“You need to woo her trust, Ian.” Gil pulled him into the family parlor and closed the door.
“What else does a man woo in a prospective bride?”
“You’re not…” Gil ran a hand through blond hair already disheveled. In the past few days, Ian’s brother—his heir—had been oddly silent, taking the place at meals beside Miss Hester, Mrs. Redmond, or Augusta.
That’s Miss Augusta to you, laddie.
She’d been acting peculiarly too, taking herself out sketching with another of the ladies or spending an inordinate amount of time with Fiona. Grieving for her cat, perhaps.
Or avoiding her host.
“What’s amiss, Gilgallon? The ladies have long since lost the ability to overset you.”
“Your intended is dead set against the match, Ian. You need to inspire her confidences.”
“Does she love another?”
Gil’s expression became stricken. “God, I hope not.”
“I’m prepared to observe the same civilities as the next titled gentleman,” Ian said, feeling the weight of a long day, a long week, and a long, lonely future press down on him. “When we’ve a few heirs, she’ll be free to share her affections elsewhere.”
“With Englishmen, Ian? Have you thought about that? We’re brutes in their opinions, and…”
Gil fell silent, which allowed Ian to take in the fatigue in his brother’s eyes, the blister gracing the inside of his right fourth finger, the relative pallor of his complexion.
Drinking and riding at all hours, then. Gil’s recipe for dealing with English under their roof, among other upsets.
“She can dally with Englishmen, Gilgallon, with the stable boys, with you, if that’s what it takes to secure her fortune. We put on a good show here each summer, and we make some coin. It keeps us going; it keeps us thinking we’re making progress. Another blight, a dose of hoof and mouth, a bad market…”
“I know. I know, Ian.”
“I know too.” Ian reached out and squeezed his brother’s shoulder. “I’ll woo the damned girl until her eyes cross and she lies panting at my booted feet.”
He could too. He hadn’t been applying himself was all. Giving the girl time, letting her settle in… Putting off the inevitable.
“She likes poetry,” Gil said dully. “That sentimental, idle tears, English bastard-fellow. I forget his name.”
“Tennyson. I’ll read her pretty little ears off until the splendor is damned falling on our castle walls.”
“Do that.” Gil looked around the parlor like he’d no clue how they’d arrived there. “I’m going for a ride.”
Ian headed for the library to pick up a volume of Tennyson, walked resolutely past the ladies’ parlor where Augusta—Miss Augusta—had been stitching at something in solitude earlier in the day, and prepared to read his intended’s ears off.
Though if he recalled his Tennyson aright, the menfolk fought themselves to injury and coma, while the princess remained unmoved up in her tower.
Splendor, indeed.
***
The library door crashed on its hinges when the Earl of Balfour disturbed Augusta’s reading.
“I beg your pardon.” He looked disgruntled, like he wasn’t in the mood to beg anything of anybody. “I thought you were in the ladies’ parlor.”
Augusta supposed this was part of a host’s function, to keep track of which guest was where. She rose and put aside Waverley. “I can remove to the ladies’ parlor if you have need of some solitude here.”
He’d closed the door behind him too, and removing to the ladies’ parlor—to anywhere else—would have been the decision of a prudent chaperone.
“I’ll not be but a moment.” He scrubbed a hand over his chin and seemed to visually canvass the room. “Fiona isn’t lurking under the table, is she? Dragooning you into hide-and-seek or some other nonsense?”
“I think Lady Mary Fran is trying to keep Fiona entertained below stairs for the present. Truly, I can leave if you need the library for business, my lord.”
Except she didn’t want to leave. It made no sense, but Augusta wanted to linger wherever she could study him, wherever she could observe him. She’d noticed, for example, that in bright sunlight, his dark hair had red highlights, and the lines of fatigue around his mouth and laughter around his eyes were more pronounced.
He blew out a breath, some of the temper leaving his expression to be replaced with humor. “You’re my-lording me, Augusta Merrick. I must be exuding about as much charm as my damn—my blasted bull doddy. I’m fetching some poetry to read to Miss Genie.”
“Very considerate of you.”
He advanced into the room and went to stand by the window. “Come here, if you please.”
The command was casual, but a command no matter how politely stated. Augusta went, rather than dwell any longer on the resentment she felt that Genie was going to be hearing poetry in that lovely, masculine burr, while Augusta had… solitude. Tea and solitude, chickens and solitude.
But also a few memories and solitude.
She went to him, stopping a few feet away.
“Here.” He waggled his fingers at her but kept his gaze turned toward the window. “I want to show you something.”
She came a couple of steps closer. He was being an attentive host, nothing more, pausing in the more important business of wooing Genie to show Augusta some small consideration.
He shifted, putting a hand on each of Augusta’s shoulders and guiding her to the sill. “You can see the path behind the stables from here. Just there, where Lavelle is leading that draft team.”
Augusta forced herself to stop focusing on the earl’s proximity, on the heather and wool scent of him, on the feel his hands, one on each of her shoulders. “Where is he taking those horses?”
“The path winds just inside the tree line for a good way, then jogs over toward Balmoral. There’s a lot of construction debris there, some of it worth saving, some of it useful for burning. Her Majesty is generous, and His Highness is practical.”
Augusta turned slightly, and still her host did not drop his hands. “What does that mean?”
“We show our appreciation with the occasional gift of whisky. Albert and his wife appreciate decent libation.”
She watched his mouth while he spoke, which was hardly polite. Augusta stepped back, out of his grasp. “Thank you for showing me the path. I’m sure Fiona will agree to explore it with me.”
“Fiona.” His dark brows lowered. “I suppose she will, but you’re going on an outing with me tomorrow at first light.” He looked surprised by his invitation—if one could call it that—and then resolute.
And yet, an invitation could be declined.
“A walk first thing sounds lovely.” She had meant to refuse—to gently, politely, absolutely refuse—though it was impossible to recall why she must when Ian’s heathery scent was teasing at her wits. “Where will our outing take us?”
The ambiguity of the question felt vaguely unsuitable, particularly when Ian’s handsome features split into a devilish grin.
“I’ll show you the path to the high tor. It’s an hour’s good walking with a fine view of the shire.”
Before Augusta could think up a witty rejoinder—his smile was unlike any she’d seen in London ballrooms—the earl strode off toward the door.
“My lord?”
He turned, the smile muted but still in evidence. “Ian, if you please.”
“Your book of poetry?”
She heard him curse quite clearly. Only when he had retrieved a slim volume from a middle shelf, departed, and closed the door did Augusta permit herself to smile over it.
***
Con caught the shadow falling across the stab
le door out of his peripheral vision and straightened, muck fork in hand.
Julia Redmond stood there in a smart brown riding habit trimmed with green piping. The colors would have looked wonderful on Mary Fran, though Con’s sister hadn’t had a new habit in years.
The pretty English widow radiated… not exactly anger, but tension. “Mr. MacGregor.”
“I think you can use my name, seeing as how we’re on kissing-and-groping-each-other-in-public terms.” He took his time shrugging into his shirt. Petty of him, but no more petty than she’d been.
And then he went back to his mucking.
She clenched her fists and closed her eyes as if praying for fortitude. When she looked at him again her expression was unreadable. “I came here to apologize to you. If you’re just going to bait me, I’ll leave.”
He wanted her to leave. Leave the stables, the estate, Scotland. Hell, she could go pan for gold in California and take her damned insulting English condescension with her.
“Apologize then, but I’m not used to being made a fool of.”
She crossed into the barn aisle, walked past him, and stood with her back to him. “I am. I am used to being made to feel like an idiot.”
“You expect me to believe a wealthy young English widow can easily be made a fool of?” He set his muck fork aside and went to stand behind her. He smelled of horse and sweat and worse, but still her rose-and-cinnamon scent came to him.
“To you, Connor, I’m wealthy and young. By London standards, I’m old, and compared to the American heiresses, barely solvent. My property is so far north no man in his right mind would spend time there except for grouse season. I’m… I have been regarded as foolish in the extreme, more than once.”
He could make no sense of her words. “What are you trying to say?”
“I’m turning thirty this fall, Connor, and I have no children.”
“Then you’re approaching your prime without any bairns clinging to your skirts. Go find some horny Englishman to celebrate with, why don’t you?”
She turned, and to his horror there were tears shining in her eyes. “Connor, I didn’t know what else to do.”
The misery in her voice was genuine, he’d give her that much, but forgiveness was still beyond him. “You didn’t know what else to do besides offer me money for taking you to bed?”
She bit her lip while one of those tears trickled down her cheek. “I didn’t expect you to do something distasteful for free.”
“You didn’t…!” He walked off a few paces then glared at her over his shoulder. “Let me ask you something, Julia Redmond. How would you have felt if I’d offered you money to let me rut on you? Would you have been pleased? Flattered? Would you have entertained my proposition for a moment?”
When she should have been firing off denials and protests, she only peered at him while another tear followed the first. “I feel so…”
Ridiculous? Foolish? If she went around making this offer to the gentlemen of London…
“Tell me you haven’t propositioned anyone else, Julia. Lie to me if you have to, but the idea that you’d hold yourself worse than cheap…”
She shook her head. “I tried flirting. I tried innuendo. I tried notes so bold they couldn’t be misconstrued. But they always were, or ignored. Ignored is worse.”
He let himself return to her side. She was speaking softly for one thing, and she needed his handkerchief for another.
He did not need to catch another whiff of her fragrance. “My estimation of the average Englishman is at risk for a small upward revision if these fellows showed some restraint where your virtue is concerned.”
“Little you know.” She snatched his handkerchief and tromped over to a trunk along the wall. “It’s not restraint if a man finds you too plain to inspire his passion.”
Now this was utter balderdash. “Lass, the man hasna been born who’d find you too plain for bedsport.”
She waved an impatient hand at his words. “Genie is graceful and willowy, Hester is horse mad and great fun, Augusta is well read and poised. I’m none of those things. I’m short, plain, boring, brown-haired, and d-dying of it.”
She buried her face in the handkerchief, while Con tried to puzzle out her reasoning. In a convoluted female sort of way, it made sense she’d attribute to herself too little appeal rather than too much. It made female sense, which was likely a contradiction in terms.
He took a seat beside her and patted her knee. “You needn’t take on. I’ve told no one of your folly. They all think you were carried away with your attraction to me.”
She looked up, eyes glittering. “I was.”
“No, you weren’t. Any toothsome fellow would have done, which is why I’m insulted by your offer.”
She let her hands fall to her lap and leaned back against the wall. “Not any toothsome fellow, just you. It’s all very well and good for men to go around handing out coin to secure a lady’s cooperation. I don’t see why my offer was such a great insult.”
Decent women weren’t even to admit they knew of such arrangements, and yet Julia Redmond was decent. Lonely and foolish, but decent.
“I have never paid a woman to tolerate my attentions, and I never will. And the women taking that coin are no longer ladies.”
She started folding up his linen in her lap. “Some of them are. They live in their mansions, ordering their servants about, and yet their jewelry boxes are full of tokens of esteem from admirers. It’s the same thing.”
There was such bewilderment and hurt in her voice, this time he patted her hand. “Do you want to be one of those ladies, Julia? The kind no decent hostess trusts around her husband? The kind mamas never allow their daughters to converse with? Do you want a full jewelry case of tokens?”
She sighed, her head clonking against the wall as she leaned back. “My husband gave me all manner of jewels. He spent my money on me, but he did spend it. And no, Connor, I do not want to be a predatory female. I just want…”
He waited while a horse down the aisle groaned sleepily. There were stalls to muck—there were always stalls to muck—but just now, he could spare her a few minutes to hear her… apology.
“I want to feel desired, to feel wanted. My husband wasn’t young, and passion was beyond him. He consummated the marriage, and then after a few months, it was as if I were his ward or his apprentice. He’d read the financial pages to me until I thought I’d go mad.” She stopped and closed her eyes. “Maybe I am going mad.”
A suspicion bloomed in Connor’s mind. A suspicion of no little wickedness, but one he was going to investigate. “Then he didn’t see to your pleasure, this husband?”
“How could reading me the paper be a pleasure? Morning after morning, and then again at night, sometimes the same articles twice in one day.”
Ah. Well, then. It put her situation in a different light altogether, but Con wasn’t going to make any precipitous moves.
“You need to know two things, Julia Redmond.”
She lifted her head from the wall to meet his gaze. “I was an idiot again. I know that. I’m sorry if I offended your honor, but I see things, Connor. Your stable is aging, your domestics are either very young or very old, the windows in the family wing all need a good glazing, your wood is bare of deadfall. There’s a need for coin—”
He stopped her with an upraised hand. “That’s none of your concern, and yes, you were an idiot, though you’re not to be an idiot with any other men. Gil would likely expire from apoplexy if you waylaid him, and Ian is in pursuit of a bride.”
“I don’t want Ian or—”
He put a finger over her lips. “Two things. First, I accept your apology. We need not speak of this again.”
“Thank you. And second?”
He leaned ove
r and kissed her on the mouth, sweetly, gently, not in any hurry but not exactly lingering either. “I would have taken a woman as comely, dear, and determined as you to my bed for free. Gladly, for free.”
Before she could slap him or kiss him back—he figured the odds of each were about the same—he got up and sauntered away. Had he looked back, he would have seen her sitting all alone on her trunk, two fingers pressed to her mouth and a stunned smile on her face.
But he didn’t look back, and he didn’t tell her that if ever there was a woman he’d beg for her favors—beg, plead, and all but pay—it would be her.
***
Ian closed up the little volume of poetry and glanced over at the woman he intended to wed. She was pretty enough, with long, gold-tipped eyelashes, patrician features, and big blue eyes that were at present closed in slumber—blue eyes some would say were unremarkable. She had a decent figure in a long-limbed, English sort of way.
He wished to God he were tempted to steal a kiss. He might have been, had the lady shown the least inclination to steal a kiss from him, but no.
She reclined on her fainting couch, her ankle propped on a pillow. She’d remained unmoving for the past half hour. He’d read her nigh half of Tennyson’s damned “Princess,” then switched to French poetry recited from memory. She’d closed her eyes by then, and even switching to the Gaelic hadn’t gotten her notice.
“Are you enjoying the poetry?”
Her eyes flew open. “The poetry? Oh, a great deal, my lord. You have such a lovely burr.”
The burr had been beaten out of him in public school, though he could hardly tell her that. “Have you a favorite poem, Miss Genie?”
“I like the simple ones, the ones that make sense.”
Her reply had him wondering what Augusta Merrick had been reading in the library, which was absolutely irrelevant to the present situation. “Whom do you like besides Tennyson?”
“I’m not sure I know any other poets.” Her fingers twitched at the afghan over her lap, which Ian took for a sign of mendacity. English schoolgirls knew their poetry. “I do appreciate your taking time from your busy day to entertain me, my lord.”
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