She looked relieved, and then indecisive, as if she might say more or take his hand to solemnize the exchange. But she turned, pulled the ugly shawl up, skittered away, then darted back to his side.
Ian had no warning. She rested a hand on his chest then went up on her toes and grazed her lips against his cheek. He got a fleeting impression of warmth and softness and a little whiff of spring flowers before he had the presence of mind to steady her by the elbows. For a procession of instants, she remained next to him, a woman who likely permitted herself no allies and no affection. Ian’s hands slid from her elbows to her waist, sharing an embrace that was as comforting as it was unexpected.
She was not prim, fussy, and prejudiced. She was shy, lonely, and uncertain.
Also brave.
It was a sweet moment, and just as Ian might have stepped back and bowed over her hand, she whirled away.
In a flurry of tan shawl and bare feet, she scampered off, reminding Ian of a doe startled at her quiet grazing, then fleeing into the safety of the surrounding shadows.
***
The Earl of Balfour was a more complicated man than Augusta had wanted to credit. She pondered this realization while she exchanged her old walking dress for a day dress of almost the same sorry vintage.
Her first impression of him was that he had decent manners, a genial disposition, and—like many of his peers—did not suffer from excesses of introspection. And she’d thought him… big. Physically big. Tall, broad through the shoulders, solid in the chest, and whether he wore riding attire or the kilts he seemed so fond of, she could see his legs had as much muscle as the rest of him.
Big, fit, and handsome in a tall, black-haired, green-eyed Scottish way.
And then he’d caught her in all her ridiculous glory this morning, giving in to the impulse to feel the wet grass on her feet, to sniff a fat, bloodred rose sporting morning dew, to allow the morning sun to kiss her bare cheeks.
Things she could do in exile in Oxfordshire but had missed terribly during these weeks when she’d again been in the company of her family.
The earl hadn’t remarked her behavior. He’d been courteous but honest, gruffly honest. She’d liked the honesty and had tried to convey her approval by returning his candor in full measure. The more serious earl, the man who bluntly broached topics like marriage and Genie’s hesitance to become his countess, was a more appealing fellow than the easygoing host.
Too appealing, if her impulsive little buss to his cheek was any indication. What had she been thinking, to presume on his person that way? And in what tidy little compartment of proper thought and behavior was she going to stash the memory of their embrace?
He’d been oddly gracious. The first time he’d tucked her shawl up, Augusta hadn’t known quite what he was about and had nearly flinched away. The second time, she’d found it… intriguing.
Not quite endearing. Endearing was the grave look in his emerald green eyes when he informed her he was not yet officially the earl. Augusta had heard her aunt and uncle discussing this at tiresome length, with Uncle pointing out the man was at the very least an earl’s heir, complete with courtesy title, and likely to be the earl in the next year.
So Aunt had pleaded for a yearlong engagement, and Uncle had started ranting.
Augusta gave her hair a repinning after she’d changed into morning attire. She hadn’t intended to go to breakfast, but the day had had a promising start. The more she got to know Lord Balfour, the more Augusta was convinced he could make Genie a very decent husband after all.
The man apparently intended to begin his campaign with the morning meal. Augusta watched from her place opposite the laden sideboard as he managed to arrive at the breakfast parlor at the exact same moment as Genie.
“Good morning, Miss Daniels and Miss Hester,” he said from the doorway “You both have the radiant appearance of women who’ve enjoyed a fine night’s rest.”
“I was asleep before my head hit the pillow,” Hester said, sailing into the room. “My goodness, this is breakfast in Scotland? I was expecting bannocks with my tea. Genie, do come along lest I eat everything I see.”
“Miss Daniels?” The earl waited politely for Genie to pass before him into the room. “May I fix you a plate?”
“Thank you, but I don’t typically enjoy much of an appetite first thing in the day.” Genie cast Augusta a look probably intended to convey a plea for help—which would not be forthcoming. For the earl to see to a lady guest’s plate was perfectly proper and even considerate.
“The scones are very good,” he said, quirking an eyebrow. “I’m thinking you’d best have a couple lest Miss Hester remove them as an option.”
“Smart man.” Hester plucked a pastry from the tray as she cruised along the buffet. “And you’ll want to watch the butter, because Augusta slathers it on like she’s trying to keep every bossy cow in the shire secure in its employment.”
“We have a lot of cows here in Aberdeen. Good morning, Miss Merrick. I hope you slept well?”
And there was not a hint of innuendo, humor, or anything in his inflection or his expression. Such an accomplished actor would likely lie convincingly as well, which was a disconcerting realization.
“I did sleep soundly. I kept the terrace door open to humor my cat. I think the fresh air agreed with us both.”
“Imagine that—a feline being pleased with something. I don’t know as I’ve seen the like.” He turned back to Genie, who was hovering by the array of food. “Some bacon, ma’am? A bit of ham?”
“Just the scone for now, thank you, my lord.”
“None of that. You’re my guest. Balfour will do, and I shall call you Miss Genie, hmm?” He set her plate on the table and waited to hold her chair, while Genie shot Augusta an even more panicked look.
“Of course you shall call her Miss Genie,” Augusta said, reaching for the teapot. “Formalities at breakfast do not aid digestion.”
She could not endorse lingering behind a privet hedge with a handsome earl as an aid to digestion either.
“Hear, hear.” Hester waved her fork in a little circle to emphasize her agreement. “I could do with a spot of that tea, Cousin. I’ve an entire tray of scones to wash down.”
“Save some for me,” the earl said. “If my brothers descend… speak of the devils.”
The earl started filling his plate while Connor and Gilgallon came into the breakfast parlor, boots thumping on the polished wood floor.
“Morning, all,” Gilgallon said, his blond good looks showing to advantage in riding attire. “Ladies, you each look to be blooming. This tells us Ian hasn’t attempted any polite conversation yet.”
“Don’t let him spoil your appetite,” the earl stage-whispered to Genie as he took the place at her elbow. “Scots are nothing if not tenacious, and I’m determined to beat some manners into him.”
“I’d help,” Connor said, “but I think beating manners into a fellow something of a contradiction. Ian, I am going to tattle to Mary Fran that you’ve left us only a half-dozen scones, and you, Miss Hester, will be my corroborating witness.”
Augusta watched as the earl occasionally dropped his voice to whisper something to Genie, who gradually relaxed under the onslaught of his charm. He topped up her teacup, passed her the cream and sugar, sliced a ripe peach—Her Majesty was said to adore a peach at the conclusion of her evening meal—and put most of it on her plate.
It was breakfast with a side helping of subtle, well-disguised overtures from a man interested in gaining a lady’s notice. By the third cup of tea, Genie reached for a bite of peach from the earl’s plate then froze with her hand in midair.
“I beg your pardon, my lord.” Her hand returned to her lap, while color rose in her cheeks. “I should not presume upon your very breakfast.”
/> Gilgallon reached across the table and plucked the slice of fruit from his brother’s plate. “Why not? If you don’t, I will, and then there’s Con, and Mary Fran, and…”
“What about Mary Fran?” The earl’s sister posed her question from the door then headed directly for the buffet. “And the truth, Gilgallon Concannon MacGregor, or I’ll skelp yer bum but good.”
Julia spoke up for the first time. “You’ll do what?”
“She’ll spank him,” Connor supplied, for Gilgallon was munching his peach, or the earl’s peach. “Again. Motherhood has made Mary Fran a dab hand with a spanking.”
“Quit braggin’ on me, ye daft, glaikit mon,” Mary Frances said, bringing a full plate to the table.
A few more minutes into the general banter, Augusta noticed the earl leaning over to offer Genie another one of his teasing asides, but Genie kept her gaze on her teacup, apparently wise to the man’s tricks. Balfour left off his wooing, for that’s what it was, when Matthew joined the assemblage.
Matthew, who might have been Augusta’s… husband.
She regarded her cousin with as much dispassion as she could muster over hot, buttery scones and strong breakfast tea.
He was handsome, tall, lithe, and where she had gotten some ancestor’s Celtic black hair, Matthew had been spared such a fate and sported blond hair going reddish at the temples. He’d been spared the peculiar eyes too, his being a perfectly circumspect shade of blue.
She tried to consider him objectively—they were both presently unwed—but the idea of bearing his children left her… disturbed. Cousins could marry legally, and royal cousins frequently did.
Matthew had been the one to teach her how to tie her boots, the older boy who’d shown her how to make a fist—thumb outside—and instructed her about where exactly a female might knee a bothersome fellow to allow her time to flee to safety. These were not memories conducive to marital inclinations. Not years ago and not now.
And Matthew had grown so serious. The change had started before he’d joined the cavalry, and Augusta regretted it—for his sake and for hers.
“Good morning, Cousin.” Matthew took a seat beside her as he spoke. “The teapot, if it wouldn’t be too much trouble?”
She obliged, pouring for him in silence. Several seats up the table, Gilgallon was now appropriating his sister’s bacon and getting his tanned wrist slapped for it.
“Such violence in an earl’s daughter,” Connor chided, taking a sip of Gil’s tea. “And I’ve diagnosed Gil’s problem. He fails to sweeten his tea, which cannot be good for his disposition.”
“My disposition would benefit from a ride directly after breakfast,” Gil said, ignoring his brother’s larceny. “And I would sweeten my tea, but you lot have plundered the sugar bowl.”
“Perhaps the ladies would like to join you on your ride,” the earl suggested. He lounged at his end of the table, lord of all he surveyed, a smile lighting his eyes.
How different this breakfast was among Scottish strangers from all the breakfasts Augusta had shared with her relations—and the breakfasts she’d shared with nobody save her cat.
“I would enjoy a tour of the estate,” Genie said, pinning a nigh-desperate gaze on Gil. “A tame mount would be best, though.”
“We’ll make it a foursome if the younger Mr. MacGregor will come along,” Hester chimed in, smiling at Connor. “Aunt, perhaps you’d like to join us as well?”
Julia appeared to consider this offer as she peered at her tea. “It has been ages since I’ve ridden. Augusta, will you join us so I won’t be the only one left to amble along on an aged pony?”
Augusta was tempted. Oh, how she was tempted. But for her to be riding about with the young ladies when Julia was on hand to do so might be getting above her station.
“I’ll leave the girls to your watchful eye,” Augusta said. “Perhaps I’ll ride some other day.”
Three seats up, the Baron folded down his newspaper and frowned at the sugar bowl. “We’re to tour the estate? Can’t say as I approve of riding after a full meal. You girls mind your aunt, and when you’re done, be sure to send along notes to your mama, else she’ll be pestering me to death for word of your doings. Pass the teapot, Gussie.”
Augusta did as bid. She always did as her uncle bid her, but she also noticed the earl was not making noises to join the riding expedition.
Prudent of him, to only advance his cause so far then leave Genie some time to regain her balance. It wasn’t as if his own brothers were going to undermine his prospects with Genie, were they?
Three
Ian counted breakfast a limited success, in part because Gil had been canny enough to suggest an outing for the ladies that Ian could easily decline.
Always leave your opponent a graceful out. Grandfather’s words echoed in Ian’s mind, though Ian wondered how a battle-hardened soldier had applied those words in a life-or-death struggle. They had merit in a wooing, or whatever Ian was engaged in with Miss Daniels.
Miss Genie. Who’d looked only relieved when Miss Merrick had requested Ian’s company on a tour of the library.
“Have you many novels in your library?”
Miss Merrick voiced her question tentatively, as if novels were some kind of pornography. Perhaps in her lexicon they were.
“Mary Fran claims we’re to stock them for guests. Connor says any Scots household worth its salt has to have a full complement of old Sir Walter. Gil’s excuse is that we keep them on hand for Mary Fran, while I admit to reading occasionally purely for recreation.”
As she walked beside him along the rows of shelves, her eyes grew wide. “You admit such a thing?”
“There are advantages to being head of the household.” He refrained from giving her a conspiratorial wink lest the poor thing expire from an excess of innuendo, but there was pleasure in showing her what remained of the family library. She ran a single, tentative finger down the spine of each volume he pointed out, her touch slow and reverent, a kind of literary caress.
“Books were my salvation,” she said as they paused by the old atlas spread on a gate-legged table. “When Papa died and then Mother died so soon after, I was quite alone. Proper mourning leaves one nothing to do but mourn, and I’ve concluded this isn’t a good thing. Grief crowds in closely enough without the rest of life being shoved aside to make way for it. Am I scandalizing you?”
She peeked over at him, and Ian smiled at her. The library door was wide open, a footman posted directly outside. They were discussing novels, or possibly mourning, and she was concerned she might be shocking him.
Ian bent a bit closer and kept his voice down, as if they were exchanging confidences. “I found a great deal more solace in taking care of my father’s legacy and brawling with my brothers than I did sitting behind draped windows and reading scripture.”
Or getting drunk. He shook off that thought.
“Have you read this one?” He reached over her shoulder and pulled down a book. “It’s credited with sparking the revival of Scottish national pride, indirectly.”
“Waverley? This is by your Sir Walter.”
“It was so popular it gained him a dinner with George IV, and put Sir Walter in the position of managing the King’s visit here in ’22. I’m told I was brought to Edinburgh as an infant to see George sporting about in royal Stuart finery, but I have no recollection of it.”
She frowned at the book in her hand. “George’s advisors wanted him away from the Continent at that time, as I recall. He gained a great following here, though, didn’t he?”
“Temporarily, at least. In my grandfather’s time, we were still forbidden to wear the tartan and play our pipes. That George’s visit celebrated the very things long denied us was likely the source of that popularity.” But what sort of bluestocking
was she, that she’d have a grasp of political history thirty years distant?
He was going to ask her, but she’d opened the book. Her frown became an expression of concentration as she stood right there and began to read. The only sound was the library clock ticking quietly on the wall, and still she remained absorbed in the book.
Ian realized how closely they were standing when he caught a whiff of lilacs from her person, a soft, pleasing scent that went with her retiring demeanor much better than the tart lemon had. She’d caught her hair back in a neat chignon, which left him with a curious desire to see her glossy black braid swinging over her hips again.
Maybe even a desire to have another of those chaste, maidenly little pecks to his cheek?
“I meant to thank you,” he said, the words surprising him. Step back, you idiot.
She glanced up at him, her expression questioning.
“At breakfast,” he clarified. “I presumed to use informal address with your cousin. You aided me in this regard.”
She blinked and closed the book with a snap. “I aided the cause of our digestion. I was not raised to stand particularly on ceremony, your lordship. My grandfather was merely a baron, or a… what is the Scottish equivalent?”
“A lord of parliament, or lord baron. I hope you enjoy the novel, Miss Merrick.”
He turned to go. There was work to be done, and she was regarding him with a peculiar light in her strange eyes.
“My lord?”
He stopped in midstride and turned to face her from a small distance. “Madam?”
From this angle, he could see that a curl had managed to escape from the black netting gathered over her nape. It was provoking, that curl. Lying against her neck, it disturbed the picture of order and calm she presented otherwise.
“I had thought…” She dropped her gaze from him to the book in her hands. “I don’t mean to presume, but if you were so inclined…”
Ian liked women. He enjoyed their company in bed and out, and he treasured the grace and sweetness they added to an otherwise difficult and burdensome existence. Still, something warned him to resist any queer starts on the part of this shy spinster who wandered barefoot in the dew and dispensed kisses at dawn.
The Bridegroom Wore Plaid Page 4