Once Hamish had secured the ladder on his shoulder he marched to the inn, ignoring the slight wobble from the unwieldy load. More people seemed to be scrutinizing him, this time pointing him to the others. Never mind. Shyness could be for another time.
Hamish rested the ladder against the window. He looked around. Thankfully, the innkeeper had not noticed him, and he scrambled up the rickety steps. He pushed against the window and—
Nothing happened.
Evidently Georgiana had thought to lock it.
Despite Hamish’s appreciation for the increased interest she was taking in her safety, he would have preferred to enter the room. His plan had not involved standing on a ladder and trying to get her attention through a closed window. He tapped against the glass pane.
And tapped again.
And tapped again.
“It’s a ghost!” A scream came from the room, and Hamish’s heart sank.
It was not Georgiana’s voice—it was her mother’s.
Had he gone to the wrong room? Murmurings sounded, and the window was pulled open. He stared straight into Georgiana’s angry, defiant eyes. Declarations of love were evidently not her primary instinct upon seeing him. Behind Georgiana was her mother, and behind her was Georgiana’s father.
Hamish’s heart thudded in earnest.
“It’s no ghost. It’s the duke’s blasted brother,” Mr. Butterworth growled, evidently viewing Hamish’s presence as sufficiently catastrophic so as to curse.
“Naturally,” Mrs. Butterworth said, adjusting her cap. “I recognized him myself.”
Hamish was glad his presence brought Georgiana’s mother some pride. He squared his shoulders and willed his voice not to quiver. “Aye.”
“That lovely accent,” Mrs. Butterworth exclaimed “Every word sounds so musical. Tell me, My Lord, are you musical?”
“He’ll soon be without a larynx now,” Mr. Butterworth said, rushing toward him. For the son of a vicar, and a vicar himself, and a man known to adore even the more tiresome appearing books on shelves, Mr. Butterworth was remarkably athletic. Even in the dim light, Hamish could see the bulge of the man’s muscle, visible through his thin nightshirt, and the man’s running pace was definitely of the quick variety. Evidently taking long walks while writing his sermons was beneficial for his health as well as for its inspirational purposes.
Hamish clasped his fingers more tightly around the ladder.
“Papa!” Georgiana said. “You mustn’t hurt him.”
“You always do preach that murder is a sin,” Mrs. Butterworth added, and Hamish waited as Georgiana’s father considered this statement.
“Is there a reason why you are here?” Mr. Butterworth asked, his voice still filled with suspicion, even if the rest of the man’s body no longer seemed intent on dismembering him.
For now.
“I would like to speak with Georgiana,” Hamish said.
“Miss Butterworth to you,” her father said.
“I would like to make her Lady Hamish Montgomery,” Hamish said.
Georgiana’s eyes widened, and her face was inscrutable. Hamish cursed the dim light. But shouldn’t she be saying something, anything?
“There will be a wedding,” Hamish continued. “That’s what I was trying to tell you. Before you ran off. Our wedding.”
“We—”
“Will marry,” he said. “If, of course, you’ll have me.”
“But—” She paused, as if she couldn’t be certain that she’d heard correctly. He hoped she’d not chosen to be silent because she was trying to think of a way to reject his proposal.
Perhaps she’d understood him before when he’d started to propose. Perhaps she was flummoxed he hadn’t been able to discern her lack of interest in him when she’d run away.
“Why?” she asked finally.
It was not the squeal of pleasure he would have preferred, but at least she was listening.
“Not because of duty,” he said, hoping to assure her.
“Well, that’s no surprise,” Mr. Butterworth grumbled. “The man most blatantly lacks it.”
“It’s because I adore you,” Hamish said quickly. “Because I love you. Because I can’t imagine a world where you are not part of it, and because I don’t want to try.”
“How romantic!” Mrs. Butterworth sighed and clasped her hands together.
“He’s not proposing to you,” Mr. Butterworth said.
“But he is doing it in front of me,” Mrs. Butterworth said. “That is somewhat similar.”
“Vaguely similar,” Mr. Butterworth conceded.
Georgiana remained quiet.
God in heaven. Hamish wanted to hear from her, no matter how helpful it was for his self-esteem to learn Mrs. Butterworth found the proposal contained romantic appeal.
“Georgiana?” Hamish’s voice sounded hoarse, as if he’d been waiting for her answer for so long that all the water in his mouth had dried, like some abandoned potted plant. “What do you say?”
“I don’t know,” she said.
“I want to marry you.”
“But—”
“I love you.” He smiled. “If you didn’t notice already.”
“So it’s not to protect my reputation?” she asked. “Because it’s quite kind of you to be gentlemanly, but I wouldn’t want you to feel compelled to marry me because I hid in your coach.”
“Georgiana!” her mother exclaimed. “Have you learned nothing during your three seasons?”
Mr. Butterworth put a hand on his wife’s shoulder. “This is our daughter’s decision. Not yours.” He directed a glance at Georgiana. “And just say the word, my dear, and I will topple him off that ladder.”
“You two are impossible.” Mrs. Butterworth huffed, and though Hamish could not tell in the dim light whether she was rolling her eyes, he rather thought she might be.
“Georgiana,” Hamish said. “I am not proposing because I feel compelled to protect your reputation. Do you think that a man who climbed into your room would be so driven by society’s rules?”
“Perhaps not.”
“And if I had adopted a guilty conscience I could always set you up in a nice cottage just like I’d planned for your sister. The money is still there.” His face grew sober.
“You can’t be serious,” she said.
“I am. Your happiness is the only thing of importance. Though I rather hope you will want to find happiness with me.”
His chest tightened. She seemed contemplative, and worry ricocheted through him. He clasped her hands, clutching her slender fingers, and hoping he would never have to let go. “Do you care for me?”
He sucked in the cold night air, but the action could not keep his heartbeat from continuing to quicken, because the prospect of her not desiring to marry him was terrible. “Because I love you. I adore you. You’re brave and smart and kind and lovely.”
She was silent.
God in heaven.
This was not going well. His heart squeezed, and he resisted the temptation to slink back to the other inn. “I know we haven’t known each other that long, and if you prefer to return to London, I would be happy to court you, should you give me permission.”
She remained silent, though her night rail rustled, and she seemed to have narrowed the distance between them.
Did she not even want him to court her? His heart pounded fiercely, as if it had turned into some wild animal, captured and forced away from his mate, who would never be able to return.
“I don’t think seeing you during afternoon calls will be suitable for me,” Georgiana said, and Hamish’s heart broke.
“I don’t think I would be able to go through with it,” she continued, still clutching his hands.
“Are you certain, Georgiana dear?” her mother asked.
Mr. Butterworth stepped forward. “I think you should descend that ladder immediately, My Lord.”
Georgiana held up her hand to stop her father, and Hamish wondered whether she woul
d proceed to catalogue all the ways he’d harmed her.
He deserved them.
He deserved anything she would say.
“I cannot accept your offer to court me,” Georgiana said, “Because I would like to accept your offer to marry me.”
This time Hamish was silent.
Had she just said that?
Had he conjured up the most delicious words in the world?
“I accept your offer,” Georgiana said, and her voice sounded warm. “I’ll marry you.”
Hamish’s heart sang. It crescendoed. It soared. If there had been indeed a wild animal trapped in his chest, it was now safely returned to its beloved.
Chapter Thirty-one
Hamish was standing before her and saying the most wonderful things.
Jubilation filled the room.
Her mother squealed and clapped her hands.
“I want you,” Georgiana breathed. “I want you forever and always.”
His eyes sparkled, and a thrill shot through Georgiana that she had given him such pleasure.
“Then marry me. Now.”
Hamish grabbed Georgiana’s hand, and she pulled him into her bedroom. She slid on her mother’s pelisses, and they then dashed through the inn and toward the blacksmith’s shop. Her parents followed them. They strode together through Gretna Green, and if Hamish had pointed out that they were floating, she wouldn’t have been surprised.
The other couples were gone, evidently they’d already been married, and Hamish and Georgiana entered the blacksmith’s shop.
“What is it now?” He looked up. “I told you I haven’t seen them. I would recall another Scotsman with a blond Englishwoman.”
“There’s going to be a wedding,” Hamish announced.
The blacksmith raised his eyebrows. “There is always going to be a wedding. People are always getting married. They’ve no idea of how thoroughly pedestrian they are being.”
“But this is different,” Hamish declared. “This time I am getting married.”
“Oh.” The blacksmith set aside his tools and brushed sooty hands over his apron. “I suppose you’ll be wanting to marry immediately.”
Hamish nodded. “I don’t want to tarry a second.”
“Isn’t it romantic?” Mrs. Butterworth’s voice soared through the blacksmith’s shop, as if she were testing whether she might break the iron with the same efficiency a soprano might shatter glass.
The iron pieces the blacksmith had made remained resolutely in place, unfazed by Mrs. Butterworth’s exuberance. The latter had moved from hollering to balancing a covered basket on a table filled with all manner of iron objects.
The blacksmith’s face managed to pale, and he moved quickly toward the basket and placed it on the ground.
“There will be a wedding,” the blacksmith, in a tone that indicated that he’d long stopped seeing weddings as anything except an interlude for when his irons needed to cool.
“Indeed! And we must prepare!” Mrs. Butterworth bent down and fiddled with the basket. In the next moment she was scattering flowers and herbs about the establishment. “This is for happiness, this is for health, and this is for wealth.
“I’m sorry,” Georgiana mouthed, but Hamish only smiled.
HIS MOTHER HAD DIED, but Mrs. Butterworth seemed to have the energy for two mothers. There just might be something nice about becoming part of a noisy, close-knit family.
The blacksmith’s face furrowed. “Those are flowers.”
“And dried herbs,” Mr. Butterworth said. “Herbs have quite a good many purposes.”
“And none of them belong in my blacksmith’s shop,” the blacksmith said. His teeth were definitely clenched now, and Hamish wondered whether that was because he suspected Mrs. Butterworth’s eccentricity could only be the result of a privileged background, the sort that might involve generous tips.
“Why don’t we do the wedding outside?” the blacksmith suggested.
“Oh.” Mrs. Butterworth appeared puzzled.
“That will be romantic as well,” Georgiana assured her. “Now, let’s go.”
They stepped outside into the cool Scottish wind. The breeze rustled the flowers on the trees, and a crowd of people outside gathered around them perhaps seeing it as a good practice session for their own wedding services.
“Montgomery,” the assistant blacksmith said. “I have a letter for you.”
Hamish halted his embrace. “A letter?”
The man nodded and shuffled through some papers, then held it up triumphantly. “It just arrived.”
Hamish took the letter, recognizing his brother’s handwriting. His hands trembled, unsure what he would find. Where is Callum? And what has he done with Georgiana’s sister?
Though he’d longed for his brother to break off the engagement to secure Montgomery Castle, it now seemed every bit as vital that he marry her. Hamish was part of the Butterworth family now and he did not want anything to harm it.
He tore the letter open, noting that it didn’t have the normal Vernon ducal seal. Callum must have written it hastily.
“Read it aloud,” Georgiana said.
He nodded.
Whatever the contents were, Charlotte’s parents deserved to know.
“My dear brother,
If you are reading this, then you must be in Gretna Green. Enjoy your beloved Scotland and don’t become too bored, because I will not be there to entertain you.”
“He’s not marrying her,” Mr. Butterworth said, and Hamish despised the man’s mournful tone.
“You mustn’t be so melodramatic,” Mrs. Butterworth said, chiding her husband. “Do continue, dear.”
“Charlotte and I will marry in Guernsey,” Hamish read.
Georgiana clapped her hands. “The Channel Islands! I feel so foolish. I never imagined she would go anywhere else except Gretna Green.”
He kissed her head. “I am very glad that you thought they were going here.”
She smiled, and for a moment it seemed impossible to do anything else except stare at her.
He forced his gaze away. “And there’s a note from your sister.”
“Read it,” Mr. Butterworth said.
“I am happy and well,” Charlotte had written.
“Well, of course, she’s happy and well,” Mrs. Butterworth said. “She’s marrying a duke.”
“But eloping...Going on a ship...” Georgiana shook her head. “She’s never been on the water before.”
“Then perhaps it is time,” Mrs. Butterworth said. “They’re happy. That’s what is important.”
Georgiana beamed and squeezed Hamish’s hand. “They’re happy.”
He gazed at her, wondering again at her bravery, wondering at how fortunate it was that she’d climbed into his coach, and not imagining a world without her.
He gazed down at the ring on her hand and realized he did not have to.
Hamish inhaled the air.
He should feel cold, but warmth coursed through his body. Soon he would be married to Georgiana, the most wonderful woman in the world.
Epilogue
The trees had turned golden and garnet, as if dipped into paint by some particularly enthusiastic child, and Hamish lay on a blanket in the meadow. The grass was a dark deep green, the result of months of rain, but now the vibrant shade was exquisite, richer than even the finest emerald.
Hamish dipped his quill into ink and wrote a few more phrases.
Footsteps padded toward him, and the hem of a navy dress met his eyes.
He smiled. He knew that hem. He’d done pleasant things underneath its flounces, and he tilted up his head, recognizing the delightful curves of his wife’s form, her wide smile, and ever sparkling eyes.
“Darling.” Georgiana leaned down and kissed him, and he was shrouded in her delightful auburn locks and lost in her impossibly sweet scent. “How is the design coming along?”
“Splendid,” Hamish murmured.
His wife settled onto the blanket.
It wasn’t the same place he had once shared with Callum. It was his very own home. It wasn’t a castle, and had never been used in a defensive manner, but he adored it.
Tourelles perched on rounded towers, and stepped gables adorned the roof in a manner suited for the German fairytales his daughters had taken to reading. The rose-hued sandstone differed from the somber gray stone he’d been accustomed to that had seemed to desire to meld into the oft-stormy clouds.
Georgiana had insisted on a home that was not set on a craggy clifftop, no matter how many romantic painters from Germanic lands might come to paint it. Though he’d teased her that she was recreating Norfolk, they had found the perfect property, and it was reassuring to know that his daughters were less likely to be tossed into the sea if the North Wind decided to send out strong gales.
“I love you,” he said.
“I love you too.” Georgiana squeezed his hand. “And to think, none of this would have happened if we hadn’t gone to Gretna Green.”
Hamish pulled her closer to him, no matter how scandalous they might appear to servants. Musing about a world which may not have contained Georgiana brought him no joy.
“I’m glad we gave the blacksmith some work to do,” Hamish said.
“Mama did scatter a lot of flowers.”
“I know now why flower girls are always under the age of five. Smaller arms.”
Georgiana laughed. “I did actually come to fetch you.”
“Not to muse about our wedding?”
She shook her head. “The ball is in a few hours, and I want you to see the decorations.”
“I’m sure they’re perfect.”
“Well, that is a given.”
Hamish stood up and picked up his papers, thrusting them against his chest while he grabbed the blanket with his other hand.
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