She needed no help from nature to appear daunting.
“Mr. MacTavish!” Mrs. Butterworth shouted, unperturbed by the increased ferocity of the wind.
Hamish hesitated.
Perhaps running wasn’t such a ridiculous option.
Still. He squared his shoulders and raised his chin. No doubt he deserved to be berated. He wasn’t going to leave them befuddled and scrambling after him, not after they’d seen him. He owed them much more than that.
“It’s really you!” Mrs. Butterworth beamed, and for a moment Hamish could see Georgiana in her shining expression. She turned around. “Mr. Butterworth! I told you it was the duke’s brother, and it is. How good I am at spotting people.”
Mr. Butterworth ducked his head from the coach. Perhaps Mrs. Butterworth was experiencing a momentary delight at recognizing someone hundreds of miles away from where she’d last seen him, but Mr. Butterworth appeared less contemplative about the wonders of that fact. His eyebrows shot together, and his demeanor exuded anger.
When he’d first met Mr. Butterworth the man had been comfortably ensconced in an armchair, taking such delight in the comforts of well-crafted upholstery and pillows, even the silky ones that some men pretended to eschew, that Hamish had imagined that the man might avoid discomfort.
Instead, Mr. Butterworth had not only traveled to Gretna Green, he was now barreling from the coach, with the vigor of a well-lit cannonball, and was heading toward Hamish. Mud spattered about the man’s buckskin breeches, but his pace did not diminish. He wrestled Hamish to the ground, and settled each thigh on either side of him.
Clearly Mr. Butterworth did not subscribe to the ton’s tenements for propriety.
“You do not mess with a Norfolk man,” Mr. Butterworth said.
“You’re a v-vicar,” Hamish stammered.
“And you’re headed for hell.” Mr. Butterworth sneered. His teeth were set into a ferocious line, and he directed both fists at Hamish. He pressed against Hamish, as if to thrust him faster into hell that way.
Birds fluttered merrily above Hamish, evidently unconcerned at his downfall
“Must you be so dramatic?” Mrs. Butterworth asked. “The dear man will think you’re a Methodist.”
Hamish blinked.
“We’re not Methodists,” Mrs. Butterworth said in a voice obviously meant to be reassuring, though she made no move to assist her husband from his newfound perch on top of Hamish’s body.
“The denomination you subscribe to is of no concern,” Hamish said.
This time even Mrs. Butterworth gasped. Hamish had the distinct feeling he’d said the wrong thing. The wind continued to bluster, slamming against him, as if deciding to thrash him even if Mr. Butterworth had decided to postpone his pummeling.
“Where is my daughter?” Mr. Butterworth bellowed, shifting his position, as if rallying each serving he’d ever eaten, each mince pie, each marzipan delicacy, each marmalade tartlet, to harm Hamish.
Hamish hesitated.
Georgiana wouldn’t want him to admit her location.
“She’s—er—not here,” Hamish lied.
Mr. Butterworth’s face darkened. “Just because I have pince-nez and cannot see with them off, does not mean that I can’t see with them on. I saw my daughter. She was just speaking with you. And then she ran away. Where is she?”
“I—” Hamish swallowed hard. “I’m sorry. I-I couldn’t say where she is.”
“She ran away, darling,” Mrs. Butterworth explained, as if that could possibly explain anything. “Perhaps she was desirous of exercise.”
“Yes,” Hamish nodded eagerly.
“That’s nonsense,” Mr. Butterworth said. “My daughter doesn’t run spontaneously.”
“Habits can always be formed, my dear.” Mrs. Butterworth’s voice was soothing, like the mother he’d wished he had had, like the mother he never would have.
“She is obviously running away from this man.” Mr. Butterworth pointed a finger at Hamish, and he shrank back. “You stole our daughter.”
Stealing wasn’t the right word.
Hamish hadn’t kidnapped her.
He hadn’t known she was in his coach.
But Mr. Butterworth needed someone to dislike now, and Hamish could be that person.
Hamish looked around, wondering if Mr. Butterworth intended to drag him into the blacksmith’s shop and have the blacksmith thrust fiery things in his face until Mr. Butterworth had managed to wrangle his daughter to return so they might marry.
I would be happy to do so.
But Mr. Butterworth did no such thing.
“You’re going to listen to me,” Mr. Butterworth said, articulating each word expertly, despite the wind and stomp of horses’ hooves about them. “You are going to go back to the Highlands, up onto your craggy peek, with only goats and ruins to keep you company, and you are never going to mention to anyone that you traveled alone with my daughter.”
“You’re not going to make them marry?” Mrs. Butterworth’s voice was mournful. “This is the ideal spot to do so. And elopements are so en vogue now. She will be quite fashionable when she returns to society.”
“As I said in the coach,” Mr. Butterworth huffed, and Hamish had the impression that they’d had this conversation many times before, “I am not forcing my daughter to wed anyone. I, for one, have read Mary Wollstonecraft and I refuse to subjugate my daughter to anything dreadful.”
“But marriage!” Mrs. Butterworth wailed. “How could that be considered dreadful?”
Mr. Butterworth refrained from reconsidering the merits of marriage. “Georgiana fled. She obviously considers this man to be no friend, much less perpetual mate.”
The words should not have been particularly brutal. They contained not a single curse, and he knew he should be grateful that Mr. Butterworth did not require a marriage between Hamish and his daughter. Many members of the ton would have desired that their fathers-in-law shared his characteristics. And yet, Hamish’s only emotion was grief.
He struggled from Mr. Butterworth’s clasp. “I’ll—er—go to the inn across the road. If you need me, well, I’ll be there.”
And then he left.
Hamish had been injured in the war before, and had found the experience to be excruciating and best forgotten, even though his body had healed, unlike the new Duke of Alfriston’s leg. Still, the sudden pain that jolted through his body seemed entirely comparable, though unlike when a bullet had entered his right arm and another piece of shrapnel had entered his left arm, he knew that he could not simply wait for the surgeon and time to do their work.
His heart wouldn’t stop aching, no matter how often he had those trained with medical expertise to examine it.
Because Georgiana had run away from him.
He removed his purse and took out the ring that he’d picked up in Gretna Green earlier that day. The perfect sapphire stone set on the shimmering silver band seemed foolish, and he tucked it back into his purse.
He’d been trying to propose to Georgiana, but it seemed like she’d given him her answer.
He strode rapidly away from Georgiana’s parents. He’d imagined, evidently with great foolishness, that they might become his parents.
They were warm and kind hearted. Well. Neither word seemed to describe their current behavior toward him, but that was easily ascribed to the fact that they were also fiercely protective of Georgiana.
Would his own parents have been as protective toward him, if they had lived? He already knew that they had been neither warm nor kind hearted, though perhaps that had more to do with him than with them. Perhaps if he’d been different, his memories of his time at MacTavish Castle when they’d been alive would not be confined to the nursery and his nursemaids.
After all the only people who had shown him affection—Lord and Lady McIntyre—had been wrong to do it. Even though he had known how important it was for them that the MacTavish and McIntyre famil
y might be officially joined together, he hadn’t been able to convince his very own brother to fulfil the vow. What use was he?
He wanted his brother to be happy and not regret a life he’d happened upon through rash impulsivity. Perhaps Callum had found happiness. Hamish had been foolish to dream that he could find the same happiness.
He ambled through the village, passing low half-timbered homes with heavy thatched roofs. When he’d visited this morning he’d been full of hope, imagining ridiculous thoughts for the future. He’d pondered whether Georgiana might enjoy decorating the south wing, so that her parents might have a place to stay should they decide to visit for long periods of time.
They wouldn’t visit.
They didn’t even desire his help now.
And she’s gone.
Chapter Twenty-nine
Georgiana rushed through Gretna Green. Happy couples, their hands linked in bliss, stared at her with bewilderment. Their lower lips dropped down, and their eyes widened, as if the mere vision of Georgiana was a cause for facial exercise. But then she must appear ridiculous.
Her gown, which she’d once carefully adorned with ribbons and flounces, was ragged. Long tears impaled the netting.
No doubt she appeared like some nightmarish bride. This had once been her best dress, but only a few short days had rendered it destroyed.
Just like my dreams.
“Where’s your husband?” a villager called out.
“She’s ’aving doubts,” a woman shouted, and Georgiana’s face heated.
She wasn’t having doubts.
She had no husband.
No betrothed.
And now I never will.
Her parents were here, and now they knew she was ruined. At some point she’d feel humiliation and distress, but now her thoughts remained with Hamish. She’d succumbed to the man’s charms, finding the man in ample possession of them, even though her first impression of him had been of the negative sort.
Tears stung and prickled her eyes, rendering her blind to everything except the recent occurrence.
Last night—earlier than that, she’d allowed herself to imagine a life with Hamish. She should have relegated it to a schoolgirl fantasy. She’d told herself that last night hadn’t mattered, that it had been driven by curiosity, but the notion was ridiculous.
Last night hadn’t meant something because she had gained more knowledge of the world than before. For that she had only to pick up one of her father’s many tomes, the sort that he was always recommending. No, last night had meant something purely because it had been with Hamish.
It hadn’t been about knowledge or the satisfaction of any scientific puzzlement that occurred when reading certain penny dreadfuls.
It had been about Hamish.
Hamish’s hands brushing against hers. Hamish’s lips on hers. Hamish’s eyes on her. And then…Hamish inside her, and the strange ripple of emotion, of sheer physical pleasure, that had accompanied it.
They’d slept in each other’s arms last night. She’d wondered at how his body had felt so right pressed against hers, how their figures, their heights, had seemed to meld into an easy perfection.
Last night had been a fantasy.
She’d known that when he hadn’t appeared beside her this morning.
She’d known when he’d abandoned her.
And she’d even known when he’d reappeared, making conversation about nothing important, and showing no sign in the least that he was distressed that they would never see each other again.
The wind whirled about her, lifting up her locks in a manner that any cartoonist at Matchmaking for Wallflowers might be eager to depict to her detriment. The wind threatened to swoop up the hem of her dress, and she shivered, placing her hands tightly about her.
She was cold and wet. Her slippers had been destroyed ever since that first night in which she’d wandered into the woods. Water seeped into the thin soles. A sealskin coat would be useful now, but she didn’t even have a spencer. She was dressed for a wedding, not for a cold afternoon in northern Britain.
She hadn’t found her sister, wasn’t assured that at least she was going to marry the man of her dreams. Nothing had been accomplished.
And now she would have to join her parents and listen to how she’d destroyed their dreams for her.
She paused. The tension that had ricocheted through her, ceased.
All that was left was sorrow.
Her eyes stung more, and then her cheeks dampened, and then even her breath seemed difficult to control. She swallowed and gasped, sputtered and gulped.
She sobbed.
The sound was horrid.
Weeds, damp from rain and not some idyllic dew, clung to her dress.
This was Scotland, but it was Scotland with the views of lochs, without the isles, without the mountains. The land was flat, and the mocking laughs of the villagers still echoed in her ears.
“Georgiana,” a baritone voice said.
She tensed, recognizing the sound.
It was her father.
She rubbed her face, attempting to feign some semblance of dignity, but there was none to be had. Tears smeared her face. No doubt her skin was red and blotchy, as if seeking to match her hair.
She blinked hard, willing herself to have misheard, but footsteps padded behind her.
“Now carrying handkerchiefs may require a foresight for unhappiness that I am unwilling to plan for, but I find that my cravat can be quite multifunctional.”
“Papa?” She turned her head toward him, and he unwound his cravat and handed it to her. “You must use it. Goodness knows I’ll never figure out how to put it on without a mirror.”
She smiled, despite everything, and he returned it.
He wasn’t angry.
“This is not what a cravat is supposed to be used for.”
“If it can help my little girl one tiny bit, then it’s the very best use for it.”
She smiled again, blinking away her tears. She dabbed her face with the linen. “You must think me so foolish.”
“I never could,” he said solemnly. “Your mother told me you’d gone to stop him.”
“I thought she might—”
“But it took me getting her two servings of lemon ice before she told. That’s a record for her.”
She giggled softly, though it wasn’t exactly pleasure that she felt.
“She was worried about you,” Papa said solemnly. “You know that’s why she told.”
Georgiana nodded.
“I just wish we could have gotten here sooner,” he said.
“I should have known better,” she said softly, her heart aching. “I knew better. Everyone says to stay away from—”
“Unmarried men?”
She nodded, and the tears flooded.
“I just thought, for Charlotte’s sake…”
“That was brave of you,” he said gently. “The reason everyone warns about it is that emotions can seem impossible to control. You’re not the first person to succumb to a scoundrel, and you won’t be the last.”
“Why are you so nice? I was impetuous and impulsive and—”
“Don’t you wonder how I married your mother?” Papa asked. “A man like me, no matter how stuffy and scholarly you might find me, is simply supposed to have nothing to do with the niece of an earl.”
She smiled.
“She took a chance on me, and you took a chance on him. It’s unfortunate that he didn’t live up to that chance—and I very nearly strangled him—”
“You didn’t, Papa!” Georgiana felt her eye widen, and her lower lip dropped downward.
He nodded. “I was the cricket champion for five years running of our green. I can wield more than a cricket bat.”
Despite everything, she laughed, and he patted her back. “There, there, my dear.”
She dabbed the tears from her face. A rain shower wouldn’t be entirely unw
anted now. She dreaded walking into the village again.
“I’ve always thought it curious why that Beau Brummel goes about recommending cravats to everyone, but after reading about his gambling losses, I understand.”
“That’s not why he recommends them,” she said, smiling through her sobs. Her chest still felt hollow, her heart still ached, and goodness her breath remained uneven, but at least she still had her family.
Chapter Thirty
Hamish paced the bedroom of the posting house. The slanted floorboards creaked and groaned beneath him, as if to provide a melody to his despair.
The sky remained a less eager participant for gloom. It had long ceased raining. Hamish had always adored the long summer days in Scotland, but now he cursed the bright light that continued to illuminate the blacksmiths’ shops and its incessant streams of joyous couples.
His heart ached. Pain surged through his body, but there was no French uniformed soldier whom he could vanquish. Only Georgiana could heal his anguish, and she’d made it clear that she abhorred his presence. Perhaps she considered him the man who should have acted honorably and returned her to her parents but did not. She might be regretting their night together, regretting everything—
After all, she’d fled.
He’d spotted her with her parents. She was being cared for, and Hamish would never mention that they’d traveled to Gretna Green together. Perhaps her parents would manage to keep her reputation in tact, and she might marry. Perhaps in time this trip would be little more than a memory of a nightmare: something to expend with as much efficiency as she’d expended Hamish.
To think he’d suggested Callum not marry Charlotte. Hamish knew now that love knew no logic, and yet a failure to adhere to it only brought agony. No wonder Callum had not taken Hamish’s warnings with any seriousness.
And where was Callum?
Hamish had been so certain he’d find them in Gretna Green. He pushed away images of carriage accidents from his mind. He didn’t want to contemplate that. Besides… If a couple had gotten seriously harmed, whether by a carriage accident or by highwaymen, surely someone at one of the many posting inns he’d visited would have mentioned it.
Dukes Prefer Bluestockings Page 19
