Hamish decided to take the man’s silence as a reason to hope. That would suffice until the morning. “If it turns out you don’t want to marry her—”
“In that case, I won’t,” Callum said calmly. “The wedding is the day after tomorrow though.”
Hamish gave a miserable nod. “Very well.”
“You’ll be able to meet Miss Butterworth yourself tomorrow afternoon.”
“Perhaps I’ll be busy,” Hamish said, not really desiring to meet Miss Butterworth with his brother.
“Nonsense,” Callum said. “And sadly, they’ll want to see you. Her parents are quite pleasant.”
Hamish stiffened, and his lips dropped into a frown. They’d had parents and guardians, and had made promises to them that Callum seemed to have no intention of honoring.
Callum led him onto a corridor. It might not be as long as the corridors at MacTavish Castle, but the vases and sideboards scattered in it were of the lavish variety. Finally Callum opened the door to a large bedroom that was evidently a guest room. Jeweled fabric hung from a canopy bed and lavish curtains draped in a sumptuous manner that signified an inefficient use of fabric. A large Persian carpet nearly covered the entire hardwood floor, a similar waste of resources on a room that would be infrequently used. Hamish certainly intended to leave once the wedding was canceled.
“Just promise me,” Callum said, “that you won’t offend Miss Butterworth or her family during the wedding. I want this to be a joyous occasion for them.”
“Very well,” Hamish said.
“Oh?” Callum’s blue eyes widened, and he smiled.
“Indeed,” Hamish said, returning his brother’s smile.
I’ll ensure she breaks the engagement before the wedding.
Chapter Seven
The sky had remained dry all night, depriving Georgiana of the satisfaction of envisioning Mr. MacTavish returning to whatever beastly lair he occupied with muddy clothing.
Georgiana paced her room. Flora had helped her dress, but she was reluctant to go downstairs just yet. Not before she figured out what to do.
Her sister’s fiancé had seemed almost too good to be true. Perfection was something over which to be suspicious.
Well, Georgiana had discovered the man’s flaw: his brother was an abomination.
She’d imagined her bridesmaid duties would encompass consultations over hair coiffures and visits to the dressmaker. She’d never imagined it would entail defending her sister’s honor late at night from a strange Scotsman.
Men weren’t supposed to enter ladies’ rooms via balconies. They weren’t supposed to enter ladies’ rooms at all.
How odd that a man who argued for propriety could behave in a manner so devoid of it.
Men, Georgiana mused, were generally without sense.
A knock sounded on the door.
Likely it was the maid
“Come in,” Georgiana called out, while contemplating whether to share news of the encounter with Charlotte. Unfortunately, it was the sort of news that might unnerve even the strongest of spirits, and lovely Charlotte, whatever her merits in pleasantness and overall amiability, could scarcely be called strong. She’d visited too many doctors to be termed that.
The door opened, and her mother strolled into the room.
“M-mama,” Georgiana stammered, conscious her throat had dried sometime before her mother reached the chaise-longue.
Had someone overheard her last night? Would her mother be demanding a special license and a double wedding? Her mother settled into the velvet chair and pushed the silver candlestick on the sidetable into its proper position. “My dearest, I have the most delightful news.”
She doesn’t know.
“Oh?” Georgiana gave a cautious smile.
“It seems your sister’s fiancé’s brother arrived last night.”
“How lovely.” Georgiana forced herself to widen her smile, but a strange feeling in her stomach seemed to toss and turn, as if caught in a stormy sea. Georgiana directed her gaze at the window. The view of the brick townhouse opposite seemed to decidedly belong on land, but her stomach still felt unsettled.
Seeing Mr. MacTavish did not top her list of desired activities, and yet at the same time, curiosity coursed through her.
She wasn’t certain she could be in his presence without blushing, her mind returning to last night. Perhaps it was wise to warn her sister of the inadequacies of her future family. Of one thing she was certain: their parents could not know lest there be an off chance they might desire the funds rather than Charlotte’s eternal happiness.
Knowing Mama, she might be quite happy to declare Georgiana compromised if she learned she’d entertained a midnight visitor, no matter how much Georgiana pleaded that the man’s visit had been compelled by business, not a romantic urge.
Surely there could be no worse fate than to be saddled to a man of such disagreeableness?
And yet…
Georgiana remembered the feel of his lips pressed against hers, and his scent, that curious mixture of oak and cotton, still seemed to waft over her. His arms might not be holding her, and yet if she closed her eyes, she could sense every contour of his muscles.
The fact was ridiculous. She abhorred rogues.
“I am eager to return to Norfolk,” Georgiana said.
Her mother blinked. “You want to accept the curate’s offer?”
“Perhaps.” She shrugged. “Why not?”
The curate’s sensibility was deeply comforting, and for the first time Georgiana allowed herself to imagine a life with him. It would be lacking any excitement.
Utter bliss.
“We had hoped for better for you, but he does have an agreeable demeanor.”
“Though why marry at all?” Georgiana added, and her mother sighed.
“That’s what I wonder every time I see Mr. Butterworth at breakfast,” Mama mused. “He tends to improve by dinnertime, though I’ve never been sure if it’s because of the better attire or because of the dimmer light.”
Georgiana contemplated Mr. MacTavish’s offer of a cottage by the sea. That had sounded lovely, and it had almost made her wish she’d been engaged to the duke. Perhaps the more important the bridegroom, the better the bribe to prevent the wedding from occurring.
She descended the stairs with her mother. Her heart thrummed more than was necessary for the activity, girding itself for someone to accuse her of immoral behavior, but everything was much the same as yesterday. Her father and sister joined them on the stairs, but no one mentioned her reputation.
*
The gold pendulum in the guestroom’s clock swung with maddeningly regularity, even if the polished glass case and well-kept mahogany seemed unlikely harbingers of ill fortune. Yet time was running out. The wedding was tomorrow. Had his brother installed the clock to torture him, he would have succeeded.
Hamish paced the room. His footsteps were muffled by the thick Persian carpet, and he didn’t even have the satisfaction of knowing he was waking Callum. The man should be riddled with guilt. MacTavishes had been living respectably for centuries, all while not succumbing to base desires and joining their name with people who had harmed his family for centuries.
Still… Where there was a will there was a way, and given the strength of Hamish’s will, there must be a myriad of ways in which to break off the engagement. Hamish sat at the desk and tapped his quill on a piece of paper, undistracted by the view of the leafy square. No doubt his brother had not thought he would use the paper to compose ways in which he might shatter Callum’s wedding, but then foresight had never been a major asset of his brother’s.
The door opened a crack, and a maid appeared. Her eyes widened, perhaps surprised to find him at his desk awake, but then she curtsied and moved briskly to the fireplace and proceeded to light it.
Hamish glanced outside again. Perhaps most people were not awake at dawn, but most people did not have to figure ou
t how to break off a marriage in a day. Most people, truly, had no idea of their good fortune.
He wrote Ways to Stop a Wedding in large letters over the top of the paper. It was a shame so much attention was spent in how to procure a wedding, rather than how to dissolve it. He was certain people would be happier without them.
My parents would have been.
He shook his head. No need to ponder them now. They were safely in the ground, enclosed in opulent coffins and blessed with the last rites.
1.) Bribery.
This had seemed the cleanest, most expedient solution, providing a more than satisfactory replacement to the inevitable tribulations of marriage, even if Callum’s fiancée had not had had the good sense to recognize it. He frowned. Evidently Miss Butterworth desired neither wealth nor independence. Shame.
Hamish addressed the maid. “What would cause someone to end an engagement?”
“Well.” The maid blinked but seemed to gamely ponder the question. She scrunched her lips and twirled a strand of hair over her finger. Dabs of coal smeared her fingers, and she dropped the lock. “If she wanted or needed to work, and her workplace didn’t allow marriage.”
“She doesn’t work.”
“I suppose if the man drank. Or was a bully. Or if he were with another woman. Or if she weren’t fond of the man.”
“That’s helpful.”
The maid grinned and drew back from the hearth. Orange flames twirled and expanded in size, clambering up the coal and sizzling
“And I suppose she couldn’t marry him if there were a problem with the marriage license. But that wouldn’t happen.”
He smiled. He had no doubt that Miss Butterworth’s family had secured a marriage license. Whatever his brother’s faults, he would hardly go to the trouble of setting a wedding date and then not marrying the chit.
Still…
He added the maid’s recommendations to the book.
2.) Alcohol
3.) Unfaithfulness
4.) Hatred
5.) License
“You’ve been helpful,” he said. “Miss—er—”
“Eliza.” She smiled again, curtsied and then hurried from the room.
As the maid’s feet pitter-pattered over the corridor, Hamish circled one of the words. An idea spread through his mind, and he contemplated it as the sun rose and the sunbeams that hit the paper grew brighter.
Finally Hamish stretched his arms. Perhaps Callum was awake. He strode over the corridor and down the stairs, whistling a hunting tune.
The breakfast room was easy to find.
“It’s you,” his brother said flatly, gesturing toward an empty chair. “I hoped you had been a figment of my imagination.”
“Your imagination isn’t capable of conjuring me,” Hamish said pleasantly, taking a seat.
“No one’s is,” Callum murmured.
“I’m sure that’s a compliment.” Hamish grabbed a roll and dabbed strawberry preserves over it. “I hope you changed your mind about the wedding.”
“Nonsense,” Callum grumbled.
“And yet you’re already awake.” Hamish grinned. “At least you were eager to see me.”
“I’m eager to visit the club.”
Hamish stopped grinning and he placed his roll back on the blue and white china plate. “The day before the wedding? In the morning?”
“I work there,” Callum said.
Hamish blinked. “You’re a duke. You don’t have to work.”
“And you don’t have to be an architect.”
“So you take pleasure in belonging to a place of such impropriety?” Hamish asked.
His brother was doing worse than he’d imagined.
Hamish was designing manor homes, quasi castles, but Hamish was certain that managing a club didn’t involve anything artistic.
“I’m not doing it by myself,” Callum said. “And you really need to be in London more often. It’s common knowledge.”
“I didn’t think you were serious about it.”
Callum was silent and poured himself another glass of chocolate.
“Who are you running the club with?” Hamish asked finally.
“Wolfe.”
Hamish swallowed hard at the name of their one-time neighbor and the brother of Callum’s true betrothed, Lady Isla McIntyre. “What does he think of your intended wedding?”
Callum took a long sip of chocolate, even though, in Hamish’s experience, the thick, sweet drink was not conducive to long sips. “He doesn’t know.”
Hamish raised his eyebrows, and horror must have shown in his face, for his brother sighed.
“He’s on holiday,” Callum said finally. “Apparently the continent is a place to visit again. Everyone has forgotten Bonaparte.”
It was impossible not to note the bitterness in Callum’s voice. They’d both fought in the war.
“Bonaparte is being very well guarded at St. Helena,” Hamish said finally. “They’ve learned from their mistakes at Elba. They won’t let him escape again, and if he did, he would never be able to raise a strong army. Waterloo was his miracle, and he lost it.”
“I don’t think France is dangerous,” Callum said finally. “But the prospect of returning… I simply couldn’t do that. At least not on a holiday.”
“I understand,” Hamish said.
Architecture allowed him to focus for long periods of time on something completely separate from memories of the war. Designing something new that drew on Scotland’s historic traditions, and then concentrating on the small, necessary details to carry it out…that was the closest thing to bliss there was.
“How do you think Wolfe will react?” Hamish asked. Perhaps Wolfe had changed too.
Callum frowned. “He’ll despise it.”
Chapter Eight
Flowers and herbs filled the drawing room. Any books that had once graced the surfaces had been shoved aside, and Georgiana’s eyebrows darted up.
Papa seemed similarly flummoxed. “Where is my Plato?”
“Darling!” Mama fluttered her hands. “You don’t need Plato! Your daughter is getting married. Charlotte is getting married. It’s a miracle.”
Charlotte’s complexion never ventured far from pale, but it managed to grow lighter now.
Georgiana cringed on her behalf.
Her mother needn’t seem so surprised that Charlotte had managed to secure a husband, even though it seemed unlikely that a wallflower had somehow captured the match of the season: a duke, and one under the age of thirty.
“Nonsense.” Papa piled the books back on the parlor table, as if being in such proximity to the titles would convey wisdom. He paused and picked up an herb. “Is that sage on my copy of Plato’s Republic?”
“Don’t move it,” Mama exclaimed.
“Is there a particular reason why you have placed sage on it?”
“For our youngest daughter’s eternal happiness. It represents wisdom, and it will go into her bridal bouquet.”
“If she believes that clutching dried herbs will lead to a life of wisdom, there is no hope for her.”
“No doubt you would suggest she stride down the aisle with a philosophy book.”
“For instance.” Papa stroked his sideburn. “It is always good to ponder the meaning of life.”
“Charlotte has already found the meaning of life,” her mother said happily. “Marriage.”
“Plato would disagree.”
“Then he was a foolish man.”
“I doubt Plato carried a bridal bouquet of sage on his wedding day,” Georgiana said.
“Quite right,” Mama said. “He probably should have done that. Though a boutonniere of course. Far more masculine.”
“Plato wore a toga,” Papa grumbled. “He couldn’t possibly have worn a boutonniere.”
“You don’t know that,” Mama said merrily, concentrating on arranging the herbs. “Just because the statues don’t show
boutonnieres, doesn’t mean men didn’t wear them.”
“Mother has a good point,” Georgiana said, and her mother smiled triumphantly.
“Besides, he never married,” Papa said.
“You do know you are just proving my point, dear?” Mama said.
“Hmph.” Papa continued to scrutinize the room. “Please tell me that isn’t garlic.”
“Would you desire our child to be without goodness?”
“The garlic will ward off any invitations for misbehaving.” Papa turned to Charlotte. “I’m no proponent of misbehaving, but do you really want garlic in your bridal bouquet?”
“If mother desires it,” Charlotte said. “It really does not matter.”
Georgiana frowned. Charlotte had been surprisingly nonchalant about the whole wedding. It was almost as if she were not madly in love with the duke, and if she were not in love with him, perhaps he was not in love with her.
Despite her fondness for her sister, even Georgiana had to admit the strangeness of their match.
Their mother would have considered it a victory if Charlotte had merely danced with the duke, an occurrence to bring up on dull, cold nights in Norfolk, but instead Charlotte had appeared with a Scottish heirloom on her finger and the duke’s vow to be permanently at her side.
“I always thought Georgiana would marry first,” Mama said.
“Because she’s the oldest?” Papa settled into an armchair, apparently satisfied to have discovered his copy of The Republic and leafed through the pages, occasionally brushing away strands of dried herbs.
“Because her thighs are the largest and more conducive to birthing,” Mama said, obviously unaware that she’d managed to insult both of her children at the same time.
Charlotte concentrated on her sewing.
Their mother was wrong. Charlotte was pretty, though it wouldn’t matter if she wasn’t.
Georgiana’s sister had always been thin, perhaps because she’d always been sickly. She’d retreated into the world of books and music, barricaded in the family’s drawing room.
Until she’d become engaged.
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