Mary Fran and Matthew: A Novella

by Grace Burrowes

  He was determined on this privacy business, because he was gesturing to a bench that backed up against the tallest hedge in the garden. They’d be hidden from view on that bench.

  Even if she were amenable, Mary Fran doubted Mr. Daniels was going to take liberties. Good Lord, if he was this serious about his dallying, then heaven help the ladies he sought to charm. Though as she took a seat, it struck her with a certainty that Matthew Daniels needn’t bother charming anybody. For all his English reserve in proper company, he’d plunder and pillage, devil take the hindmost, when he decided on an objective.

  Former cavalry could be like that.

  “You are smiling, my lady.”

  And he was watching her mouth as he stood over her. Mary Fran let her smile blossom into a grin as she arranged her skirts. “I’m truant, sitting out here in the garden. I suppose it’s fair play, given that my brothers—save for Ian—are off gallivanting about with your sisters and your aunt.” And Lord knew what Ian was up to with the spinster cousin—probably prying secrets from the poor lady.

  “About my womenfolk.” He took the place beside her without her permission, though she would not have objected. “I have sisters.”

  He had two. The lovely Eugenia Daniels, whom Aunt Eulalie had spotted as a possible wealthy bride for Ian, and the younger, altogether likable Hester Daniels. Mary Fran held her peace, because Mr. Daniels was mentally pacing up to something, and he struck her as man who would not be hurried—she was familiar with the type.

  “I have sisters whose happiness means a great deal to me,” he went on, leaning forward to prop his elbows on his thighs. “You have brothers.”

  “My blessing and my curse,” she said, wondering when he’d get to his point.

  “My sisters are dear to me.” He flicked a brooding glance at her over his shoulder. “As I’m sure you are dear to your brothers.”

  “Their hot meals and clean sheets are dear to them.”

  He sat up abruptly. “They would cheerfully die for you or kill for you. Not for the hot meals or the clean sheets, but for you.”

  She regarded him for a quizzical moment, trying to fathom his intentions. Insight struck as she studied the square line of his jaw and the way sunlight found the red highlights in his blond hair. “They won’t kill your father while he’s a guest in our home. Rest easy on that point.”

  “I cannot rest easy, as you say.” He hunched forward again, the fabric of his morning coat pulling taut across broad shoulders. “My father’s regard for women generally lacks a certain…”

  “He’s a randy old jackass,” Mary Fran said. “I don’t hold it against him.”

  Whatever comment the situation called for, it wasn’t that. No earl’s daughter, not even a Scottish earl’s daughter running a glorified guesthouse ought to be so plainspoken.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, gaze on her lap. “I don’t mean to be disrespectful. Your da’s a guest in my home, and I’m responsible…”

  “Hush.” His finger came to rest on her lips, and when she looked up at him, he was smiling at her. He dropped his finger, but the smile lingered, crinkling the corners of his eyes and putting a light in his gaze that was almost… gentle.

  God in heaven. The man was abruptly, stunningly attractive. Mary Fran felt a heat spreading out from that spot on her mouth where his bare finger had touched her.

  “My father is a randy old jackass, I was searching for those very words. He can offend without meaning to, and sometimes, I fear, when he does mean to.”

  “He’s not the first titled man to show uncouth behavior toward women.” She linked her fingers in her lap lest she touch her lip as he had.

  “No, but he’s my father. If he should come to a premature end, all the burdens of his title will fall upon me, and that, rather than filial devotion, makes me hope your brothers will not have to challenge him to pistols at dawn.”

  The daft man was genuinely worried. “My brothers are Scottish, but they don’t lack sense. If Ian took to dueling with his guests, God Almighty could live next door, and the most baseborn coal nabob wouldn’t give a farthing to spend a day with us. Her Majesty has just about frowned dueling out of existence.”

  Plain speaking wasn’t always inappropriate, and Mary Fran sensed Matthew Daniels could tolerate a few home truths.

  “I fear, my lady, you underestimate your brothers’ devotion to you, and”—he held up a staying hand when she would have interrupted—“you underestimate the depths of my father’s more crass inclinations.”

  Mary Fran studied him, studied the serious planes of his face, and noted a little scar along the left side of his jaw. “I can handle your father, Mr. Daniels. I won’t go running to my brothers in a fit of the weeps because he tries to take liberties.”

  “Tries to take liberties again, don’t you mean?”

  He had blue eyes—blue, blue eyes that regarded her with wry sternness.

  “He’s too slow, Mr. Daniels. He can but try, and I shall thwart him.”

  He peered at her, his lips thinning as he came to some conclusion. “Your brother had the opportunity to take my father very much to task the other evening for a verbal slight to you. Balfour instead suggested I see my sire to bed. I’d suspect the reputation of the Scots’ temper to be overrated, except I’ve seen Highland regiments in action.”

  “Our tempers are simply as passionate as the rest of our emotions.”

  As soon as the words were out of her mouth, she realized she’d spoken too plainly. Ungenteelly, though that was probably not a proper word.

  “I agree,” he said, rising and extending his hand to her. “Having fought alongside many a Scot, I can say their honor, their humor, their valor, and their tempers were all formidable. Still, I am asking you to apply to me rather than your family should my father’s bad manners become troublesome. I assure you, I’ll deal with him appropriately.”

  She wouldn’t be applying to anybody. If the baron overstepped again, he’d face consequences Mary Fran herself was perfectly capable of meting out. God had given each woman two knees for just such a purpose.

  “I can agree to bring concerns regarding your father’s conduct to you, Mr. Daniels, before I mention them to my brothers.” She placed her hand in his and let him draw her to her feet.

  And there they stood for a long, curious moment. His blue eyes bored into her as if he were trying to divine her thoughts.

  “My name is Matthew,” he said, still holding her hand. “I would be obliged if, when we are not in company, you would do me the honor of using it.”

  He was so grave about this invitation, Mary Fran had to conclude he was sincere. He would be honored if she addressed him familiarly—there was no accounting for the English and their silly manners. She nodded, put her hand on his arm, and let him escort her back to the house in silence.

  She did not invite him to address her as Mary Frances.

  ***

  Maybe being born with red hair, slanting green eyes, a mouth that personified sin incarnate, and a body to match made a woman sad—for Mary Frances MacGregor was a sad woman.

  Matthew drew this conclusion by watching her at meals, watching the way she presided over the table with smiles aplenty and little real joy. He drew further evidence of her sadness from the way her brothers treated her, verbally tiptoeing around her the way Matthew had learned to tiptoe around his wife when she was tired, fretful, or in anticipation of her courses.

  And Mary Frances worried about her brothers. The anxiety was there in her eyes, in the way she watched them eat and kept their drinks topped up. To Matthew, it was obvious the MacGregor clan was not happy about having to trade their title for English coin, but the Scots as a race could not often afford the luxury of sentiment.

  Because she was sad, and because he genuinely enjoyed dancing, when the middle brother, Gilgallon MacGregor, challenged Aunt Julia to a waltz—those were his words, he challenged her to a waltz after dinner—and Julia had laughingly accepted, Matthew joined the
party adjourning to the ballroom.

  “Who will play for us if I’m to show Gilgallon what a dance floor is for?” Julia asked the assemblage.

  Before Genie could offer, and thus ensure she wouldn’t be dancing with Balfour, Matthew strode over to the big, square piano. “I will provide the music for the first set, on the condition that Lady Mary Frances turns the pages for me.”

  Genie shot him a disgruntled look, but stood up with the youngest brother, Connor MacGregor, while Balfour led a blushing Hester onto the floor.

  “What shall we play for them?” Matthew asked. “Three couples doesn’t quite make a set.”

  “I believe my idiot brother demanded a waltz,” Lady Mary Frances muttered as she sorted through a number of music books stacked on the piano’s closed lid. “Take your pick.”

  She shoved a volume of Chopin at him, which wasn’t quite ballroom material.

  “I take it you don’t approve of dancing?” Matthew flipped through until he found the Waltz in C-sharp Minor and opened the cover shielding the keys.

  “Dancing’s well enough,” the lady said. Her tone was anything but approving.

  “Maestro, we’re growing moss over here!” Julia called, but she was smiling up at her partner in the manner of a younger, more carefree woman, and for that alone, Matthew would dust off his pianistic skills.

  He launched into the little waltz, a lilting, sentimental confection full of wistful die-away ascending scales and a turning, sighing secondary melody.

  “You play well, Mr. Daniels.”

  Lady Mary Frances nearly whispered this compliment, and Matthew could feel her gaze on his hands. “That’s Matthew, if you please. I’ve always enjoyed music, but there wasn’t much call for it in the military.”

  Out on the dance floor, by the soft evening light coming through the tall windows, three couples turned down the room in graceful synchrony. Beside Matthew, Lady Mary Frances was humming softly and swaying minutely to the triple meter. He finished off the exposition with another one of those tinkling ascending scales, which allowed him to lean far enough to the right that his shoulder pressed against the lady’s.

  “Page, my lady.”

  She flipped the page, and Matthew began the contrasting section, a more stately interlude requiring little concentration, which was fortunate. Lady Mary Frances had applied a different scent for the evening. That fresh, cedary base note was still present, but the overtones were more complicated. Complicated enough that Matthew could envision sniffing her neck to better parse her perfume.

  “What scent are you wearing, my lady? It’s particularly appealing.”

  “Just something I put together on an idle day.”

  Matthew glanced over at her to find she was watching the dancers, her expression wistful. “You haven’t had an idle day since you put your hair up, and likely not many before then.”

  “A rainy day, then. We have plenty of those. Your sisters are accomplished dancers.”

  “As are your brothers.” For big men, they moved with a lithe grace made more apparent for their kilts. “You should take a turn, my lady.”

  “No, I should not. I’ve things to see to, Mr. Daniels, but it is nice to watch my brothers enjoying themselves on the dance floor.”

  “Page.”

  She turned the page for him, and Matthew had to focus on the recapitulation of the first, delicate, sighing melody. The final ascending scale trickled nearly to the top of the keyboard, which meant Matthew was leaning into Lady Mary Frances at the conclusion of the piece.

  And she was allowing it.

  “Oh, well done, my boy, well done.” Altsax clapped in loud, slow movements. “I’d forgotten your fondness for music. Perhaps you’d oblige us with another waltz, that I might have the pleasure of dancing with Lady Mary Frances?”

  “When did he slither into the room?” Lady Mary Frances muttered, resignation in her tone.

  Matthew rose from the piano bench. “I’m afraid that won’t serve, your lordship. My compensation for providing music for the ladies is a waltz with my page turner. Perhaps Hester will oblige at the keyboard?”

  Gilgallon turned a dazzling smile on Matthew’s younger sister. “And I’ll turn the pages for her.”

  “My lady, may I have this dance?” Matthew extended his hand to Lady Mary Frances, who smiled up at him in a display of teeth and thinly banked forbearance.

  “The honor would be mine, Mr. Daniels.”

  He led her to the dance floor, arranged himself and his partner into waltz position, and felt a sigh of recognition as Hester turned her attention to Chopin’s Nocturne in E Minor. The piece was often overlooked, full of passion and sentiment, and it suited the woman in Matthew’s arms.

  “I hate this piece.” Lady Mary Frances moved off with him, speaking through clenched teeth.

  “You dance to it well enough.” This fulsome compliment—certainly among the most lame Matthew had ever offered a lady—had her scowling in addition to clenching her teeth.

  “It’s too—”

  “Don’t think of the music then. Tell me what it was like growing up in the Highlands.”

  She tilted her head as Matthew drew her through the first turn. “It was cold and hungry, like this music. Never enough to eat, never enough peat to burn, and always there was longing…”

  Her expression confirmed that she hadn’t meant to say that, which pleased Matthew inordinately. That he could dance Mary Frances MacGregor out of a little of her self-containment was a victory of sorts. “What else?”

  “What else, what?”

  “What else was it like, growing up in these mountains?”

  He pulled her a trifle closer on the second turn, close enough that he could hear her whisper. “It was lonely, like this blasted tune.”

  “Your brothers weren’t good company?”

  “They are my older brothers, Mr. Daniels. They were no company at all.”

  She danced beautifully, effortlessly, a part of the music she professed to hate.

  “And yet here I am, my lady, an older brother along on this curious venture for the express purpose of providing my sisters and their chaperones company.”

  She huffed out a sigh. “I appreciate that you’re preserving me from your father’s attentions, Mr. Daniels, but I assure you such gallantry is not necessary.”

  “Matthew, and perhaps I’m not being gallant, perhaps I’m being selfish.”

  He turned her under his arm, surprised to find he’d spoken the truth. A man leaving the military in disgrace was not expected to show his face at London’s fashionable gatherings, and had he done so, few ladies would have stood up with him.

  “What was it like growing up in the South?”

  Her question was a welcome distraction. “I didn’t. I went to boarding school in Northumbria. I was cold and hungry for most of it.”

  Her gaze sharpened. “Why the North?”

  Another turn, another opportunity to pull her a bit closer and enjoy the way her height matched with his own. “The North is cheaper, and Altsax isn’t what anybody would call a doting father. I made some friends and spent holidays with them to the extent I could.”

  Though those same friends would probably be careful not to recognize him now.

  “So you weren’t lonely.”

  He distracted her with a daring little spin, one she accommodated easily, and from there, conversation lapsed while Matthew tried to enjoy waltzing with a gorgeous, fragrant woman in his arms.

  Her last comment bothered him though. In boarding school, he’d been lonely. The schoolmates who’d taken pity on him for a holiday here or there had not been the sort of companions to provide solace to a boy exiled from his home and family. The military had been a slight improvement, for a time, and then no improvement at all.

  As Matthew bowed over the lady’s hand to the final strains of the nocturne, he admitted to himself that he’d been lonely for most of his boyhood as well as most of his military career.

  An
d he was lonely still.

  Two

  Mary Fran had a soft spot for wounded creatures, and the tall Englishman was nothing more than another wounded creature. The loneliness came through in his silences, in the grim quality of his expression around his father, in the way he watched his sisters as if bandits might seize them and carry them off.

  A severely handsome, grave, quiet, broad-shouldered, wounded creature with beautiful, tanned hands. Matthew Daniels’s hands embodied both grace and strength, and even on this family outing through the woods, Mary Fran had occasion to admire them often. Matthew—Mr. Daniels—was a solicitous escort, not like a brother who’d pelt along willy-nilly, dragging her forward as if she were a reluctant bullock.

  He would shift his hold on her, grip her hand, link their fingers, or grasp her wrist to guide her over logs she’d been hopping since childhood, or past boulders that were hardly going to rise up and roll directly into her path. This solicitude was… lovely. His attention was also largely silent, and his gaze never suggested anything inappropriate.

  She rather wished it would.

  “That was a heartfelt sigh, my lady. Shall we tell the others we’re turning around?”

  He’d apparently forgotten he had taken hold of her hand, and she wasn’t going to remind him.

  “It’s a beautiful summer day, I’m free of my chores, and I have a handsome escort for wandering my own property at my leisure. Maybe it was a sigh of pleasure.”

  He liked that answer. She could tell by the way he flattened his lips as if suppressing a smile, and the way his blue eyes lit briefly with humor.

  “You regard this land as your property, don’t you?” He shifted his grip again, so their fingers were linked. “Your brothers are almost here at your sufferance.”

  “They’re good brothers, but no, I don’t regard the place as my own, really. I wasn’t raised here. None of us were. We spent our childhoods farther west in the mountains and came here from time to time to learn the English and have some schooling. The boys had to go to university. I, of course did not.”