She’d been foolish to even for a moment doubt the man’s intentions.
“You’ll need to tell my mother,” Georgiana said. “She’ll worry if Charlotte simply disappears.”
“Most people don’t tell their relatives they plan to elope beforehand.”
“Mama’s romantic.” Georgiana shrugged.
The duke’s lips twitched. “I’d gathered that.”
The duke spoke first with Charlotte and then with Mama. Georgiana knew the moment when Mama learned, for she let out a shriek, though not of displeasure.
Commoners didn’t go to Gretna Green to elope: they waited patiently for the banns to be published.
The duke and Charlotte seemed prepared to depart, but Georgiana stopped them.
“Do you think your brother will believe that the wedding is called off?” she asked.
The duke hesitated and shifted his legs. Finally he smiled. “Tell him that he can take my carriage. He will believe that the wedding has been called off then.”
“Are you certain?”
The duke shrugged. “He needs something grander than a rented post chaise to ride in anyway. Besides, I have other carriages.”
The duke and Charlotte left on foot quickly, no doubt hastened by a desire to leave before Papa and Mr. MacTavish arrived back and before Mama could contemplate the ramifications of her youngest daughter eloping with the duke.
All would be fine if they did marry…but what if they didn’t for any reason?
Georgiana pushed that thought aside. They would marry…as long as Mr. MacTavish did not discover where they were going and stop the wedding. He had succeeded in hindering one wedding, who knew what he could do if given the chance?
They left and Mama and Georgiana watched the Butterworth coach arrive, swerving over the tilestones with rather more force than the gentle glide with which it had arrived to the church. The coach stopped, and the door swung open. Papa stepped out, his cravat disheveled despite Mama’s earlier efforts.
“I couldn’t find the minister, but it seems like the wedding cannot happen today,” Papa said, his voice carrying with the ease of a man accustomed to speaking to a large congregation. The other people in the square leaned forward, evidently finding the lack of a wedding shocking.
“Remember, don’t tell them about the elopement. Not yet,” Georgiana whispered.
Mama nodded.
They didn’t just have to worry about Mr. MacTavish—Papa would try to stop the elopement if he knew his youngest daughter was going to take a multi-day coach journey with a man to whom she was not married.
Georgiana’s stomach felt somewhat queasy at the thought. Perhaps she’d made a mistake. Perhaps she never should have encouraged the elopement.
“There will be no wedding,” Mama said.
Mr. MacTavish looked like he was attempting to keep from beaming.
“I don’t understand,” Papa said.
“The duke told us,” Mama said, looking at Georgiana.
Georgiana nodded. “He said you were correct about some things.”
“Where is Charlotte?” Papa asked.
There was a moment of silence, and then Georgiana said, “Crying.”
“Poor girl,” Papa said. “I still don’t understand.”
“Where is my brother?” Mr. MacTavish asked.
“I’m afraid the man did not want to spend time with us. He mentioned wanting to walk.”
“But the dear man said you might take the coach all the way to Scotland,” Mama added.
“He said something about the coach being best at the family estate,” Georgiana added.
Mr. MacTavish beamed and then forced a more somber expression on his face. “My bag was in the coach anyway.”
“Were you behind this?” Papa glowered.
Mr. MacTavish shifted his legs, though his back was too straight and his chest too upright to appropriately mimic shame.“I should leave you alone.”
Papa nodded. “That’s for the best. Thank you for trying to find the minister with me.”
“I suppose it was fate,” Mr. MacTavish said.
“I’ll try to take comfort in that,” Papa said.
Georgiana watched Mr. MacTavish walk away.
Neighing sounded behind her. Rows of horses waited patiently for their owners to return, their carriages still attached to them. Some of them had golden family crests, and others had bright carriage wheels that must prove challenging for the groomsmen to clean. Georgiana suspected that even the wheels of the most aristocratic carriages must still happen upon debris and mud. Even the highest of the ton wouldn’t be able to change the weather.
Something caught her eye. A tartan blanket fluttered in the wind, and her lips twitched.
London might be filled with recently arrived immigrants from the wars on the continents, but it was entirely less in possession of Scots. The English had banned the display of tartan in the last century, and there would be only few Scots who might so brazenly display it now.
It was the sort of thing the younger brother of a duke might leave.
That was obviously the duke’s coach, and now it was Mr. MacTavish’s.
A horrible thought occurred to her.
If he went to the duke’s home and didn’t find him, he would suspect that the duke was eloping with her.
Her heart shuddered.
It was up to her to stop Mr. MacTavish from stopping the wedding. She’d promised the duke.
A plan occurred to her.
A brilliant plan.
She could sneak into the coach. Once sufficient time had passed that he wouldn’t be able to catch up with Charlotte and the duke, she would announce her presence, and Mr. MacTavish would be honorbound to take her back to her parents.
He wouldn’t want any rumors to happen about them.
Likely he would find some woman on the street to impersonate a chaperone on the way back to London, just to remain on the correct side of propriety.
She turned to her mother. “I’m going to join Charlotte.”
“Excuse me?” Mama’s eyes were wide, but thankfully she refrained from revealing Charlotte’s location.
Georgiana nodded. “She needs me.”
“Good idea, my dear,” Papa said, and Georgiana hurried away.
She hurried to the coach, careful to avoid being seen by Mr. MacTavish.
She tried the door, and thankfully it opened.
Georgiana slid a blue and green plaid blanket over herself tentatively. The air was still chilly, as if still uncertain if it desired to bluster the north wind about, tossing and turning everything in its path with the glee of a boy still in dresses. The woolen texture was not exactly pleasant, and she set it aside.
Finally footsteps sounded on the cobblestones outside. The footsteps turned, and with horror it sounded as if someone were pulling himself up to the top of the coach.
She hesitated.
For then the coach began to pick up speed.
Fear prickled through her, but it didn’t matter. This was for her sister and the duke.
She could call out for the coach to spot, but if one worried that servants might gossip about one, one certainly had far more to worry about outside servants gossiping.
The coach rumbled over the cobblestones, and when the coach had picked up speed, she crawled out from underneath the seat and sat on the seat. She draped a tartan blanket over her head, disguising her auburn hair should anyone she knew pass by.
The carriage lurched and jolted, rounding corners and stopping abruptly. Mr. MacTavish was evidently not a proponent of caution. Georgiana resisted the temptation to leap from the carriage and find a hack in which to return. Her family was depending on her, whether they were aware or not.
Finally the coach’s speed steadied and the world quieted. They must have left the chaos and clamor of the capital, and she peeked through the window. The distances between the buildings had widened, and the
y must be on the Great North Road.
She reminded herself that this was a good thing, and pushed away the fear that rose up through her. She tossed her hair and grinned. Once Hamish stopped the coach to change horses, she would make her presence known. The man would be compelled to return her and would lose his chance of preventing the wedding from occurring again.
Chapter Thirteen
As the streets of London flew by, Hamish waited for his chest to brim with pride.
The sensation failed to arrive.
No matter.
It would. If he felt a slight ache inside, well that didn’t mean it had to do with guilt. Likely it only meant he was sorry there hadn’t been a wedding breakfast.
He held the reins loosely, pulling on the leather only occasionally when the horses needed to change streets.
The sun still shone brightly. Evidently it had already begun to celebrate, confident Hamish would succeed in halting the wedding. Hamish tilted his head and basked in the bright light.
He was almost going to miss London.
The city had more parks than he’d imagined. The homes in Mayfair tended to surround verdant squares, and Hyde Park, with its large leafy trees and languid, artificial lake was nearby.
He passed narrow townhomes, imbued with heavy facades, as if an abundance of Doric columns might make up for their diminutive size.
In a week he would be back in the Highlands, and he would be able to work further on his designs.
It might be ten o’clock, when any farmhand had been up for hours, but it was still early for the ton. They would be inside, possibly trying to avoid spilling chocolate on their white gowns or cravats, the most athletic accomplish of the day.
For their servants’ sakes, he hoped Mayfair would be filled with triumph this morning.
They’d left the sumptuous surroundings of Mayfair and the road had widened. The fact did not mean the horses could go much more quickly: servants and tradesmen, urchins and beggars lined the streets. Thin men of a certain age who’d likely fought valiantly at Waterloo a year ago now shivered or slept along the road, though Hamish knew their positions were not adopted because of their defensive locations in a tightly packed city environment. Vehicles thronged the streets. Private crests that marked the finest private carriages gleamed amidst the more common hacks and wagons.
Hamish settled back on his perch, reliving his success.
He shifted his legs.
Perhaps it was best not to do that.
That strange gnawing feeling occurred in his chest again.
Guilt.
It was guilt.
Likely it was overdeveloped after spending time with Callum’s former fiancée’s family. He was certain that Miss Butterworth had suspected what he’d done.
It didn’t matter.
He forced his mind to think of other things, such as the stability he’d just bestowed upon Callum’s unborn children. They would have MacTavish Castle to play in, and their wealth would be secure. Generations of future MacTavishs would shudder at how near they’d come to disaster. Callum could marry Isla McIntyre, just as had always been the plan.
Perhaps Callum was upset now, but at some point he’d be grateful and he’d admit Hamish’s superiorly developed foresight.
The spaces between buildings eventually grew larger, and swathes of fields lay before him.
He had exited London.
He waited again for the relief to come. Soon, he would be in Scotland. All that lay between him were some nights in posting inns. He wouldn’t have to dance waltzes with inconveniently alluring women and he certainly wouldn’t have to make conversation. He could even spend the evenings working on his designs.
As the streets of London flew by, Hamish waited for his chest to brim with pride.
The sensation failed to arrive.
No matter.
It would. If he felt a slight ache inside, well that didn’t mean it had to do with guilt. Likely it only meant he was sorry there hadn’t been a wedding breakfast.
He held the reins loosely, pulling on the leather only occasionally when the horses needed to change streets.
The sun still shone brightly. Evidently it had already begun to celebrate, confident Hamish would succeed in halting the wedding. Hamish tilted his head and basked in the bright light.
He was almost going to miss London.
The city had more parks than he’d imagined. The homes in Mayfair tended to surround verdant squares, and Hyde Park, with its large leafy trees and languid, artificial lake was nearby.
He passed narrow townhomes, imbued with heavy facades, as if an abundance of Doric columns might make up for their diminutive size.
In a week he would be back in the Highlands, and he would be able to work further on his designs.
It might be ten o’clock, when any farmhand had been up for hours, but it was still early for the ton. They would be inside, possibly trying to avoid spilling chocolate on their white gowns or cravats, the most athletic accomplish of the day.
For their servants’ sakes, he hoped Mayfair would be filled with triumph this morning.
They’d left the sumptuous surroundings of Mayfair and the road had widened. The fact did not mean the horses could go much more quickly: servants and tradesmen, urchins and beggars lined the streets. Thin men of a certain age who’d likely fought valiantly at Waterloo a year ago now shivered or slept along the road, though Hamish knew their positions were not adopted because of their defensive locations in a tightly packed city environment. Vehicles thronged the streets. Private crests that marked the finest private carriages gleamed amidst the more common hacks and wagons.
Hamish settled back on his perch, reliving his success.
He shifted his legs.
Perhaps it was best not to do that.
That strange gnawing feeling occurred in his chest again.
Guilt.
It was guilt.
Likely it was overdeveloped after spending time with Callum’s former fiancée’s family. He was certain that Miss Butterworth had suspected what he’d done.
It didn’t matter.
He forced his mind to think of other things, such as the stability he’d just bestowed upon Callum’s unborn children. They would have MacTavish Castle to play in, and their wealth would be secure. Generations of future MacTavishs would shudder at how near they’d come to disaster. Callum could marry Isla McIntyre, just as had always been the plan.
Perhaps Callum was upset now, but at some point he’d be grateful and he’d admit Hamish’s superiorly developed foresight.
The spaces between buildings eventually grew larger, and swathes of fields lay before him.
He had exited London.
He waited again for the relief to come. Soon, he would be in Scotland. All that lay between him were some nights in posting inns. He wouldn’t have to dance waltzes with inconveniently alluring women and he certainly wouldn’t have to make conversation. He could even spend the evenings working on his histories, a masterful assessment of Scotland’s medieval age that would surely bring enlightenment to those who read it. If he couldn’t quite work up his normal enthusiasm for the subject, well, that simply indicated the devastating influence of even a few days in London.
London. The site from which so many British kings and queens had plotted the destruction of their Northern neighbor, ordering deadly invasions with the casualness which they normally may have directed toward pesky wasps.subject, well, that simply indicated the devastating influence of even a few days in London.
London. The site from which so many British kings and queens had plotted the destruction of their Northern neighbor, ordering deadly invasions with the casualness which they normally may have directed toward pesky wasps.
*
The day stretched on, and the buildings turned honey-colored, as if to mimic the appearance of sunshine and bright beams even when there was none. The trot of the horses grew less as
sured, and when Hamish spotted a posting inn he guided the horses to it. He parked the carriage in the courtyard and arranged for a silvery haired groom to change the horses.
Hamish sauntered inside the pub. Large timbers crisscrossed along the wall, though their substantial size had evidently not kept the walls from sloping inward. His finger itched. He was eager to return to his drafting table and all normalcy.
Something hearty was definitely called for. Unfortunately the menu was devoid of so much as a bridie, that great Scottish pasty.
He’d have to satisfy himself with a cold collation. Hopefully it included some poultry. Nothing surpassed meat in taste. He thought longingly of the tongue and ham and eggs that would have been served at the wedding breakfast. No matter. He was happy to have sacrificed that cursory pleasure.
Now was not the time to tarry. He’d be a fool to attempt to travel in the dark, and he didn’t want to waste time in England. He may have stopped the wedding, he may have saved future generations from anguish, but he still needed to return. He needed to finish his commission, and the estate required his attention. No steward could care about the estate as much as he did.
The sun continued to shine when he left the posting inn, and he grinned as he approached the carriage. Fresh horses were hooked onto it, and they stood, swinging their tails, stomping their hooves and snorting.
He nodded at the groom. “Thank you.”
The man had a strange expression on his face.
It seemed almost…disapproving.
Hamish sighed. Likely his Scottish accent had put the man off. He would have thought the groom would have noticed his accent before, but now was not the time to ponder the limits of English intelligence.
Hamish had wanted to inquire about a driver, but he decided against it, lest the man declare no driver would desire to visit Scotland or some other such nonsense. Perhaps he’d inquire at the next posting inn.
He neared the carriage. Some woman was wearing a bright yellow dress on the other side of the carriage. He hardly thought this posting inn was worthy of fine attire. Most women were clothed in sensible traveling gowns, the drab colors suited for the inevitable mud and dust that would upon them.
Dukes Prefer Bluestockings Page 9
