. That could be a problem, but it wasn’t his to worry over, thank God. He had his own bride to find, and that fascinating golden-haired lass wasn’t available. Even if he imagined she wished she was. Even if he knew he wished she was.

  The viscount turned around so Oscar could adjust his cravat. “If that’s so, we should get on with marrying. Nae need fer me to dress up like a dandy and prance about.”

  A couple of days ago, Niall might have agreed with him. Making Amelia-Rose’s acquaintance had given him some perspective on the importance of appearances to those who spent their time in Mayfair. “The lass would look on ye more kindly if it at least appeared like ye cared enough to try to win her affection, ye great lummox. Ye’d nae have liked it if she’d stomped off and left ye sitting.”

  With a perfunctory knock on the half-open door, Aden joined them in Coll’s bedchamber. “Niall’s got the right of it, Coll. Ye ken ye need to wed the lass. Do it with a smile and ye’ll at least be able to sleep at night without worrying that she’ll slit yer throat while ye snore in yer marriage bed. And if ye get her with a son on yer first night, ye’ll nae have to return except to collect the lad.”

  In response to that, Niall clenched his jaw. Both his brothers could be ham-fisted when the mood struck them. Amelia-Rose didn’t deserve the resentment being piled on her. Nor would she enjoy Coll climbing on top of her when neither of them wanted to be there. The idea of the two of them together in bed, even if they did find some common respect, made his blood boil.

  He shook himself. They were to be married, unless Coll couldn’t behave himself for ten minutes. They needed to be married, for the sake of Aldriss Park. In logical terms it all made sense. Whenever he closed his damned eyes, though, he saw her smiling, the surprised quirk of her mouth when he demonstrated that he had wits, and the bright-blue sadness in her eyes when she asked him whether Coll would like her better if she was meek.

  That thought brought him back to the idea of his brother kissing her, bedding her—Niall stood up. “Get on with it, will ye?” he snapped.

  Lord Glendarril lifted an eyebrow. “With what?”

  “Ye’d best arrive to Baxter House on time, or they’ll reckon ye’ve run for it again.”

  Coll scowled. “Ye’re coming with me, Niall.”

  “Nae. I’ll nae fit in the coach with ye and the three Baxters.”

  “I’m nae—”

  “The curtains will be open. Ye’ve ridden in a coach before.”

  A hand thudded down on his shoulder as he reached the door. “I’m nae objecting to the carriage. Ye’re the one who arranged this,” the viscount rumbled. “I’m nae certain ye arenae throwing me to the wolves now.”

  Shrugging free of his brother’s grip, Niall turned around. “I did arrange this. I also arranged to sit beside Amelia-Rose for the rest of the play ye missed—which had a bonny Juliet, by the by—and I took her to coffee when it was supposed to be ye, and I escorted her to a frilly picnic luncheon in yer stead, and I brought her flowers from ye at a bloody recital yesterday to make certain she’d bother with ye again.” And he’d gone riding with her, but his brothers didn’t need to know that. “Go yer damned self, Coll.”

  “Niall, y—”

  Niall yanked open the door. “Aden and I’ll meet ye there,” he said over his shoulder, “but I’m nae wooing her for ye. Ye have to manage that on yer own.”

  “I’ve nae met a lass I couldnae woo, bràthair. I dunnae want to woo this one.”

  “Then ye’re a damned fool,” Niall muttered under his breath, and stalked down the hallway for the stairs.

  “Is he going?”

  He jumped about a foot in the air as Lady Aldriss appeared at the top of the stairs. “Bloody Saint Andrew, woman,” he growled. “Ye near scared me to death.”

  “I’ve been standing here for a quarter of an hour. You weren’t paying attention.” His mother didn’t move. “Is he going?”

  “Aye. He’s going. I’m going as well. So’s Aden, if ye care. And Eloise and her beau.”

  “Yes, well, once I get Coll settled I’ll worry over you and Aden.”

  Niall moved around her to descend the stairs. “If ye worried over us, ye wouldnae have left for seventeen years. Now ye only want to manage us. That’s nae the same thing.”

  “Perhaps not, but I doubt any of you would ever have come to see me on your own. Your father saw to that. I know very well his opinion of women in general, and me in particular.”

  For the devil’s sake. “Then go fight with him. I’m nae in the mood to carry on with other people’s battles tonight.”

  He didn’t want to go to this grand Spenfield ball at all. His cravat felt too ti
ght, and his trousers scratched at him. From what Eloise had said, the place would be bursting with lads, because every lass was expected to have a partner for every dance—with a couple of spares in case of drunkenness or injury. He didn’t mind the waltz and the quadrille, but that hopping about for the blasted country dances made the lot of them look like pigeons on a hot rock.

  Who the hell could do justice to a dance while he was bound up in tight trousers? Kilts would be gauche, though, Francesca had said. That wouldn’t have convinced him, except that his mother and Amelia-Rose seemed to have similar views of propriety and proper behavior. The MacTaggerts had made a poor showing at the theater; they wouldn’t do so at the ball. Not if he had any say.

  * * *

  “I would love for you to come, Jane, but you know how Mrs. Spenfield is. She only allows enough single females to avoid gossip, and that only suffices because she provides no other entertainments.”

  Jane made another stitch in her embroidery. “I am perfectly content to remain in tonight,” she said calmly. “You’re the one who’s been spinning in circles all evening.”

  “Perhaps I’m a bit anxious that Lord Glendarril won’t appear,” Amelia-Rose returned in a whisper, “but I’m certainly not spinning.”

  While she’d attempted to make it sound like she wanted the viscount to make an appearance, because everything was so much more peaceful when her mother believed everyone to be seeking the same prize, she was more anxious that he would arrive to escort them to the ball.

  The alternative of course would be Niall again, and if that happened her mother would very likely decipher that they’d been lying all along, and then she would never have a moment’s peace for the rest of her life.

  “You look very fine this evening, my dear,” her mother said right on cue as she and Amelia-Rose’s father arrived in the sitting room. Charles made directly for the liquor tantalus.

  She didn’t blame him; this was definitely an evening designed for the ladies. Last year, when she’d been a fresh debutante, it had seemed almost perfectly like a dream she’d had as a young girl. Gentlemen everywhere, each one vying for a dance, or to bring refreshments, or to exchange a thankfully brief word or two. That had been before she realized that not everyone appreciated her direct manner or her wit or her tendency to speak without bothering first to find the most diplomatic way of expressing herself.