It's Getting Scot in Here

by Suzanne Enoch

  Of course even then she’d almost immediately realized the gentlemen had mostly been attempting to avoid boredom—Mrs. Spenfield had refused to allow a gaming room or even a smoking room, and liquor had been absolutely forbidden. The men were there to eat well of all the dainty, expensive treats, and to dance with her daughters and any other young ladies fortunate enough to be invited. If one of those young men should offer for one of the Spenfield daughters, well, choirs of angels would sing. And that was according to the ladies’ own mama.

  The ball was probably not the best setting for her and Lord Glendarril to become reacquainted. As far as her mother knew, though, they’d spent part of the past five days together and this was only for public show. Saying anything to counter Victoria Baxter’s opinion wouldn’t bode well for any of them.

  Still, she had a decision to make. Niall had told her the sort of woman Coll wanted. She could pretend to be that woman if she so chose. It would free her from Baxter House, at the least. It would also put her in meek, mild chains for the rest of her life, until she couldn’t stand it any longer and went fleeing into the wilderness—thereby causing yet another scandal. But she could do it. Coll MacTaggert would have to say the things she wanted to hear and leave her a little room for … hope, she supposed it was, but the more her mother dug into her, the more the idea of being anywhere else appealed to her. And tonight had to be about Coll. She didn’t have time or room in her withering heart to wish things were different. To wish it would be a different MacTaggert knocking on her door this evening.

  She’d worn her finest gown, a sapphire-blue confection with black and silver beading throughout the bodice and streaking down the skirt like shooting stars. The three-quarter-length sleeves puffed at the shoulders and were edged in fine silver lace, as were the low neck and the bottom hem.

  The gown had been her at mother’s idea, made with the idea of standing out even at a soiree where every young lady would be the center of attention. Just on this one occasion she approved—the gown wasn’t risqué or scandalous, but it was, quite simply, gorgeous.

  As her father downed a finger of vodka and poured himself another, the front door opened. Amelia-Rose resisted the urge to run her hands down the front of her skirt. She looked very fine, from her gown to her hair twined with silver and black ribbons to her silver dancing shoes. If it was Niall, he’d best have a tale ready as to why his brother would be either meeting them later or unable to attend. If it was Lord Glendarril, she could only hope that his youngest brother had informed him which events they’d attended together so she wouldn’t have to carry any conversation all on her own. It abruptly occurred to her just how much trust she’d placed in Niall MacTaggert, and how little that troubled her. As to the why of that, now was not the time.

  “Mr. and Mrs. Baxter, Miss Baxter, Lord Glendarril,” Hughes intoned, as the mountainous man stepped into the sitting room.

  She curtsied, dipping her head to give herself a moment. Yes, he was quite handsome, if in a harder, colder way than his youngest brother. His looks, even his size, weren’t the problem. Everything else about him was the problem.

  Oddly, she’d expected to be a bundle of nerves, worried over how the viscount would react to her this time. Instead, and despite how important she knew this moment to be, she simply wished this to be over with, whatever ended up happening.

  “Baxters,” the viscount intoned, inclining his head. He hadn’t worn a kilt, thank goodness, though he was sporting a black eye that made him look even less civilized. Objectively she could admit that he wasn’t some stooped-over, ancient baron—which she’d begun to fear her mother would send in her direction after none of her three proposals this Season had been from a titled gentleman. Victoria Baxter had made it quite clear that this would be her daughter’s last Season as an unmarried lady.

  Oh, dear. If and when she did turn Glendarril away, would the old, gamy vultures receive her parents’ permission to move in, to circle her until she gave in and pointed her finger at one of them? Would it be either this Highlander or an unmarried acquaintance of her grandparents’ era? Lord Oglivy, for example?

  In the midst of this alarming realization, it dawned on her that her mother was looking from her to Glendarril and clearly expected one or the other of them to say something. And since the viscount continued to stand there looking handsome and slightly annoyed, it fell to her. “Coll, thank you for the flowers you had Niall deliver to me yesterday. They were lovely.”

  “Ah. Ye’re welcome. I’m sorry I couldnae bring them myself.”

  So far, so good. “It’s more important that you recover yourself. Are you feeling well today? I can’t imagine what you ate; I do hope it wasn’t something at Lady Margaret’s picnic.”

  His eyes narrowed, and for a bare second she thought she’d said something wrong. This was the only narrative she had to hand, though, and Niall hadn’t indicated they would be doing anything more than substituting his brother’s presence for his. A handful of hard heartbeats later, though, he nodded. “I purchased a pasty from a cart on the way home. That must’ve done it. Doubled me right over, it did.”

  “I’ve a potion that might cure you,” her father said, indicating the liquor tantalus. “What’s your poison, Glendarril?”

  With a smile that looked more pained than grateful, the viscount shook his shaggy, brown-haired head. “I’ve some prancing about to do tonight. Best not pour good liquor after a bad dinner.”

  “Will your mother and the rest of your family be attending this evening?” her mother asked.

  “Aye. I’m told it’s quite the spectacle.”

  “That it is.” Victoria clapped her hands together. “Shall we depart, then? Once most of the carriages have arrived, it’s nearly impossible to navigate the filth in the street.”

  “Well, we dunnae want horse shite on those pretty shoes ye and yer daughter are wearing,” Coll agreed, and motioned them toward the doorway and the foyer beyond.

  “Don’t say ‘horse shite,’” Amelia-Rose whispered, drawing even with him.

  “What should I call it, then, digested equine grass lumps?”

  “That would do,” she agreed, relieved to hear some humor from him. Perhaps he and Niall weren’t so different. It seemed she meant to cling to every tiny ounce of hope he put into the air.

  “Glad to see ye’ve caught yer tongue in yer teeth,” he returned. “I’m to be yer laird; I’ll nae have ye snapping at me.”

  And there it was. The tiny ounce of hope evaporated as she swallowed back her retort. If and when she made a decision, though, it would be one she’d thought through, one that made the most sense for her. She wouldn’t throw it away because he’d decided to be arrogant. “Of course not, my lord.”

  An eyebrow lifted. “So ye do mean to behave. That’s a good beginning, then.”

  “I suppose we’re about to find out. But do be aware that if you embarrass or offend me or my mother, you’ll become a pariah here in London, and you won’t be able to find any other Sassenach bride for yourself.” With that she flounced out the front door ahead of him and climbed into the large, black Oswell-MacTaggert coach.

  That might have been risky, but for heaven’s sake. He didn’t even know her, and he’d already decided—again, and without conferring with her—that his was the only way that mattered. Barbarian.

  He climbed into the coach after her parents, and sat on the padded seat beside her. One muscular thigh bumped against hers. She could edge away, but her parents would notice. Not for the first time she wished someone would be on her side, looking to see if this large man made her happy or if they were the least bit compatible. Thus far she’d seen nothing to encourage her to walk down the street beside him, much less marry him. But it was only Niall who’d suggested, to her great surprise, that this was a match she perhaps didn’t want to make. And then he’d said that he found her charming, which had kept her awake all night.

  “After the wedding, will you continue to live at Aldriss Park?”
her mother asked, and Amelia-Rose hid a flinch.

  “I reckon so. It’s grand enough to fit two dozen MacTaggerts. The abbey at Glendarril was burned down in the lead-up to Culloden. There’s nae on that land but broken stones and skeletons. Nae a fit place for an English bride. I may have her stay in London while I have a house built.”

  Glendarril didn’t sound like much of a place for any bride, but Amelia-Rose didn’t say that aloud. She did like the idea of remaining in London, but that was not in any way how she’d imagined her life as a married woman—separated by hundreds of miles and living as a widow in everything but name. Would that be better or worse than making a life with a bully?

  “So this soiree is stuffed to the rafters with men, aye?”

  She shook herself. At the least she needed to get to know him—if only because she’d supposedly done so days ago. “Yes. No ladies who wish to dance are supposed to be without a partner.”

  “How does this Spenfield mama manage to lure all these men beneath her roof?”

  “With very good desserts and a drawing for a saddle horse,” her father supplied.

  The viscount sat forward. “They auction off a horse? Seems they could draw in a lad or two with that same blunt and auction off their daughters, then.”

  “Penelope Spenfield has four daughters of marriageable age. A horse a year for the past four years is what they can manage,” Amelia-Rose explained. “A dowry for each of them is, unfortunately, out of the question.”

  “I reckon if they’ve been giving away horses for four years, they need a different strategy. Am I to be scared of these lasses?”

  Amelia-Rose ground her teeth together. As much as she wanted to bellow at him that he need only be frightened of the girls if poverty and an unfortunate tendency to simper terrified him, she kept those thoughts to herself. One either had empathy, or one didn’t. On the other hand, he did seem determined to make this about himself. “How many women do you think would be pursuing you if not for your mother’s wealth?”

  “Amelia-Rose,” her mother snapped. “That is enough of that.”

  She lowered her head, working on not clenching her fingers into fists. When she looked up again, he was gazing at her. “I’ve a title and lands, lass,” he said in an even tone. “But I do get yer point. I’m a lucky man, I reckon.”

  He sounded mild enough, but she could practically feel his annoyance. He continued to bring out the worst in her. Being incompatible was one thing; him regarding her as uninteresting and unworthy of a moment’s conversation was quite another. Especially if that was what he preferred in a wife. Why in the world would he want such a woman? Though honestly, a great many men did.

  Refusing to attempt further conversation with him while they were trapped in the coach, she sat holding her reticule in her lap while he gazed fixedly out the window and her mother nudged her ankles to try to encourage her to speak.

  As far as she was concerned, they weren’t allies. The only thing they had in common was that neither wanted to marry the other. At least she had friends, enjoyed a social life, knew how to converse politely even if she occasionally forgot to mind her tongue in the face of nonsense, and could play the pianoforte and dance all the popular dances. He had a title and his mother controlled the purse strings. That wasn’t very much recommending him at all. Not for her, anyway; her parents had heard the words “viscount, eventually to become an earl,” and had signed their names and patted each other on the back.

  With the coach’s curtains open she could see the glow coming from the windows of Spenfield House from half a street away. Glendarril stepped down from the carriage first and offered a hand to her mother and then her. When she gripped his fingers he tightened his hand around hers. Amelia-Rose knew she was no fainting flower—even as a young girl she’d been called fresh-faced and boyish more than she cared to recall—but this man could be exceptionally intimidating. In his presence she was wee and dainty and delicate, because in comparison with him, everything was wee and delicate. Being meek might be easier than she’d realized. Remaining that way … She shook herself.

  “We need to have a word,” he said, shifting her hand to his forearm.

  “I’m listening, my lord,” she returned, with admirable calm and poise, she thought.

  The big man blew out his breath. “Ye’ve shown me a pair of faces. I’m inclined to believe the first one was yer own, but I’m willing to be convinced. Pick two of yer dances for me, and we’ll chat. Ye show me the lass ye want me to see. But ye ken I’m nae asking for a lie. I expect ye to abide by yer choice. I’ll make my decision based on who ye show me. That’s as much rope as I’m willing to give either of us.”

  She took a moment to consider. It was more than she’d expected from him, but she still couldn’t decide if that boded well or ill for a marriage. Still, she did understand what he asked. She could be the shrew he no doubt thought her, and he would walk away. Or she could be a simpering miss, put his ring on her finger, and then be expected to remain that empty-headed idiot forever. In exchange for what, though?

  “If I may ask,” she said slowly, “you made a point earlier of saying I might stay in London while you built us a house. How long might I expect that to take?”

  “A bit of time.”

  “Years, perhaps?”

  His gaze sharpened. “Aye. Could be. What do ye say to that?”

  That explained a great deal. He wanted a fool he could leave behind so he could pretend he wasn’t married, and so he could go back to Scotland to live as he pleased. A widow in all but fact, indeed. Would that work to her advantage, or not, though? No one to frown at her, certainly, but also no one with whom to share a life. “I say we should have our dances and converse. We’ve only chatted for perhaps a total of five minutes altogether, and I was nervous at the theater. Tonight will be our second chance for a first impression.”

  Coll MacTaggert nodded. “I can agree to that.”

  “Let’s retrieve my dance card, then. I do warn you that we must be quick about it. The moment the card touches my hands, it will be filled very quickly. And I’m not being arrogant. It’s merely a matter of mathematics.”

  Ahead of them, behind the four girls’ nervous mother and deeply resigned father, the Spenfield sisters stood to welcome all their guests. The oldest, Polymnia, now eight-and-twenty and well past her marital prime, followed by Thalia, Calliope, and Melpomeni. If their names weren’t enough evidence of their parents’s obsession with all things Greek, the faux-Ionic columns erected about the ballroom, the gold cherubs littering every wall and tabletop, and the Elgin statues apparently borrowed from the British Museum and standing in strategic view would have been more than sufficient.

  “I thought they didnae have much blunt,” Coll said in his version of a whisper as they walked into the main ballroom.

  “They don’t. They do know absolutely everyone, and they have the sympathy of a great many other parents.”

  “They’d have more of my sympathy if they hadnae named their lasses after the Greek muses.”

  So he knew who the muses were. Evidently, then, he could read. Until that moment she hadn’t been certain. While her mother assured Mrs. Spenfield that tonight was bound to be the night that one of her girls caught the eye of a young man, she led the mountainous Highlander over to the side table to retrieve a dance card. Two waltzes tonight, and oh, she loved waltzes.

  “Here,” she said, handing him the card and a pencil as a crowd of young men swarmed from one young lady to the next. “I suggest the first quadrille and the second waltz. It gives a proper distance between the two dances. Does that please you?”

  He eyed her before he bent his head to scrawl his name in the spaces she indicated. “Ye’re full of polite tonight. We’ll see if that lasts.”

  Yes, they would. He continued to aggravate her a great deal. He’d abandoned her, left his brother to apologize and stand in for him, had showed up for the grand moments, had never apologized for any of it himself, and had th
en declared the fault to be hers. At the same time, he had seemingly put this in her hands. If he’d known how she fared last Season, though, he might have been a bit less confident that she would do as he preferred.

  Lady Aldriss walked into the ballroom, two tall, dark-haired men on her heels, and Eloise and Matthew directly behind them. Her heart sped a little in spite of herself. Niall looked fit and splendid in an onyx coat and trousers, and a deep-blue waistcoat. “Your family is here.”

  He glanced over his shoulder. “Is that Eloise’s beau? I need to make his acquaintance.”

  The way he said “make his acquaintance” didn’t sound very promising. Evidently she wasn’t the only one that Coll MacTaggert had been ignoring since his arrival in London. Before she could defer, he set off across the ballroom, half dragging her behind him.

  She’d never really envisioned what life as a married lady would be like, but then her parents had put her name in ink beside Viscount Glendarril’s. A mad Highlander who disliked the English and who hauled her about like a dog. This was her sample of married life with him. She needed to pay attention.

  Rather than make a scene she trotted along beside him, stopping before the impressive MacTaggert family. And seeing them all together, they were impressive. Aden, the middle brother, lacked an inch or so on Niall, which still left him at just over six feet tall. He had raven hair darker even than Coll’s, hanging down to his shoulders and managing to make him look mysterious rather than unkempt. Niall had the greatest perfection in looks, in her opinion at least, thanks to those light, light eyes and brown hair that showed red and gold glimpses in the candlelight. He and Eloise could almost be twins, though of course his angles were much leaner and more muscular than his sister’s soft, rounded ones.