Don't Tie the Knot (Wedding Trouble Book 1)

by Bianca Blythe

  I would be happy to do so.

  But Mr. Butterworth did no such thing.

  “You’re going to listen to me,” Mr. Butterworth said, articulating each word expertly, despite the wind and stomp of horses’ hooves about them. “You are going to go back to the Highlands, up onto your craggy peak, with only goats and ruins to keep you company, and you are never going to mention to anyone that you traveled alone with my daughter.”

  “You’re not going to make them marry?” Mrs. Butterworth’s voice was mournful. “This is the ideal spot to do so. And elopements are so en vogue now. She will be quite fashionable when she returns to society.”

  “As I said in the coach,” Mr. Butterworth huffed, and Hamish had the impression that they’d had this conversation many times before, “I am not forcing my daughter to wed anyone. I, for one, have read Mary Wollstonecraft and I refuse to subjugate my daughter to anything dreadful.”

  “But marriage!” Mrs. Butterworth wailed. “How could that be considered dreadful?”

  Mr. Butterworth refrained from reconsidering the merits of marriage. “Georgiana fled. She obviously considers this man to be no friend, much less her perpetual mate.”

  The words should not have been particularly brutal. They contained not a single curse, and he knew he should be grateful that Mr. Butterworth made no demand for a marriage between Hamish and his daughter. Many members of the ton would have desired that their fathers-in-law shared his characteristics. And yet, Hamish’s only emotion was grief.

  He struggled from Mr. Butterworth’s clasp. “I’ll—er—go to the inn across the road. If you need me, well, I’ll be there.”

  And then he left.

  Hamish had been injured in the war before, and had found the experience to be excruciating and best forgotten, even though his body had healed, unlike the new Duke of Alfriston’s leg. Still, the sudden pain that jolted through his body seemed entirely comparable. But unlike when a bullet had entered his right arm and another piece of shrapnel had entered his left arm, he knew that he could not simply wait for the surgeon and time to do their work.

  His heart wouldn’t stop aching, no matter how often those trained with medical expertise examined it.

  Because Georgiana had run away from him.

  He removed his purse and took out the ring that he’d picked up in Gretna Green earlier that day. The perfect sapphire stone set on the shimmering silver band seemed foolish, and he tucked it back into his purse.

  He’d been trying to propose to Georgiana, but it seemed like she’d given him her answer.

  He strode rapidly away from Georgiana’s parents. He’d imagined, evidently with great foolishness that they might become his parents.

  They were warm and kind hearted. Well. Neither word seemed to describe their current behavior toward him, but that was easily ascribed to the fact that they were also fiercely protective of Georgiana.

  Would his own parents have been as protective toward him, if they had lived? He already knew that they had been neither warm nor kind hearted, though perhaps that had more to do with him than with them. Perhaps if he’d been different, his early memories of his time at Montgomery Castle would not be confined to the nursery and his nursemaids.

  After all the only people who had shown him affection—Lord and Lady McIntyre—had been wrong to do so. Even though he had known how important it was for them that the Montgomery and McIntyre family might be officially joined together, he hadn’t been able to convince his very own brother to fulfil the vow. What use was he?

  He wanted his brother to be happy and not regret a life he’d happened upon through rash impulsivity. Perhaps Callum had found happiness. Hamish had been foolish to dream that he could find the same happiness.

  He ambled through the village, passing low half-timbered homes with heavy thatched roofs. When he’d visited this morning he’d been full of hope, imagining ridiculous thoughts for the future. He’d pondered whether Georgiana might enjoy decorating their home, so that her parents might have a place to stay should they decide to visit for long periods of time.

  They wouldn’t visit.

  They didn’t even desire his help now.

  And she’s gone.

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Georgiana rushed through Gretna Green. Happy couples, their hands linked in bliss, stared at her with bewilderment. Their lower lips dropped down, and their eyes widened, as if the mere vision of Georgiana was a cause for facial exercise. But then she must appear ridiculous.

  Her gown, which she’d once carefully adorned with ribbons and flounces, was ragged. Long tears impaled the netting.

  No doubt she appeared like some nightmarish bride. This had once been her best dress, but only a few short days had rendered it destroyed.

  Just like my dreams.

  “Where’s your husband?” a villager called out.

  “She’s ’aving doubts,” a woman shouted, and Georgiana’s face heated.

  She wasn’t having doubts.

  She had no husband.

  No betrothed.

  And now I never will.

  Her parents were here, and now they knew she was ruined. At some point she’d feel humiliation and distress, but now her thoughts remained with Hamish. She’d succumbed to the man’s charms, finding the man in ample possession of them, even though her first impression of him had been of the negative sort.

  Tears stung and prickled her eyes, rendering her blind to everything except the recent occurrence.

  Last night—earlier than that, she’d allowed herself to imagine a life with Hamish. She should have relegated it to a schoolgirl fantasy. She’d told herself that last night hadn’t mattered, that it had been driven by curiosity, but the notion was ridiculous.

  Last night hadn’t meant something because she had gained more knowledge of the world than before. For that she had only to pick up one of her father’s many tomes, the sort that he was always recommending. No, last night had meant something purely because it had been with Hamish.

  It hadn’t been about knowledge or the satisfaction of any scientific puzzlement that occurred when reading certain penny dreadfuls.

  It had been about Hamish.

  Hamish’s hands brushing against hers. Hamish’s lips on hers. Hamish’s eyes on her. And then...Hamish inside her, and the strange ripple of emotion, of sheer physical pleasure, that had accompanied it.

  They’d slept in each other’s arms last night. She’d wondered at how his body had felt so right pressed against hers, how their figures, their heights, had seemed to meld into an easy perfection.

  Last night had been a fantasy.

  She’d known that when he hadn’t appeared beside her this morning.

  She’d known that when he’d abandoned her.

  And she’d even known that when he’d reappeared, making conversation about nothing important, and showing no sign in the least that he was distressed that they would never see each other again.

  The wind whirled about her, lifting up her locks in a manner that any illustrator at Matchmaking for Wallflowers might be eager to depict to her detriment. The wind threatened to swoop up the hem of her dress, and she shivered, placing her hands tightly about her.

  She was cold and wet. Her slippers had been destroyed ever since that first night in which she’d wandered into the woods. Water seeped into the thin soles. A sealskin coat would be useful now, but she didn’t even have a spencer. She was dressed for a wedding, not for a cold afternoon in northern Britain.

  She hadn’t found her sister, wasn’t assured that at least she was going to marry the man of her dreams. Nothing had been accomplished.

  And now she would have to join her parents and listen to how she’d destroyed their dreams for her.

  She paused. The tension that had ricocheted through her, ceased.

  All that was left was sorrow.

  Her eyes stung more, and then her cheeks dampened, and then even her breath seemed difficult to control. She swallowed and gaspe
d, sputtered and gulped.

  She sobbed.

  The sound was horrid.

  Weeds, damp from rain and not some idyllic dew, clung to her dress.

  This was Scotland, but it was Scotland with the views of lochs, without the isles, without the mountains. The land was flat, and the mocking laughs of the villagers still echoed in her ears.

  “Georgiana,” a baritone voice said.

  She tensed, recognizing the sound.

  It was her father.

  She rubbed her face, attempting to feign some semblance of dignity, but there was none to be had. Tears smeared her face. No doubt her skin was red and blotchy, as if seeking to match her hair.

  She blinked hard, willing herself to have misheard, but footsteps padded behind her.

  “Now carrying handkerchiefs may require a foresight for unhappiness that I am unwilling to plan for, but I find that my cravat can be quite multifunctional.”

  “Papa?” She turned her head toward him, and he unwound his cravat and handed it to her. “You must use it. Goodness knows I’ll never figure out how to put it on without a mirror.”

  She smiled, despite everything, and he returned it.

  He wasn’t angry.

  “This is not what a cravat is supposed to be used for.”

  “If it can help my little girl one tiny bit, then it’s the very best use for it.”

  She smiled again, blinking away her tears. She dabbed her face with the linen. “You must think me so foolish.”

  “I never could,” he said solemnly. “Your mother told me you’d gone to stop him.”

  “I thought she might—”

  “But it took me getting her two servings of lemon ice before she told. That’s a record for her.”

  She giggled softly, though it wasn’t exactly pleasure that she felt.

  “She was worried about you,” Papa said solemnly. “You know that’s why she told.”

  Georgiana nodded.

  “I just wish we could have gotten here sooner,” he said.

  “I should have known better,” she said softly, her heart aching. “I knew better. Everyone says to stay away from—”

  “Roguish men?”

  She nodded, and the tears flooded. “I just thought, for Charlotte’s sake...”

  “That was brave of you,” he said gently. “The reason everyone warns about it is that emotions can seem impossible to control. You’re not the first person to succumb to a scoundrel, and you won’t be the last.”

  “Why are you so nice? I was impetuous and impulsive and—”

  “Don’t you wonder how I married your mother?” Papa asked. “A man like me, no matter how stuffy and scholarly you might find me, is simply supposed to have nothing to do with the niece of an earl.”

  She smiled.

  “She took a chance on me, and you took a chance on him. It’s unfortunate that he didn’t live up to that chance—and I very nearly strangled him—”

  “You didn’t, Papa!” Georgiana felt her eye widen, and her lower lip dropped downward.

  He nodded. “I was the cricket champion for five years running of our green. I can wield more than a cricket bat.”

  Despite everything, she laughed, and he patted her back. “There, there, my dear.”

  She dabbed the tears from her face. A rain shower wouldn’t be entirely unwanted now. She dreaded walking into the village again.

  “I’ve always thought it curious why that Beau Brummel goes about recommending cravats to everyone, but after reading about his gambling losses, I understand.”

  “That’s not why he recommends them,” she said, smiling through her sobs. Her chest still felt hollow, her heart still ached, and goodness her breath remained uneven, but at least she still had her family.

  Chapter Thirty

  Hamish paced the bedroom of the posting house. The slanted floorboards creaked and groaned beneath him, as if to provide a melody to his despair.

  The sky remained a less eager participant for gloom. It had long ceased raining. Hamish had always adored the long summer days in Scotland, but now he cursed the bright light that continued to illuminate the blacksmiths’ shops and its streams of joyous couples.

  His heart ached. Pain surged through his body, but there was no French uniformed soldier whom he could vanquish. Only Georgiana could heal his sorrow, and she’d made it clear that she abhorred his presence. Perhaps she considered him the man who should have acted honorably and returned her to her parents but did not. She might be regretting their night together, regretting everything—

  After all, she’d fled.

  He’d spotted her with her parents. She was being cared for, and Hamish would never mention that they’d traveled to Gretna Green together. Perhaps her parents would manage to keep her reputation intact, and she might marry. Perhaps in time this trip would be little more than a memory of a nightmare: something to expend with as much efficiency as she’d expended Hamish.

  To think he’d suggested Callum not marry Charlotte. Hamish knew now that love knew no logic, and yet a failure to adhere to it only brought agony. No wonder Callum had not taken Hamish’s warnings with any seriousness.

  And where was Callum?

  Hamish had been so certain he’d find them in Gretna Green. He pushed away images of carriage accidents from his mind. He didn’t want to contemplate that. Besides... If a couple had gotten seriously harmed, whether by a carriage accident or by highwaymen, surely someone at one of the many posting inns he’d visited would have mentioned it.

  No.

  His unhappiness did not derive from concerns over his brother’s safety, but from the fact he did not want to spend the rest of his life without Georgiana.

  He sat on the immense four-poster bed piled high with feather mattresses. The room was more elegant than any of the other posting houses. The decor must have agreed with other guests, given the sounds of vigorous pleasure taking drifting through the walls.

  Hamish gritted his teeth, but his mind returned to Georgiana.

  Perhaps it always would.

  She’d been odd this morning

  Aloof.

  I shouldn’t have left her.

  He fingered the ring in his pocket. He’d thought it beneficial to make the proposal special to her. Perhaps most people didn’t propose with rings, and perhaps it was a continental tradition, and Britain had just battled the French—but Georgiana was special, and he wanted her to know.

  It had seemed appropriate to pop into the neighboring town to get a ring. He’d wanted to start their marriage correctly. He’d wanted her to know that he took her seriously. The Scottish borders was a wonderful place to procure such an item, given the influx of romantic minded people here with sufficient wealth to make the inconvenient journey and pay for the blacksmith’s hefty fees to save a few days inconvenience of waiting for the banns to be published.

  He’d been intimate with her, and she’d been a maiden.

  Perhaps she hadn’t realized he’d been attempting to propose to her.

  God in heaven.

  Georgiana needed to know he loved her. He needed to tell her.

  Even if she might say that she didn’t return his affection. Even if she said no to his proposal.

  Even if he might make a fool of himself.

  Perhaps she thought that he wouldn’t desire to marry her, but she was wrong.

  Hamish was not going to tarry a moment more.

  He needed to clutch her in his arms, and he needed to tell her that he adored her.

  That he loved her.

  That he’d thought her beautiful and fascinating when he first saw her, but that now he couldn’t imagine a life without her. If there was the slightest chance that she returned his affections—and he thought there might just be—well, he was going to do his best to let her know.

  He grabbed his cloak and swung it around his shoulders. She wasn’t staying in this inn—he’d watched from the window—there was only one other inn in which she might be. The fam
ily wouldn’t want to leave Gretna Green when there was a chance Callum and Charlotte would appear.

  Hamish rushed down the stairs, past the startled innkeeper and dashed into the street. His feet slid against this afternoon’s mud, splattering onto his Hessians. People directed their gazes at him, as if scrutinizing him was more interesting than telling their new spouse about the exact extent of their affection.

  It didn’t matter.

  All that mattered in this whole world was Georgiana.

  He loved her. He adored her. He wanted to marry her.

  And he wanted to spend a very long, very full life with her.

  She was the love of his life, and he needed her to know how much he cared. He didn’t want to put her through a night of misery, thinking that he’d let her go easily. He squared his shoulders. If she didn’t return his love, she could tell him.

  He arrived at the other posting house. Lights glowed from some of the windows, and he stood, trying to make out if she was inside. His boots sank into the mud, and horses and carriages rumbled by him.

  His heart danced in his chest. For a wild moment he considered bursting into song like the hero in some Italian opera who showed up late in the third act after having broken out of a prison from which he was falsely being held.

  Since disturbing the wedding nights of happy couples might cause him to be dragged away, he refrained from singing.

  Instead he waited, hoping he would see her at one of the windows. The minutes seemed long, but finally he saw her. He’d memorized her silhouette and the exact manner in which she ran her fingers through her hair when she was nervous.

  Hamish inhaled and looked around for a helpful tree or balcony.

  Unfortunately this posting house did not seem to be in possession of either. They might, though, be in possession of a ladder, and Hamish walked around the perimeter. Unfortunately, the inn was immaculately maintained, a fact that probably brought pleasure to the guests, but was not immediately helpful.

  The blacksmith’s shop.

  They would have a ladder.

  Hamish sprinted to it, pounding his feet over the dirt road. He shouted a greeting and quick explanation to the startled blacksmiths, grabbed the ladder, and then hauled it onto his shoulder. The exercise was more difficult than he’d assumed, and he felt a sudden burst of warmth for all the people who’d managed to construct buildings taller than a single story. He’d never quite comprehended the difficulty that it entailed.