That seemed a damned shame, but since Coll wasn’t anywhere about and Niall had lied to get her to the coffee shop, he was almost willing to wager that she would be misspeaking again this morning. He looked forward to it.
Just past the corner on the left in front of them, a wooden sign bearing a drawing of a Turkish coffeepot and fancy lettering proclaimed that they’d arrived at The Constantinople. The shop below the sign boasted large windows and a rich, exotic scent that drowned out the coal-and-manure smell around them. His stomach rumbled. While he’d had coffee, he’d never been to a place dedicated to the brew.
This morning might have been worse, he supposed; Mrs. Baxter might have sent them to a recital or a tableware museum. What he knew about finer folk’s music and dinner plates wouldn’t fill a thimble.
Niall dismounted. Miss Baxter, still up on Mirabel, held out a gloved hand to him and smiled. Blowing out his breath, he stepped forward. His ancestors had fought off the English for decades. Surely he could keep one lass at arm’s length for one morning while he told her charming and complimentary tales about his eldest brother. And then with any luck, he could hand her over to Coll and go take a gander at other lasses—ones who weren’t practically engaged already. Ones he could imagine leaving behind while he returned to the Highlands.
Chapter Four
If she’d known that the first MacTaggert with whom she would have to interact this morning would be Niall rather than Lord Glendarril, Amelia-Rose might have had a less fitful night’s sleep. Or perhaps a more fitful one.
His brother the viscount had an almost aggressive handsomeness to him, rather like a dark-haired lion who hadn’t decided whether she was a friend or a meal, but not only did Niall have a face that half her friends would simply swoon over, but his sense of humor almost dared her to misbehave. And that was not a good thing. Whatever she decided to do about this marriage nonsense, she wanted it to be her decision, not something she accidentally destroyed or got trapped into because of her unreliable tongue.
Perhaps the youngest MacTaggert brother had only been attempting to counter his brother’s fierceness last night, but he’d made an impression, regardless. Those light, light green eyes, complemented by long, dark lashes, a nose and jaw to which not even Michelangelo could do justice, wild brown hair that practically begged her fingers to brush it from his temple—if he hadn’t been Scottish, he would very nearly have been perfect. Or rather, he would be perfect for some other young lady. The name on the agreement her parents had signed was Coll MacTaggert.
While John saw to Jane Bansil, Niall approached her and Mirabel. She held out a hand for assistance in reaching the mounting block, but before she could do more than grip his shoulder he put his hands around her waist and lifted her out of the saddle without any apparent effort. The sensation of being lighter than air, of flying, quite took her breath away.
A gentleman should ask for permission before grabbing hold of her so intimately. Everyone knew that. But then he was a barbarian Highlander and barely a gentleman even if he seemed to know how to dress like one. “That was improper,” she said a little breathlessly, reaching up a hand to straighten her bonnet as he set her feet on the ground.
He kept his hands around her waist. “Should I put ye back up, then?”
“No, it’s done now. Do release me.” That wasn’t what she wanted to say, but it seemed like the proper response. “We wouldn’t want your brother to see you putting your hands on me.”
His eyes narrowed a fraction. “Nae. We wouldnae want that. So being helpful is a sin?”
“Of course it isn’t. But … Oh, never mind.” As if she was qualified to give lessons in propriety. “Just ask a female before you lift her into the air.”
That brought another devastating grin to his lean face. “Aye. I checked the wind first, though, and I reckoned it wasnae strong enough to carry ye aloft, even with that great hat on ye.”
She opened her mouth to retort that by some standards her bonnet was quite modest, but that would trip over her mother’s advice never to apologize for being well dressed. Aside from that, Amelia-Rose saw the twinkle in his eye. “Troublemaker,” she muttered, taking a step backward.
When Jane took her arm, Amelia-Rose actually jumped. “You said he was handsome,” her companion whispered, “but goodness’ sake. I look forward to comparing him to the one with the title.” She chuckled. “Perhaps you could send this one toward one of your less discriminating friends. Rebecca Sharpe doesn’t require a titled gentleman, does she?”
No, Rebecca’s father was already a viscount, and a wealthy one at that. All Rebecca required was a pretty face. And perhaps someone to balance her rather … self-absorbed character. Somehow, however, Amelia-Rose couldn’t imagine Niall MacTaggert blithely fetching sweets and glasses of Madeira every time Rebecca snapped her well-manicured fingers.
“I think he would eat Rebecca for breakfast,” she whispered back, ignoring Jane’s surprised look as they reached the coffeehouse door.
That was neither here nor there, anyway. She was here to give Lord Glendarril another opportunity and, according to her mother, to give herself another chance to charm their best hope for a title since Baron Oglivy, who was nearly sixty years old. That, of course, had made her wonder if her intentionally acting like a complete shrew would cause this horridly unfair agreement to fall apart. It would likely ruin her, but she still wasn’t ready to discard the idea entirely.
At the same time, she couldn’t help reaching for hope. The little Niall had mentioned about his father’s antipathy toward the English certainly hadn’t encouraged her at all, but if his brother the viscount simply felt forced into something he didn’t want, she could muster a large degree of sympathy. A Highlander who would remain in London might do, though his rudeness and lack of propriety certainly wouldn’t either curb her own tendencies or encourage her to improve. But she couldn’t know anything for certain until she spoke with him again. Over a cup of coffee, as it were.
John waited outside with the horses, and she followed Niall’s broad back around the crowd of tables and morass of conversations to a spot close by the front windows. He held a chair for her, and she took a seat, impressed that he did have some manners.
When he’d seated Jane as well, he vanished back into the crowd. Coffeehouses, she knew, weren’t quite as popular as they’d once been, but The Constantinople buzzed with conversation. Mostly male conversation, but her mother had always pointed out that she wouldn’t find a husband in a dress shop.
Of course she had a man now, at least on paper, even if she didn’t particularly want him—and even if he didn’t seem to be present. Niall took the chair opposite her and set a heaping plate of biscuits on the table. Jane reached for one of the treats, and for a second Amelia-Rose thought Niall might pull the plate away. “You appear to be hungry,” she noted.
“Aye. I dunnae see the point of a shop that serves a drink but nae any food. A man could starve to death.” He wolfed down a biscuit and then a second one.
The cups of coffee arrived at the table, and she took a sip of the hot, rich brew before adding a trio of sugar lumps. As Niall alternated between biscuits and gulps of coffee she watched him. A man with an appetite, clearly. Was it just for food, she wondered, then blushed at the thought.
This had nothing at all to do with the morning she’d imagined for herself, but at the moment she couldn’t call it disappointing. Even so, her mother would ask how she’d gotten along with Lord Glendarril, whether they’d dealt better today than they had last night.
“I can’t help noticing,” she said aloud, “that your brother doesn’t seem to be here.”
Niall looked up at her. “Aye, he does seem to be a wee bit tardy, doesnae?” he said around a honey biscuit. “Mayhap he found a broken carriage and stopped to hold it up while they change the wheel.”
“So he’s heroic, is he?”
“Oh, aye. Pulled a trio of sheep out of a bog all on his own just a fortnight ago. He h
ad to go for a swim in Loch an Daimh just to get the top layer of muck off himself. I’m surprised he didnae get mistaken for a cirein cròin and get himself shot.”
“What’s a … one of those?” she asked, deciding not even to attempt the pronunciation.
“A cirein cròin? A great sea monster. It can eat half a dozen whales at one go.”
She snorted, covering her mouth with her hand in a belated effort to hide the sound. “He is very large,” she agreed while Jane elbowed her beneath the table.
“That he is. One time we were repairing the thatch of Widow MacDougal’s roof, and he fell right through onto her bed and broke that, too. I think the old lass wishes she’d been in the bed when he fell, but she’d have been flat as a plank. She did get a fresh roof and a new bed for her trouble, though. Coll saw to that.”
“Is Widow MacDougal one of your tenants?”
“One of our cotters, aye.”
So he meant to spend the morning until Lord Glendarril’s arrival telling tales of what a fine man his brother was. That was well and good, but she preferred to judge for herself. And carefully chosen tales did not paint an entire portrait, anyway. “Does your brother assume all women are empty-headed watering pots?”
That made him frown. “He doesnae.”
“Just me, then?”
“Lass, I—”
“I propose a game of questions and answers,” she broke in. “With no lies allowed.”
Tilting his head, he ate another biscuit. “Nae. I reckon ye want to try to trick me into saying Coll’s nae fit for polite company, and that’s nae so. I ken ye’ve heard tales of Highlands barbarians. Well, we’ve heard tales of delicate, fainting Sassenach lasses. Ye werenae what he expected, is all.”
“Fair enough,” she conceded. “And yet I cannot help but notice that he still isn’t here.” Should it have mollified her that Coll MacTaggert hadn’t planned on a marriage, either, and didn’t particularly want one? It didn’t; at least she’d attempted to play her part. She hadn’t blamed him for all her troubles, at least.
“Coll’s stubborn. He’ll come to the proper conclusion; it may take him a day or two, though. In the meantime, have a biscuit.” He scooted the plate in her direction.
He, and the biscuits, were obviously meant as a distraction, but they both looked tasty. And if she hesitated, the biscuits, at least, would all be gone before she had a chance even to sample one. As for him, thinking about that delicious-looking subject wouldn’t harm anything, she supposed. A little amused despite herself, she selected a sugared treat.
Whether Coll MacTaggert was being cowardly or heroic, the fact remained that he was not there. Perhaps this could work to her advantage. Telling her parents that Lord Glendarril hadn’t bothered to appear could cause them to cancel their agreement with Lady Aldriss. That would set her back into the spinning teacup of being assessed and judged and sent after another man with an impressive-enough title to earn her parents’ approval, but it wouldn’t be her fault for once.
If she said nothing, though, or better yet allowed them to believe that she and Coll MacTaggert were slowly becoming acquainted, she would have something she’d never had a chance to experience before—a measure of freedom. Even if she and Coll were ostensibly courting, she could see her friends, go on outings, dance through the London Season she so adored.
It would all work better without Coll being present, of course. Heavens, as a nearly engaged woman she could dance with nearly anyone. Perhaps with all the weight lifted from her shoulders she might find a man whose company she actually enjoyed, one who didn’t insult her, one who didn’t warrant her disdain or indifference, and one of whom her parents might even approve. All she would need was a plausible escort.
“Ye’ve a sly look about ye, lass,” Niall noted, bringing her thoughts back to the ground.
“I am going to find you a decent map of London,” she said.
“That’s thoughtful of ye.”
Amelia-Rose nodded. “Yes. And this afternoon your brother is going to escort me to Lady Margaret Hathaway’s alfresco luncheon. I’ve been wanting to attend, but my mother wouldn’t let me accept without knowing what plans Lord Glendarril might have for us.”
His brows dipped into a scowl. “I—”
“Your brother isn’t here. That makes you his second, does it not?”
“He’s only a bit late, as I s—”
“Then one or the other of you will arrive at my home at two o’clock, in a proper carriage. And one or the other of you will drive Jane and myself to the luncheon, for which I will provide directions, and he or you will spend the afternoon being charming so that I don’t look like a fool for being involved in this marriage of convenience, which everyone wants to pretend is anything but.”
Niall MacTaggert set a half-eaten biscuit on the wooden table. “So ye reckon I’m yer lapdog now?” he said, a slight cooling in his voice that nearly made her shudder. Easy-tempered as he seemed to be, she abruptly realized that it may well merely have been the face he chose to show her. Well, she had other faces, too.
“Not at all,” she replied, with more confidence than she felt. “If you don’t wish to participate, I will simply return home and tell my parents the truth—that Lord Glendarril isn’t interested in me. Because how can I assume otherwise?”
He took a breath. She couldn’t read his thoughts, of course, but she imagined he was weighing spending a few hours with her against facing his mother and informing her that Coll MacTaggert had been thus far utterly unimpressive and utterly absent as a beau. That was in no way his fault, but he’d been the one to step in both last night and this morning. Whether he’d done so to save her or to keep his brother from embarrassment she didn’t know, but it would seem to be in his best interest to continue to do so. Or so she hoped, because once she did tell her parents that Lord Glendarril wanted nothing to do with her, this nonsense would begin all over again—and she was running out of men she hadn’t driven away or insulted or who were otherwise unacceptable.
“Seems ye’ve got me roasting on a spit,” he commented, more mildly than she expected.
“I do. For this afternoon, at least. Perhaps you can tell me about more of your brother’s heroics, and I’ll fall for him before we even meet again.”
A muscle along his jaw jumped. “Aye. That could happen. Very well. Coll or I will escort ye in a proper carriage to yer picnic.” He sat a breath closer. “What I’d truly like to know about this party is if they’ll be serving food. Or will it be frilly snacks that couldnae fill a bee’s stomach?”
She laughed, her absurd degree of relief telling her just how much all of this had gotten to her already. Oh, thank goodness. No arguments with her parents, no sending her to stand beside friends who happened to be speaking to earls and marquises. Not today, at least. “As soon as I return home I will personally send a note to Lady Margaret to clarify that you are not a measly bee and that you wish to be fed. If I’m not satisfied with her response, I will pack you a basket luncheon myself.”
“I’ll hold ye to that.”
“Very well. For your information, a coach or a phaeton would be an acceptable conveyance, but I do prefer a barouche.”
He lifted an eyebrow. “A barouche. Aye. Anything else, Miss Baxter?”
“No, that should suffice. But as you are standing in for my nearly betrothed, you may call me Amelia-Rose,” she decided, despite the sharp look that earned her from Jane. Her shy second cousin had become exceedingly proper as she aged, and while Jane did serve to remind Amelia-Rose to behave, she also represented what happened when one was too reserved. Amelia-Rose was nineteen, and she had no intention of becoming a thirty-three-year-old spinster.
Niall downed another biscuit. “Nae,” he said, his tone amused. “Amelia-Rose is a damned mouthful for a barbarian Highlander. I reckon I’ll call ye adae.”
“Why? What does that mean?” she countered, deeply suspicious even though it sounded quite pretty in his deep brogue. “I won’t a
gree until you promise me you aren’t calling me a turnip or something embarrassing.”
When he grinned, her heart gave a stutter. No man should be that handsome. Especially not the brother of the man supposedly courting her. “I’d nae call ye a turnip, lass. It means ‘rose,’ like yer name. Only less twisty on my tongue.”
Rose. Well, it was half her name, which people generally tried to shorten anyway, but in Scots Gaelic it felt … prettier than the “Amy” her mother disliked so much. Adae. It was very nearly poetical. “Very well,” she said, with an exaggerated sigh. “But if I find out it does mean something else, I shall wallop you.”
He laughed, the sound deep and musical and enticing. The pair of women seated behind him both turned their heads to look. One of them fanned herself, and they leaned together, whispered something, and both blushed. Amelia-Rose took another sip of her sweet coffee and pretended not to notice, but of course she did. She knew both of them. And even if Niall was just her beau’s brother, the reaction of other ladies to his presence was mollifying. She’d spent the last two years trying to be just like everyone else and falling short. Let someone envy her for once.
Especially considering last night, when the viscount had vanished five minutes into Romeo and Juliet, a bit of envy was nice. If she didn’t wish to become a laughingstock, though, she would have to encourage the displays of manliness and charm from whichever MacTaggert appeared to escort her, and she would have to discourage the barbarian Highlander behavior.
What a tangle this was becoming, and only after one day. Jane looked like she’d been forced to swallow an insect, Niall sat eating biscuits as if he’d been starved for a month, and she had an absent almost-fiancé. She should have been embarrassed and even more troubled, she supposed, as a proper lady would be when the man she was supposed to pretend was falling for her didn’t bother to make an appearance. But at this moment she wasn’t troubled. She was having a blasted good time.
It's Getting Scot in Here Page 6
