The Bridegroom Wore Plaid

by Grace Burrowes

  She was arranging the folds of his small kilt, repinning the clan brooch, fussing with the Scotch pine in his bonnet until Ian closed his fingers around her hand. “Settle, woman. A twelve-piece orchestra of our cousins is twelve more stout fellows to keep the peace if matters grow unruly. All will be well, despite how bleak things might seem now.”

  “You should be marrying Augusta.” She’d surprised him, that was some satisfaction, though his expression quickly shuttered.

  “You’d best be keeping such sentiments to yourself, Mary Frances MacGregor.”

  “Flynn.” She spoke softly. “I married a Flynn. My daughter is a Flynn.”

  “And as far as I know, I’m not marrying anybody, not in the immediate future. It might cost us greatly, but there’s no amount of coin that would justify taking our chances with Altsax on his terms.”

  He meant it, which was a wonderful relief. “Do Con and Gil know?”

  “They applaud my decision, though I’m not sure they’ll sing the same tune when Altsax starts in with his ranting and lawyering.”

  “You’re not going to publicly humiliate the man, are you? He’s worse than the average Englishman, Ian. Matthew doesn’t trust him in the least.”

  Ian flashed a smile at her, a false, friendly smile that alerted her to the front doors opening.

  Not Matthew, but rather, the first of their guests. Mary Fran took her place beside her brother and tried not to let her anxiety show.

  ***

  The ball gown was borrowed, but nonetheless magnificent.

  “You must wear it.” Hester stroked a hand over the midnight-blue velvet. The trim was a bright red-and-blue four-square tartan plaid, crossed at the bodice and flowing up over the shoulders of a gracefully scooped neckline. The same plaid detail plunged in a dramatic inverted vee to the hem, accentuating the hourglass turn of a lady’s figure.

  “I haven’t anything of my own grand enough for a ball,” Augusta said. “And I haven’t danced for years.” And she should not let herself be tempted by Mary Fran’s generosity.

  “You’ll offend our hostess if you don’t wear it,” Hester said. “I think the trim is one of the MacGregor tartans, maybe the one for dancing.”

  “Not the dancing plaid—that’s green and white. This is the one for the local branch of the family.” Augusta’s fingers trailed along the hem. “I suppose I could watch from the minstrel’s gallery.”

  “Nonsense. You will sit with me as a chaperone would. Julia has eyes only for Connor of late, and I’m sure she’ll be dancing with him every chance she gets.”

  “She might save him one waltz, Hester. She’s not going to flaunt propriety while Altsax is at hand.”

  “There’s something I’ve been meaning to tell you.” Hester stepped away from where the dress hung on the wardrobe door and sat herself on Augusta’s bed. “I miss your cat.”

  “I miss him too, but that wasn’t what you intended to say.”

  “Do you recall getting letters from me when you moved to Oxford?”

  “Yes, I do. They were a particular comfort, as I received almost no other mail.”

  Augusta crossed the room to sit next to her cousin. Somewhere along the way, Hester had grown into a young lady of both sense and beauty. If Hester had something to say, Augusta intended to listen.

  “Well, you got letters from Mr. Post-Williams, after you went up to Oxford.”

  “I did?”

  Hester nodded, her gaze on the pretty ball gown hanging a few feet away. “Papa is not a gentleman.”

  “You needn’t point out the obvious, Hester, though if I were any kind of influence on you, I’d tell you not to disrespect your elders.”

  “He reads other people’s mail. The letters from Post-Williams? I saw three when I wasn’t off at school, and I don’t think any of them were forwarded to you. When we’d visit at Trevisham when I was a little girl, I’d catch Papa going through the mail before Uncle came down to breakfast. I think he’s still doing it.”

  “Going through the mail?”

  Hester nodded, her expression disgruntled. “I saw another letter from Post-Williams, this one addressed to his lordship. I kept it back then passed it along to Lord Balfour. I hope that was the right thing to do.”

  “If you saw it into Ian’s hands, then that wasn’t wrong.” But what could the letter have said, and what had the three letters Altsax had pilfered said?

  “He’s a widower, you know.”

  Augusta peered over at her cousin. “Who is?”

  “Mr. Post-Williams. He’s widowed. He was making the rounds earlier this year, supposedly looking for a mother to his children. I think he’s lonely.”

  “He’s… widowed?” Augusta waited for this information to register, waited for some elemental shift in her heart, to know the man who’d offered for her, the man to whom she’d given her virginity, was again available and seeking a wife.

  But she felt… nothing, except a vague wish he’d find eventual happiness, or at least a decent mother for his children.

  “Augusta, Mr. Post-Williams doesn’t need to marry for money this time. He’s quite well set up now. Genie’s friends were very explicit in that regard.”

  “Then I wish Genie’s friends the joy of him. When it came down to it, he was set to spend his life with me one day and willing to accept his congé from Uncle and Aunt the next.”

  Hester’s gaze was troubled. “Is that how it was?”

  “More or less.” But what had his letters said? And had the baron forged replies supposedly from Augusta in response?

  “You should renew your acquaintance with him, Gus. He might be a prospect, and you can’t tell me you’d rather raise chickens in the shires than be a mother to a decent man’s children.”

  Augusta opened her mouth to reply then shut it as a truth settled around her heart.

  “Yes, Hester, I can so tell you that very thing. Being a glorified governess to another woman’s children is not preferable to raising my chickens, not when I’m expected to be grateful for the attentions of a man who deserted me years ago.”

  And this insight was squarely, purely, and utterly Ian MacGregor’s fault. Augusta smiled at the realization.

  There was no longer any need to defend her bucolic little life from criticisms and pity. It was a life that had allowed her to love and love fiercely when she’d been given the chance, to experience the soul-nourishing joy of mutual desire and respect, however briefly.

  Augusta rose from the bed and took the ball gown down from its hanger. “You’ll help me figure out what to do with my hair?”

  Hester hopped off the bed and made straight for Augusta’s vanity. “Of course, I’ll help—and you won’t be hiding in the minstrel’s gallery.”

  “I won’t.”

  But Augusta would steal another half hour for herself in the library, where she would read those benighted damned contracts just one more time.

  ***

  The reception line had disbanded, the guests were swilling spirits at a great rate, and the musicians were tuning up. The ballroom was a lovely sight, decorated with both the finest flowers from Ian’s gardens, and the finest flowers of the local gentry as well as the English community that formed each summer around the sovereign’s retreat to Balmoral.

  Altsax appeared at Ian’s elbow, looking choleric in his evening attire. “I think an announcement just before the supper waltz makes the most sense.”

  The man had an eye for the dramatic, since Ian stood at the top of the grand staircase, every eye upon him. He’d open the dancing, of course, usually by dancing with the highest-ranking lady in the assemblage—which was sometimes his own sister and once had been the Queen herself.

  “It’s risky to count your chickens befo
re they hatch, Baron. If we should for some reason be unable to come to terms, there are plenty of representatives of London society here who will recall your announcement, and it will not devolve to your daughter’s credit.”

  “We’ve come to the only terms I’m willing to offer, Balfour. Genie has signed the documents, and it would be a nice touch if you’d do likewise this very evening.”

  A nice touch, and the death of Ian’s hopes, dreams, and honor. “Except you’ve shown the next thing to bad faith, Baron, by withholding financial information critical to my decision.”

  Altsax visibly expanded, like a cat puffing out its fur to appear larger and more menacing. “You dare to accuse me of bad faith? You, who charge your in-laws for the very bread you put before them?”

  He was keeping his voice down, as Ian had known he would. The baron was acutely aware of appearances, one of few advantages Ian could count on.

  “I have no in-laws as we speak, Baron, though I think Connor’s getting ideas about Mrs. Redmond.”

  That stopped whatever tirade the baron had been winding up to. “Julia is going to stoop to taking that… that kilted brute to the altar?”

  “That brute is my baby brother, Baron. Smile. This is a social occasion, and these people are my friends and neighbors.”

  The baron didn’t smile, but he wiped the incredulity from his face. “I’ll take matters into my own hands, Balfour. Make the announcement myself.”

  “And won’t that look odd, with nary a single Scottish groom to be seen when you do?”

  Ian walked off, letting the baron sputter himself to silence. From the corner of Ian’s eye, he saw Mary Fran standing by the door, her expression perfectly serene except for the anxiety pinching the corners of her smile. Daniels the Younger had better be showing up soon, or Ian would be the one sputtering.

  He conferred with the concertmaster—his third cousin, Doungal MacGregor—and made sure the drink was flowing freely. Ian was running out of ways to stall when he spotted his quarry.

  In a gown that appeared to have been sewn onto her, Augusta looked magnificent. She’d piled some of her hair softly upon her head but left long, fat curls draping down over her pale shoulders. Ian took the space of two breaths just to drink in the sight of her.

  Magnificent, lovely, beautiful… neither English nor Gaelic had vocabulary sufficient to do justice to the lady, or to the feelings the sight of her engendered in Ian’s heart.

  Doungal caught Ian’s nod and signaled to the orchestra to put down their drinks and take their places. While the entire room looked on, Ian crossed the empty dance floor to Augusta’s side.

  “My lady, you are a vision.”

  She dipped a graceful curtsy. “My lord, I am indebted to your sister for my borrowed finery.”

  He leaned nearer but spoke loudly enough to be overheard by the crowd. “Perhaps your finery is borrowed, but as for what’s in it, we can give fervent thanks only to the Almighty. May I have this dance, Miss Merrick?”

  A little color came into her cheeks, though she remained composed. Her smile was sweet and genuine, not a ballroom showpiece intended to condescend. “I would be honored.”

  He led her out to the center of the room, her gloved hand resting on his knuckles. He’d quite honestly expected a little more of a fight from her, but he wanted the baron—and the baron’s society—to understand that Augusta Merrick had allies. Admirers, even, because Con and Gil were going to see to it the woman danced every dance.

  “I need to speak to you.” Augusta’s voice was calm, but as he took her in his arms, Ian felt the tension in her body.

  “Can’t we just enjoy a dance, Augusta? The damned baron is yapping at my heels, Genie’s looking tragic, Gil is muttering about hanging felonies, Mary Fran can’t take her eyes off the door, and Con has gone calf-eyed over the widow.”

  The orchestra started the introduction. Augusta curtsied, Ian bowed, and the waltz began.

  She was like holding music in his arms. Sweet, lyrical, warm, and feminine, but substantial too. Ian thought back to his first glimpse of her—gangly, awkward, graceless, and plain but for her startling eyes. How wrong he’d been, except he had the sense she hadn’t even seen herself accurately that day at the train station.

  “You’re fretting,” he said as Con and Julia joined them on the floor, followed by Gil and Genie.

  “I’ve done something, Ian.” Like Mary Fran, Augusta’s anxiety was well hidden unless a man knew where to look. “Something you will not like, but I assure you, I had the consent of all parties. All the relevant parties.”

  She spoke so earnestly while she floated in his arms.

  “Well, we’re even then, because I’m going to do things tonight I can’t expect anybody to approve of.”

  “Ian?”

  “I’m the head of this family, Augusta. I have to do what I think is right for the whole family.”

  “What does that mean?”

  He pulled her a little closer on a sweeping turn, wishing he could just waltz her out to the gardens and explain himself to her—though he couldn’t. Not until Matthew Daniels was again in their midst.

  “It means whatever you hear the baron saying, whatever announcements he might trump up, you must not lose faith in me. I cannot marry Genie.”

  She searched his face, seeming to come to some conclusion. “No, you cannot.” She smiled a little—wistfully, it seemed to him—and came more fully into his arms. It wasn’t so much a matter of their bodies being closer as it was of her allowing him more responsibility for her balance.

  And for the rest of the dance, he was torn between the pleasure of holding the woman he loved in his arms—for he did love her—and the need to keep a sharp eye on the baron.

  And on Mary Fran.

  And Con.

  And Gil.

  And even on Fiona, who was spying on them from the minstrel’s gallery, her face pressed between the balusters.

  “Ian?”

  “Beloved?” He kept his voice down, because many in the room would understand the Gaelic.

  “Whatever transpires later tonight, please know that”—Augusta met his gaze only fleetingly—“I will never care for another as I do for you.”

  He should have grabbed those words to his heart and hoarded them up for his own pleasure. Instead, he frowned down at her.

  “You’re scaring me, Augusta Merrick. What have you done?” If she’d taken on the old bastard Altsax by herself, he was going to shake her, assembled nobility be damned.

  Before she could answer, the music drew to a close, and yet, Ian did not let her go. “Augusta, tell me.”

  She reached up to run her fingers down the soft wool of his plaid waistcoat. “I did what I had to do, Ian. Don’t be angry.”

  And then she was gone, leaving Ian to realize the baron was scowling mightily and angling to intercept her. Smart lady, she shifted course for the punch bowl, which was thronged with neighbors all too willing to get to know the woman whom Ian had broken protocol to dance with.

  “He’s still not here.” Mary Fran spoke through clenched teeth as Ian gained the edge of the ballroom.

  “He sent a telegram, Mary Fran. He’ll be here.” Ian gave her shoulder a squeeze. “Stay close to Augusta. She’s done something to incur Altsax’s wrath, and I can’t be by her side every minute.”

  Mary Fran looked intrigued, then nodded and moved off toward Augusta.

  One disaster averted. Gil was escorting Genie off the dance floor, trading partners with Con as if by arrangement. Genie was still looking haunted, probably dreading the dance Ian himself would share with her.

  His moment came before supper, when he’d danced and flirted and charmed and smiled until his teeth ached—all the while intercepting desperate looks
from Mary Fran and trying to keep watch over Augusta. The neighbors—mindful of whose plaid Augusta wore—were keeping Altsax from Augusta’s side, and Ian’s opportunities to speak with his former intended were dwindling.

  “May I have this dance?” He recited his part of the litany, but Genie just stared at him, so he moved a little closer. “For God’s sake, smile, or your papa will be here to know the reason why.”

  Her lips curved woodenly.

  It was a landler, an old-fashioned partner dance enjoying a revival on the Continent, a dance that would allow Ian some chance to warn the lady of the brewing storm.

  “Pay attention, Genie.” He smiled and nodded, then turned away in the prescribed steps of the dance. “When you see your brother in the ballroom, get you to Gilgallon’s side. Tear a hem, develop a megrim, do what you need to do to get to Gil.”

  She nodded, holding his gaze, but Ian honestly couldn’t say if she comprehended his words.

  “I’m not going to marry you, Genie Daniels.”

  “What will you do?”

  Ah, so there was intelligent life behind those frightened blue eyes.

  “You’ll be safe,” he said. “Gil will make sure of that.”

  “You should marry Augusta.”

  He nearly stumbled, so great was his surprise. “Miss Augusta can look forward to being courted by a Mr. Henry Post-Williams, a wealthy man much respected in English social circles.”

  Impatience flashed across Genie’s features. “Don’t be an ass, Ian MacGregor. She belongs with you, and you belong with her. I saw you coming across the park when you came back from that hike, and she’d nearly been hurt by the landslide. You didn’t want to let her out of your sight.”

  He lost his rhythm for a moment then recovered. “I need to marry money, and Augusta deserves to resume her place in proper society. You’ll keep an eye on Gil?”

  “I always do.”

  Her smile was sad but genuine, and Ian realized whatever her hesitations and fears regarding marriage to the titled stranger chosen by her parents, they surely did not apply where Gil was concerned.