The Bridegroom Wore Plaid

by Grace Burrowes

  Which was a fine thing, considering she was going to end up wedded to the man.

  ***

  “You’re up to something.” The baron’s breath would have knocked a Highland regiment flat, but Augusta stood her ground among the potted ferns at the edge of the ballroom.

  “I’m enjoying my first ball in years, Uncle. I think Hester and Genie are having a fine time as well.”

  His fingers closed painfully around her arm just above the elbow, where her evening gloves would hide any bruises. “Let them dance. This time tomorrow, Genie will be all but leg-shackled to Balfour, and I can depart for more civilized surrounds shortly thereafter.”

  Augusta turned so she broke his hold. “Genie has already signed the contracts.”

  “Of course she has, and I had her signature witnessed. Her tears of happiness were very affecting.” He made another grab for her arm, one Augusta thought might have been rendered a tad clumsy with drink. She lifted her wrist corsage to her nose, blocking his maneuver easily.

  “The groom has signed the documents as well, Uncle. His own brother witnessed his signature. You need not fret any further over Genie’s future.”

  “The groom…?” Altsax’s expression turned crafty. “I knew he’d see reason. Has a certain animal cunning, Balfour does. And the settlements are really most favorable to him monetarily.”

  “I’ve wondered about that.” Augusta took a step back and shook out her skirts. “Where does the money come from, Uncle? Your baronies are not that lucrative, and you claim Trevisham was riddled with debt. How can you afford to buy Genie this title and still plan on doing the same for Hester?”

  His expression became, if anything, uglier. “You’re as bad as Balfour, insinuating and implying about you know not what. The contracts are signed, and I don’t owe you any explanations, my girl. You’ve been luckier than you know to rusticate away these years. Luckier than you deserve.”

  He spun on his heel, listed a little into a man standing to his left, righted himself, and stalked off, leaving Augusta to eye the door and wonder how much longer she could bear to watch Ian dancing and smiling as if he hadn’t a care in the world.

  ***

  Ian had spent supper at a table reserved for him, his siblings, his intended bride, her father, sister, and aunt. Augusta was noticeably absent from the family group, but Mary Fran was at his elbow, her every other glance going toward the door. Con and Gil were looking no more settled than their sister, while Julia and Hester’s attempts to carry the small talk were flagging.

  The baron raised his wine glass and aimed a tobacco-stained grin at Ian. “Balfour, I commend you on a delightful evening, but it’s time to accept your fate. People are drifting off to the gardens, and the dancing will soon resume. Let’s have an announcement, shall we?”

  Where the hell was Augusta?

  “Matthew!” Mary Fran’s whisper carried directly to Ian’s heart, the relief in her gaze suggesting she’d known exactly what Ian had charged the man with before his departure.

  “Fine, Baron.” Ian took a sip of good whisky. “An announcement you shall have.” He dithered, straightening his sporran and fussing with the tucks of his kilt until Daniels had made his way across the dining room.

  “Balfour, apologies for my tardiness. Baron, sisters, Aunt, Lady Mary Fran, I bid you a very good evening.” Daniels’s grave tone was at variance with his convivial words. Contrary to the rest of the gathering, he was in riding attire, his hair windblown, his clothes still reeking of dust and horse.

  “Daniels, I trust your sortie was successful?” Ian put the question quietly as he got to his feet.

  “Entirely successful, my lord.”

  Ian passed him his unfinished whisky, catching a surreptitious wink from Daniels as he accepted the glass.

  The man did have Scots blood in him, a cheering thought given the occasion.

  “My lords, my ladies, friends, and neighbors.” Ian’s voice carried across the room, creating a hush worthy of a royal proclamation. “It is always a fine occasion when we gather with our dear ones to celebrate the joys of summer, and this year my family is particularly blessed. It is my privilege and my pleasure as head of the MacGregor family to announce that Miss Eugenia Daniels, daughter of Willard Daniels, Baron of Altsax and Gribbony, and our guest for these past few weeks, will be joining the MacGregor family. Her brother, Matthew, has been good enough to procure a special license for the occasion, and I’m sure you’ll join with me in congratulating my brother Gilgallon Concannon MacGregor on his great good fortune.”

  Ian started the applause, grateful he’d thought to position his brothers between Genie and her father. Daniels was standing by the baron’s chair, a restraining hand on his father’s shoulder.

  When the clapping and cheering—and ribald good wishes—died down, Ian spoke again.

  “You will excuse us as a family if we repair to the library for a wee dram. Doungal has his musicians at the ready, and the footmen have been told nary a guest may go thirsty. Enjoy!”

  More applause, which provided a perfect backdrop for Con and Daniels to hustle the splenetic baron from the room. Gil had his arm around Genie, and Hester and Mary Fran took over the task of accepting congratulations as the other family members processed from the room.

  All in all, it had gone better than Ian could have hoped, but where in the hell was Augusta?

  The library door was closed and latched, Con and Daniels positioned on either side of the door when the baron started in ranting.

  “You cannot get away with this, Balfour! I’ll sue you for breach of promise. I’ll drag your family’s wretched Scottish name through so much offal you’ll be happy to raise pigs in Nova Scotia. You’ll be the laughingstock of the realm before I’m through with you, and you”—he turned a vicious glare on Genie—“you’ll be lucky if I can sell you to a poxy old squire for breeding purposes after this night’s work.”

  “Enough.” Ian advanced on the baron, whose nose was positively glowing with ire and strong drink. “Your daughter’s happiness should mean more to you than any damned title. I’ve not signed the contracts. You have no grounds for breach. Genie cannot testify against Gil once they’re wed, so you have no case.”

  “Have no case!” The baron positively shrieked. “I’ll try this in the courts! I’ll try this in the court of public opinion! I’ll—”

  Gil moved so quickly Ian couldn’t stop him. In the blink of an eye, Altsax was crammed against the paneling, eyes bulging, his breath wheezing from his lungs.

  “You will shut up, old man. I’ve signed those contracts myself, before a sober, adult witness, and they are legal and binding.”

  “But you’re not Balfour!” the baron hissed.

  Gil eased his elbow from the baron’s throat, and a moment of odd silence descended.

  Augusta had done this. Ian’s brain reeled to think she’d seen Gil’s hand set to the very contracts, something Ian hadn’t thought to do. Ian’s mind started parsing the legalities, the details, the language he himself had written even as Gil spoke quietly to his future father-in-law.

  “This is a fait accompli, Baron. Your best course is to put a good face on it and wish your daughter well.”

  “I will never capitulate to this farce. Those contracts were unassailably clear. I read them myself.”

  But so, apparently, had somebody a hell of a lot smarter than the baron.

  Fifteen

  “Altsax”—Ian kept his tone conciliatory as the library went silent with tension—“you specified that the groom had to be in expectation of a title. Gilgallon here is Viscount Deesely and my heir. That’s more than expectation, Baron. You specified that Genie had to be hostess at Balfour during Her Majesty’s residence at Balmoral. I have every confidence Mary Fran will be handing over those rei
ns at the first opportunity. You further specified that Genie had to be free to attend the social Season in the South, and I can assure you—should she desire to exert herself so—Gilgallon will happily escort her to every single function.”

  Gil stepped back and went to Genie’s side, leaving the baron looking rumpled and mortally disgruntled.

  “We’ve brought the parson along with the licenses,” Ian went on. “You can look a fool, Baron, or appear to be a doting papa. It’s your choice, and regardless of your choice, Gil and Genie will be marrying and living happily ever after.”

  “As will Julia and I.” Con stepped forward and put an arm around the widow. “Assuming she’ll have me.”

  The baron’s face was a study in shades of ire. While Ian watched, murderous rage faded into consternation, then disgust, then—after a short battle with renewed anger—contempt.

  “Have your farce, then, the lot of you. Your double farce. Litter the shire with your mongrel get. Dance about in your heathen skirts while you swill your vile concoctions and amuse Her Majesty with your barbarian regalia. Hester and I will be departing immediately following the nuptials, which I assume will be tomorrow.”

  “After the shoot,” Ian said. “And don’t trouble yourself with an announcement in the Times, Baron. I will see to that detail.”

  The baron sniffed, straightened his cuffs, and left the room at an angry stalk.

  “Drinks.” Mary Fran made directly for the sideboard, going for the family decanter. “I was hoping the man would have an apoplexy, but he’s too cussed to be so accommodating.” She glanced over at Matthew. “My pardon for insulting your father.”

  “I’ve had my doubts about that,” Daniels said quietly, “but a drink would be appreciated.”

  Con sidled up to his brother while Julia passed out the drinks Mary Fran poured. “You knew I asked Daniels to procure a license for Julia and me?”

  “I suspected.” Ian smiled at his brother, realizing belatedly that Con was asking for not just his brother’s approval, but his laird’s blessing. “You’ve chosen well, baby brother.”

  “She’s English.” Con seemed perplexed by this.

  “In the dark, we’re not English or Scottish, Con. We’re just men and women, and we have the same needs and the same hearts. How are you going to deal with having a rich wife?”

  Con’s eyebrows rose, and his lips tilted up. “We’ll manage. Julia is full of ideas about what to do with her money, but she says if the Queen can turn over all her correspondence to the Prince Consort, then surely a lowly wife can seek her husband’s guidance on important matters.”

  “She’s getting around you already, Connor.”

  “And it’s the damnedest thing, Ian. I don’t mind in the least, and my game of billiards has improved tremendously.”

  Whatever that meant.

  Con took to studying his drink. “About that wealth, Ian?”

  “Julia’s wealth.”

  “Not under the law, it won’t be. She’ll control it, but it will be mine in name. She’s very clear that we’re available to see Balfour over any rough spots in the coming years. I don’t trust the baron to pay up on Genie’s settlement.”

  Ian wanted to wince and to laugh. He should be insulted. He should be ashamed. He was head of the family, not some charity case for his brother’s wife to take under her wing. But the pride—the arrogance—simply couldn’t be mustered. He was too happy for Con. “Please tell Julia her generosity is much appreciated. Let’s hope I’ve no need of it.”

  Con looked relieved. “I thought you’d belt me, but Julia insisted.”

  “I am blessed in my family,” Ian said, his gaze traveling to where Gil and Genie were standing as close as propriety and physics allowed. “Congratulations, Gilgallon. Genie, welcome to the family.”

  They approached, still tightly seamed to each other.

  “Gil explained to me you had Matthew procure the license for us,” Genie said. “Please don’t be offended if I say I’m looking much more forward to having you as a brother-in-law than as a husband.”

  “A gentleman would know how to reply to that,” Ian said as Con drifted back to his lady’s side. “I’ll content myself with kissing the bride when the nuptials have been attended to.”

  “On the cheek,” Gil muttered. The way he glared at Ian was heartwarming. If Ian had had the smallest doubt about the rightness of his plans, they evaporated at the sight of Gil’s protectiveness.

  “When did Augusta have you sign the contracts?” Ian put the question casually, but the answer mattered.

  “Just after the receiving line disbanded. She came flying out of the library and dragged me back in. We rounded Con up to witness my signature. It was a nice touch. My compliments on your brilliant draftsmanship.”

  “It had nothing to do with my draftsmanship, Gil. Augusta saw the possibilities without realizing I’d arranged for your special license.”

  Genie blanched. “You were willing to risk a lawsuit with my papa over this?”

  “I expected a lawsuit,” Ian said. “But I am trained in the law, so it loomed as just another nuisance, and being laird means dealing with a great number of those. I was not prepared for Augusta to insert herself into the equation and incur the baron’s wrath as she did.”

  Genie’s eyes clouded with concern. “You must have that settlement, Ian. You’ll need it to defend against Papa’s mischief.”

  “Absent a true disaster, I’ll not be taking my brother’s coin,” Ian said. “Though the offer is appreciated.”

  “This isn’t good, Ian.” Gil’s brows drew down. “You’ll take at least some of that settlement for all the trouble you’ve been put to this summer, even if Altsax has sense enough to accept defeat gracefully. I thought Augusta was acting on your behalf when she had me sign those contracts.”

  “She wasn’t, and you are to cease talk of splitting settlements. If the baron grows unruly, I’ll deal with it,” Ian said, but the need to find Augusta and make sure she was safe was becoming a compulsion. He turned to Daniels, who was conferring with Mary Fran by the sideboard.

  “Daniels, my thanks for procuring the documents.”

  Daniels, Ian noted, had linked hands with Mary Fran. “My apologies for the close timing. If you’ll excuse Lady Mary Frances and me, we’ll go see that order is maintained in the ballroom in your absence.”

  Mary Fran was watching Daniels, a wistful smile playing around her mouth. “The MacDeans cannot hold their whisky,” she said, “and Old Farquar gets to flirting where his missus can see. Somebody had best be keeping an eye on things.”

  Something had shifted between Ian’s sister and Daniels, something sweet and lovely, which Mary Fran would apprise her brothers of in her own good time.

  Ian kissed his sister’s cheek. “To the ballroom with you, then. My thanks to you both.”

  “Ian?” Mary Fran caught his eye. “Thank you. For everything. If I never said it before, thank you from the bottom of my heart.”

  “Here, here.” Con raised his glass, and Gil did likewise, the solemnity of their joy hitting Ian physically. They were his family, he’d seen to their happiness, and nothing else in his life should matter in comparison. The moment was bright with love and the satisfaction of plans for once turning out well, but beneath the pleasure and relief, Ian was still anxious.

  He acknowledged their salute with a nod. “If you’ll excuse me, I’m off to find a certain meddling chaperone so I might thank her as well.”

  And then shake some damned sense into her.

  ***

  “I had to run the whole way from the minstrel’s gallery to the reading balcony, and I almost didn’t beat them to the library.” Fiona held up Augusta’s dancing slippers. “I’m going to have plaid slippers too, when I learn
to dance the waltz. I’m already working on the clan dances.”

  “Clan dances?” Augusta asked from where she sat at her vanity.

  “Flings and reels and sword dances and such.” Fiona bounced off the bed and raised one hand over her head, put the other on her hip, and executed a few graceful steps. “I want to wear the dancing tartan because it goes with my eyes.”

  “I’m sure you’ll look lovely.”

  Augusta took down the last pinned curl, glad for the child’s company, but anxious too. “So the baron didn’t threaten anybody, Fiona?”

  “He turned red,” Fiona said, skipping to the wardrobe. “He used a very ugly tone of voice, but the uncles talked him ’round. Then there was a lot of smiling and kissing and toasting after the baron left. Uncle Ian said Gil and Genie will live happily ever after, and Con and Matthew said they will too—not with each other, with Mrs. Redmond and Mama. Will Mrs. Redmond become a MacGregor?”

  “She will.” Lucky, lucky Julia.

  “Will I become a Daniels?”

  “I don’t know.” Augusta started brushing out her hair, though her arm felt heavy, and a nameless sense of unease crept through her mind. Would Ian be angry with her? He’d had the situation in hand if the special licenses were any indication, and Augusta had gone charging off alone without even consulting him.

  “If Matthew adopts you, Fee, then you might well be a Daniels. We’d be cousins then, though at some remove.”

  “I’ve lots of removed cousins. They go to America mostly, and Ireland, though some go from Ireland to America and Canada since the ’taties all rotted. Matthew said I’m not to worry about that, because he has pots of money, and that means I’ll have pots of money too.”

  “You’re lucky then, but Fiona? There are far more important things than having pots of money.”

  “Yes, like having pots of cream.” Fiona grinned and twirled across the room. “Or a pony.”

  “Fiona.” Ian stood at the door to the terrace, still attired in his Highland finery minus the bonnet. As much as it was a relief to see him, his sudden appearance—looking so stern and regal in his formal attire—was disquieting too. “You should be in bed, child, but you’ll want to wish your mother good night.”