“Did you see the looks she was giving you?” Georgiana asked. “I think they thought Scottish men scary.”
“Evidently not anymore,” Hamish said mournfully.
“Oh, you’ll survive,” she said. “Besides, now you’re getting a bed.”
“You make it seem that I was going to be the one to sleep on the floor.”
“Well, it wasn’t going to be me!”
“You’re the one who sneaked onto my coach.”
Georgiana gave him an innocent shrug. “None of this would have happened if you hadn’t tried to stop my sister’s wedding.”
“It was a responsible action,” Hamish grumbled. “You wouldn’t understand.” The innkeeper led them to some rickety wooden steps to their chamber. Each creak of the steps seemed to sound an ominous tone to her heart with such efficiency that would make the director of a music hall melodrama envious.
Because even though it might make sense to share a room here, and heavens, she’d learned her lesson about attempting to travel in the dark, the thought of actually being in an enclosed space with him was unsettling. This would differ from riding alongside on the perch for the driver, where they might comment on the scenery or simply enjoy the flutter of fresh air against their attire. This would even differ from when they’d slept side by side on the stiff seats inside the coach. Beds had different connotations.
The innkeeper marched quickly, as if unwilling to waste any time with them.
“You can go downstairs to grab your grub when you’re ready,” the innkeeper said. “I won’t carry it up for you.”
“That’s fine,” Georgiana said hastily.
The innkeeper nodded and pushed open the door to a room. She jerked her thumb in the room’s direction, and then turned around to go downstairs, muttering about foreigners.
Georgiana entered the room, conscious of Hamish behind her.
She had been right to not desire to share a room before. Perhaps she’d shared a room with her sister in their parents’ home in Norfolk, but this in no manner compared.
The man’s presence dominated the room, despite the generous square footage the posting inn had allotted for it.
She forced her attention on the room itself. Perhaps musing on the pleasant paintings of windmills and hay stacks that dotted the room would distract her from him.
He was standing, and his towering stature was unmistakable, heightened by the medieval timbers that lined the ceiling, further diminishing its height.
“They gave us a nice room,” she said, but he merely arched an eyebrow.
Heat rushed to her cheeks.
Of course.
The man’s brother was a duke.
Hamish wouldn’t have spent his childhood sharing a room with his brother. He would have had his own room. His home wouldn’t have had a thatched roof: it would have been a castle with towers, bartizans, crenellations, and perhaps even a dungeon where he could threaten to lock up any tiresome cousins. He wouldn’t have played in a garden, careful to not trample over the vegetables or pierce himself with the thorny rose stems. He would have had an entire estate on which to roam about.
“This is probably too old-fashioned for you.” She gave a forced laugh, conscious that her cheeks were growing warmer, not cooler.
His eyes widened. “I don’t mind old-fashioned things.”
“Truly?”
He nodded. “Why would you think that?”
“I mean, you’re the brother of a duke. The son of a duke. The cousin of…”
“A marquess,” he finished for her, and she smiled.
“Yes,” she said. “I mean you must be accustomed to a certain level of elegance, and perhaps this room, which I consider nice, doesn’t quite meet those standards. And now I’m rambling.” She clamped her mouth shut. “I-I should stop talking. I must be tired.”
“We should sleep,” he said.
“Yes,” she agreed quickly, even though she’d never felt more awake. Sleep seemed an impossibility when her heart was hammering and her nerves seemed to be fluttering.
She looked around the room, but there was no screen behind which she could change.
“I’ll let you be,” he said. “I’ll—er—be back.”
She nodded, and he exited the room.
Well.
She removed her dress, still feeling foolish that she was wearing her finest one. She wished she’d brought her night rail with her, but her shift would have to serve. Hopefully, she could stay under the covers the entire night. She folded her dress and put it on a chair and then hurriedly got into bed, unsure just how much time Hamish would allot for her ministrations. Men seemed to be in the habit of underestimating the amount of time it took to change one’s attire, if her father’s complaints were anything to go by, and that was when she had the benefit of a lady’s maid to assist her.
Chapter Twenty-three
The coach entered Durham, rumbling over medieval cobblestones. Glimpses of the river were visible from between towering stone vestiges of intellect. Students strode over the streets, their black cloaks billowing behind them and books pressed into their hands.
The town had crept up on them, appearing out of the desolate landscape. Georgiana shivered and leaned back against the seat of the coach. “It’s so large.”
Hamish’s lips twitched. “They won’t be able to tell that we’re not married, despite their intelligence.”
“They might be able to recognize me,” Georgiana said. “Or you.”
Hamish pressed his lips together in a firm line, calculating the likelihood that someone, in a thick cluster of people between their ages, might be familiar with either of them. He pulled the coach over. “Get inside.”
Georgiana nodded and clambered down the steps. She moved quickly but perhaps not quickly enough.
“Hamish MacTavish!” A voice soared behind them. “Is that you?”
“Must be someone else,” Hamish said quickly.
The voice laughed. “I’d recognize that voice anywhere. It’s Wolfe. Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten.”
“I had many hits on the head during the war,” Hamish said.
This was…not wonderful.
Blast.
Of all the people in all of England to run into, he had to have run into Wolfe. It didn’t help in the slightest that Wolfe knew him well. The man would find it dashed suspicious to see Hamish on this side of the border. Wolfe knew that Hamish held even the southern portions of Scotland in disdain, seeing them as ineffectual defenses against the English.
Normally, happening upon Wolfe would definitely be considered pleasant. The man was likely to find Hamish’s lack of a smile upon seeing him as belonging to the odder parts of his day.
So Hamish smiled. “Of course I remember you.”
Wolfe’s chest seemed to broaden, and he gave a nod of his head that Hamish supposed was meant to appear modest. “Well, I am not very forgettable.”
“Naturally not.” He glanced at Georgiana. She hadn’t made it inside yet, and his heart sank.
“And neither are you,” Wolfe said, not missing any time before casting a piercing glare at the man. Hamish shifted his legs. Wolfe’s sister was much more pleasant.
At any moment Wolfe would probably ask why he was in England and who he was traveling with. Neither question were ones that Hamish had the least desire to answer.
“Your hair has grown bushier,” Hamish said.
“You could have mentioned that my chest has grown broader,” Wolfe grumbled.
Hamish shrugged. “Well, that’s changed too.”
“And now it doesn’t sound like a compliment.” Wolfe scowled.
Hamish smiled. “I thought I would find you in a place like London.”
Wolfe’s eyes rounded. “Don’t tell me you went to London.” He looked at Georgiana. “And who is this?”
*
Georgiana’s heart thudded in her chest. She realized how lucky th
ey’d been before to not meet anyone.
“It’s—er—” Hamish’s face reddened.
They hadn’t agreed on other names. The last thing she needed was for him to announce her real name. She needed to have some hope that she hadn’t thoroughly ruined her reputation beyond absolute repair.
“My name is—er—Garnet Valentina.”
Hamish’s eyes widened behind Wolfe. Perhaps she needn’t have chosen a name of such eccentricity.
“Garnet,” Wolfe said. The man gave a contemplative smile. “What a lovely name. Most seductive.”
Right.
If only she hadn’t been reading a Loretta Van Lochen book right before she departed.
Hamish frowned. “Yes. Her parents noted her hair color upon her—er—entry into the world.”
The man’s tone was icy, and Georgiana frowned. He needn’t be so upset at her name choice. He hadn’t been able to offer a better one, and he’d had the chance.
“I didn’t know that Hamish was in the practice of driving about with such beautiful women.”
“Hamish is a secretive man.”
“Really? Most people would consider him dull.”
Indignity trickled through Georgiana, and she noted that Hamish’s reliably sun-kissed skin had a novel rosy tint.
“I don’t consider him dull.” She tossed her hair and did her best to give a regal glower.
Apparently regal glowers were expressions that she was able to convey, for Wolfe looked somewhat chastened.
Well.
If he felt uncomfortable, Georgiana did not regret it. The man couldn’t expect to insult Hamish. Hamish might spend time going over the books of his family’s estate, but that was not something to deride. The man’s passion wasn’t in mathematics, and if it were she doubted that he would find checking that the rows of columns matched in his ledger stimulating. No, Hamish’s passion was for architecture.
“So are you some relative of the family? A younger sister or cousin?”
Hamish began to nod, but Georgiana frowned. She didn’t want him to assume that Hamish was traveling about with some sister.
“I’m not related to Mr. MacTavish,” she said.
Wolfe’s eyes rounded. “Not at all?”
Hamish’s expression seemed to belong to the horror-struck variety, and Georgiana regretted that she’d been quite so decisive.
Perhaps it would have been fine if Wolfe had thought that Hamish had a younger sister, perhaps educated at one of the atrocious finishing schools to account for her English accent.
But on the other hand… She was Garnet Valentina. Not Georgiana Butterworth from Norwich, Norfolk. Not a woman to be pitied to have grown up far from the ton’s strongholds between Kent and Hampshire, and far from the supposedly romantic moors of Yorkshire or Dartmoor that seemed to intrigue people, even though Georgiana was quite certain that Norfolk had every advantage since it did not possess impossibly steep slopes and was not ridden with marshy bogs in which people could drown.
She moved the tartan blanket lower down. The man’s gaze followed it to her bosom but she resisted the urge to long for a fichu or to cover it immediately. Garnet Valentina wouldn’t do such a thing. If the man suspected that she were a woman of the ton, well he would be asking everyone if they knew any red-headed women of a certain age and tell about how he’d seen her traveling alone in Durham.
The only thing she could do was to continue her ruse.
“I am afraid we are in a rush,” she said, fluttering her eyelashes and lowering her voice so that it had a seductive edge. “Hamish gets so dreadfully impatient.”
“Does he?” Wolfe’s lips quirked. “I do have accommodation should you require it.”
“Dearest?” Georgiana glanced at Hamish. “What do you think?”
“Absolutely not,” Hamish growled.
“We desire privacy,” Georgiana said.
“Ah.” The word was curt, but Wolfe rolled his gaze down Georgiana’s figure. She had the impression that he was taking her in as effectively as the best seamstress. “I can understand that.”
“What are you doing in Durham?” Hamish asked abruptly.
“Education,” Wolfe said. “It’s a fate that befalls some of us.”
Wolfe glanced at Georgiana. Evidently he did not think that she’d been in possession of that fate. She resisted the urge to scowl. In that presumption, he was not incorrect.
“Well, it was a pleasure to meet you, Miss Valentina.”
“The pleasure is mine, Mr. Wolfe.” She curtsied, hoping that was an action for ladies of the night.
The man smiled again. “Most men call me Lord McIntyre. But Wolfe will do very well for you.”
She stiffened.
“That is an extraordinary name.” Georgiana’s voice trembled.
“Befitting of an extraordinary man,” Wolfe said smugly.
Hamish was definitely glowering now, and the thought brought her some amusement.
“But there are not many Valentinas here,” Wolfe said.
“I’m not from here,” she said.
“Well that much is obvious.” Wolfe smiled. “Valentina sounds Spanish, but Garnet…”
Georgiana thought quickly. “My father was a pirate. And my mother’s family. She was from Cornwall.”
“The red hair,” Wolfe said.
Georgiana nodded, though she didn’t like that people tended to think that red hair was the exclusive property of Cornwall. Her hair was auburn, and she’d lived most of her life quite comfortably in Norfolk, even if it had perhaps been not without frustrations that the color was rare. Her mother had washed it in buttermilk, but the color had never changed.
“And how did you meet dear Hamish?” Wolfe asked, his dark eyes glowing.
“London. At an—er—very exclusive place.”
“My cousin goes to London now? How exciting. What will become of the estate?”
“I was on important estate business,” Hamish said, his frown deepening.
“Ah,” Wolfe said, stifling a yawn. “How wonderful.”
Georgiana had the impression that he didn’t find Hamish’s dedication to his family the least bit appealing, and she frowned.
“Hamish is a most exciting man,” she said. “You must not know him very well.”
Wolfe appeared chastened. “I suppose I do not know him as well as his…mistress.” He tilted his head. “Are you certain you’re not up for a proper visit?”
“Absolutely not,” Hamish said, dragging Georgiana back onto the driver’s seat of the coach, and her heart raced at the ease with which he pulled her up. He grabbed the reins and urged the horses forward.
“See?” Georgiana called back to Wolfe. “Quite exciting!”
Wolfe’s lips turned into a wide grin, and he waved.
Hamish urged the horses into a trot, and soon they sped through Durham and back into the comfort and seclusion of the countryside.
Chapter Twenty-four
The buildings seemed to fly by in a delightful blur. If Wolfe had any friends whom Hamish knew, Hamish was driving far too quickly to ascertain.
"You shouldn’t have said that," Hamish said.
"I know," Georgiana said. "I just was upset."
He quirked a smile.
"Garnet Valentina." Hamish’s voice was rich with amusement.
Georgiana flushed. "It was the first name I could think of."
"It’s not a name that springs easily to my mind."
Georgiana squared her shoulders. "Well, that’s because you weren’t just reading The Spanish Princess. Miss Valentina is the heroine of that story."
“Ah..." Hamish smiled, but Georgiana was hesitant, as if expecting malice to appear in his eyes.
None did.
"That was clever," Hamish said.
"Oh?"
"Wolfe completely believed your pirate past."
"You’re teasing me," Georgiana said.
Pe
ople didn’t confuse her with seductive sirens. She was a Butterworth, the child of a long string of vicars.
They expected her to sing hymns and arrange flowers. Sirens weren’t assumed to have much knowledge of gardening. Any flowers they had were brought by suitors and not planted beside sensible vegetable patches.
She’d never lied like that. Perhaps she’d let Hamish believe that she was her younger sister, but she never would have introduced the idea.
And yet, today, she’d conjured a person. Her lips moved upward. She supposed she had had a bit of help from Loretta Van Lochen.
Hamish directed the horses into a posting inn, and he helped her from the coach. She touched his hand, and warmth shot through her as he guided her down the steps. The man affected her effortlessly. She’d noticed the handsome manner in which his Lord McIntyre had styled his hair and the fashionable cut of his attire, but it was Hamish who caused her heart to quicken. When she reached the cobblestones, she glanced up, only to find that she was far too near him. His cravat was not supposed to brush against her nose, and she squeezed her eyes shut.
Her heart wasn’t supposed to quicken, and her breath wasn’t supposed to either. It was a shame that the first time she’d alone with a man, it had to be one such as Hamish. It would be far more convenient if they’d despised each other.
Georgiana did her best to think about things she abhorred about Hamish, but all the things that she’d most hated about him, she now understood. Perhaps he’d broken into her room and waved coin before her eyes, but he’d been trying to act best for both his brother and the woman he’d thought had inappropriately claimed him. He hadn’t tried to threaten his brother’s bride, he’d offered to set her up to live independently for the rest of her life. Other men would not be so generous.
"I’m not a seductress." She laughed, conscious that it sounded too high pitched.
Hamish didn’t smile.
Instead his eyes darkened. "I wouldn’t be too certain."
His voice sounded hoarse, almost husky, and she glanced up quickly.
"You must have thought me ridiculous," she said.
Dukes Prefer Bluestockings Page 15
