Once Again, My Laird

by Angeline Fortin

  “You’re such a good boy, aren’t you, Baird?” she crooned through her tears. “What would I do without you, hmm? What will I do at all? Oh, I deserve this, no doubt. I don’t blame him really. If I’d ever dared to picture this moment, this is exactly as I might have imagined it.”

  He licked at her face again, catching the tears streaming down her cheeks.

  “I know. I know. He needed to assure I felt his pain even if he could not speak of it. He needed to lash out for all the misery I caused, and I know I did from what Rabbie told me. Mal didn’t merely suffer for a short time over me. He suffered a lifetime. While Maisie and David provided me consolation, he had no one. I deserve this. I do.”

  Knowing didn’t make it hurt any less. Resuming life as she knew it with Mal no longer a long-lost love but one freshly torn away would be unbearable. Knowing the love in her heart was still as strong as it’d ever been, and not being able to share it with him or tell him, would be excruciating.

  Her heart banged against the painful compression of her chest, as if it might claw its way out and run to him. As she longed to do. She stroked Baird’s furry head, seeking the solace his presence afforded her.

  A knock sounded briskly at the door and Bernie strode in before Georgiana could answer.

  “Gracious, dear, you look rotten,” her friend exclaimed. “Did you sleep at all?”

  “Hardly a bit.” She refrained from elaborating on the reason she hadn’t gotten any rest.

  “Oh, my poor darling,” Bernie murmured, patting her hand. “Should I feel terrible for having slept like a baby?”

  Georgiana snorted on a reluctant laugh. “No, you have my envy. I’m so very tired, Bernie. Tired of it all. May we finally go home now?”

  “Certainly, but wouldn’t you like to try to speak with him one more time before we go?”

  “No. I’m finished. Done.” She couldn’t bear to go through this again.

  Not that she’d leave any of it behind.

  * * *

  Mal watched from the window of a second-floor bedchamber as Georgie’s gold-plated coach jerked into motion. A mounted and well-armed foursome in red and black livery flanked it while another more modest carriage burdened with a heavy load of trunks on top followed behind. He hadn’t been privy to the fanfare the previous day, and he tried to focus on those pretentious details as a distraction. And a reminder.

  That ostentatious display represented what had separated he and Georgie. Wealth. Grandeur. They were the hallmark of the simple fact that he hadn’t been good enough for the Duke of Wharton, and in the end, not enough for Georgie herself.

  It made the burden of witnessing her departure this time a fraction more tolerable than it’d been yesterday.

  And look at him now. The Earl of Glenrothes. A title a step or two below the one she married, sure, but an ancient, respectable one nonetheless. Two decades before it might have bought him the daughter of a duke.

  It might be enough to buy himself one now, if he were so inclined.

  He wasn’t, of course.

  He’d proven quite adequately—to both himself and to Georgie, if she’d taken notice—of how easily he could be the one to walk away.

  Ha, what a laugh. There was no ease in this moment. There hadn’t been yesterday, either. All the bleak misery of years without her hadn’t equaled the heartache of watching her leave again. It’d taken everything he had to refrain from following her. After Lindsay left, a terrible pressure encased his chest, clenching until he thought he was having an attack of the heart. Or die for the want of her.

  His mother, having been notified of a visitor by his butler, questioned him—first incessantly, then worriedly—until her pestering drove him from Glen Cairn. At a tavern in Glenrothes, even the anesthetizing depths of a bottle of Scotch hadn’t diverted him from the maddening despair, or numbed the desire burgeoning in painful intensity with each hour that passed.

  That’s where Lindsay’s footman found him, deep in his cups, to let him know where Georgie settled herself for the night. His friend meant to lure him in to taking his heart in hand and laying it at her feet in supplication.

  And damned if he hadn’t come bluidy close to doing it.

  He hated himself for it. Hated her even more.

  After copious amounts of alcohol—and it had to have been an excessive amount to spur him into such an undertaking—he’d come up with this pure dead-brilliant plot for revenge. He’d thought to do no more than dispassionately rouse her ardor and leave her with the same dissatisfaction that long preoccupied him.

  From the start it hadn’t gone at all as he’d planned. Instead, he’d snuck in there and lost himself to Georgie and the past with a mere touch of her lips. The floral scent of her hair, the smoothness of her supple skin, had taken him back to happier days. There’d been no further thought to abandoning her. Admittedly, he wouldn’t have taken the option if there had been. Instead, without so much as a by your leave, he ravished her like an animal with all the pent-up lust and anger in him.

  Yet, it was he who’d left unsatisfied…in heart, if not in body.

  Not entirely true. There’d been a moment when they’d lain spent from their passion, curled together, when he’d felt a peace and serenity that had long eluded him. Light of heart, bliss of mind. Fulfilled. Glad.

  It’d lingered just long enough for him to acknowledge it, savor it. Then it’d fled, vanquished by self-loathing and castigation. That blasted feeling clung to him still.

  Bluidy hell, why had she come? Seeking a night of frolic, pleasure, and momentary gratification in the bed of a lover whether old or new didn’t suit her. For all the years passed, he doubted her character had changed so much.

  What did it mean then, that whether she’d invited it or not, she had enjoyed it? Bugger it. Nay, she had welcomed it. As if she still cared.

  His irrational self hoped she did and was now drowning in misery and heartache.

  The other part of him, however, the rational man, prayed the events of the night meant nothing more to her than they might to some lonely widows of the ton.

  For all the pain she’d dealt him—the years of anger, bitterness and resentment gnawing at his gut—it came as a surprise that he didn’t want to hurt her.

  Och, why had she come? He’d spent all night aiming to punish her, only to end up being the one who was tortured by the unknown.

  “Ye can come down now, ye smarmy coward.”

  Mal groaned and rolled his eyes, spinning away from the window to face the man who was fast on his way to becoming a former friend rather than a current one. He didn’t need Lindsay’s recriminations when he was doing fine with his own.

  “So, are ye going to go after her this time?”

  “Nay.”

  “Nay?” Lindsay arched his brows.

  “Nay,” he answered firmly, steeling his resolve to ensure he didn’t make a liar of himself.

  “Ye’ll just trail her back to London then? Sneaking into her rooms each night along the way?”

  Mal blinked. “Did she say…?”

  No, she would never.

  “Nay,” Lindsay confirmed, stomping across the room to drop into a chair and knead the stump of his leg. “Do ye think me such an auld numptie that I can no longer tell when a lass has been thoroughly tumbled? I assure ye, it hisnae been that long.”

  An ambiguous grunt was Mal’s only agreement.

  “Well then?” his friend persisted. “Ye got in a good rutting, probably the first ye’ve had in years. What now?”

  “I go back to my life.”

  Lindsay chuckled cruelly but Mal knew exactly how much of a life his friend assumed he had. “I’ll go back to Glen Cairn—”

  “Where ye live wi’ yer mother. Are ye planning on telling her about any of this? She has to realize something is amiss.”

  Mal groaned internally. He managed to flee once before his mother could drag anything out of him but wouldn’t be able to hide the truth forever. She knew the bare b
ones of his past relationship with Georgie. If it came to light that the woman he’d once planned to wed and been jilted by had come knocking on his door and he’d turned her away without knowing why, he’d get an earful for sure. Margaret Keeley MacKintosh didn’t tolerate fools easily, and as he was kicking his own arse for not finding out as well, there was no doubt she’d see him for one. Already resounding through his mind was her firm assertion that he abide by Lindsay’s ridiculous notion and hie himself south in pursuit of Georgie.

  He’d caved to his own better judgment once in falling for her. It had gained him nothing but misery. He was hard put to think of a logical reason he should try it again.

  As such a thing was not going to happen, he evaded Lindsay’s question. “I’ll keep building Glen Cairn—”

  His friend interrupted again. “The bluidy mansion ye’ve built to prove yer worth to her. Raven’s Craig might be crumbling a bit, but I’d wager it’d still be enough to impress a duke…or a duchess. No’ for ye, though. Ye had to go bigger. Better. Did ye explain that reasoning to yer mother when ye started building that monstrosity?”

  “Go away, Rabbie,” Mal ground out. But Lindsay wasn’t finished.

  “Do ye think the duchess got wind of it and that’s why she’s come running after all this time?” Lindsay crossed his arms over his scrawny chest and glowered in disgust. “Ye ken what I think?”

  “I dinnae care to.”

  The set down wasn’t enough to stop his friend. “I think if yer Georgie knew what a bluidy bore ye’ve become over the years, she’d be glad ye sent her on her way.”

  Mal said nothing, but his fingers curled into tight fists.

  Lindsay threw up his hands. “I said it before and I’ll say it again, yer a bluidy eijit. Yer bum’s out in the wind when it comes to her. Everything ye’ve done has been for her since the day ye met and yer going to let her walk away wi’out a fight?”

  “Me?” Mal faced his friend with a ferocious scowl. “She’s the one who didn’t fight. It was all I ever wanted from her. All I ever needed. And she wouldn’t do it. She gave in wi’out a word or a whimper. That’s what I remember.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Bath, England

  April 1800

  “Father, I must insist upon your approval of this match.”

  “You insist?”

  Cowed by his aristocratic glare, she managed to draw herself up regally anyway. “Please, Father.”

  “Enough of this. I’ve given my answer to the lieutenant. It will not do.”

  Georgiana snatched up her muslin skirts and chased her father, daring to follow him into his office, his private sanctuary, even after he slammed the door between them. She couldn’t give in without trying.

  “You must listen to reas—” She winced, biting off the word before it was fully formed.

  Wharton didn’t tolerate anyone, whether it be king or daughter, inferring that his logic was not the most sound to be had. From his point of view, he was never unreasonable. Pointing out that he might be in this case wouldn’t earn her any clemency.

  She inhaled slowly, striving for calm. A logical, eloquent argument was her only chance to sway him.

  “Father, you know Lieutenant MacKintosh has been most amiable. I understand you don’t care for him on a personal level, however affection for one’s in-laws has never been crucial in a marriage. I’d wager your liking or lack thereof for Mama’s family played little into your proposal to her or their acceptance of you.”

  Wharton snorted but otherwise ignored her. The sparse outcropping of his gray hair standing on end and his normally immaculate cravat a fraction askew were the only indications that their exchange had become tepid if not fully heated. Seating himself at the desk, he pulled a few sheets of paper from one of his drawers and proceeded to sharpen a quill. The fact that he hadn’t yet ordered her from the room bolstered her resolve.

  “He’s won my esteem more than any other gentleman of my acquaintance.” She dared not mention that esteem barely scratched the surface of her depth of love for Mal. Wharton wasn’t one for the softer sentiments in life. “He’s proven himself to be kind and thoughtful. A man of character and learning. Qualities I hope you’d appreciate in the man who would have care of your only child. Am I correct in that, at least?”

  The roll of his eyes was the only response. No encouragement.

  “I hope?”

  “What I appreciate is a gentleman of wealth and station who can support you in the manner you’re accustomed.” His voice was stern, unbending. “I want a son-in-law who brings something to the table to boot. A position of importance or a beneficial alliance.”

  “He comes from an excellent family,” she argued, realizing only then that she didn’t truly know. He was a gentleman at least. That much was obvious. “And surely you must admire his fortitude and persistence in the face of your reserved reception of his suit.”

  “Of course, he’s persistent,” Wharton barked, jabbing his quill into an inkwell with a scowl. “Any money grubbing fortune hunter would be. It’s their stock and trade.”

  Georgiana gasped at the accusation. “He’s no fortune hunter!”

  “Bah!” Wharton sneered and began writing. “A third son and common foot soldier? What else could he be? You are the daughter of a duke, a cousin to the king. Only desperation for a payoff could have convinced him to dare believe he could gain your hand. Now, I let you have your say but I stand by my decision on the matter and it is final. There is nothing else to say.”

  “There is so much more to say,” she cried, racing around the desk and dropping to her knees next to him. She grasped his free hand, desperate to make him understand. She couldn’t fail Mal. “Please, reconsider. I’ve grown so f-fond of him…” Dash it all, it wasn’t enough. “Father…Papa, I love him. And he loves me.”

  The duke arched a brow. “What does that matter?”

  “It does. It does to me.”

  “You’re a foolish girl, Georgiana,” he grumbled and dropped the pen, lifting her chin with one finger. “Just that. A girl. Inexperienced. Naïve.”

  His scolding left her regretting she hadn’t taken more time on her appearance before confronting him that morning. Her fiery tresses, loose and unruly, trailed over her shoulders and down her back. She wore a simple white muslin day dress dotted with light blue embroidered flowers, a girlishly ruched bodice, and short puffed sleeves. No doubt she looked as if she’d come straight from the schoolroom. Hardly the presentation of a young woman who knew her own mind.

  But she did. She knew her own heart as well.

  Mal MacKintosh wasn’t a passing fancy. She’d known well enough without him explaining it that the depth of affection and desire they shared wasn’t normal. If it were, she would have heard a hundred tales in hushed giggles through the ballrooms and tearooms by now. How was she to convince her father?

  The previous afternoon she toyed with the idea of creating a scandal and forcing her father’s hand. If he knew she was compromised, he would have to let them marry. Conversely, Wharton might claim it served to prove his assertion that Mal was a fortune hunter and scoundrel. Ruining her to gain a bride. Or her father might cut to the chase and call Mal out. She couldn’t bear risking the latter, and it could happen if the duke’s temper was roused.

  Also, while she felt no disgrace in loving Mal or in having made love with him, the thought of confessing as much to her sire stirred a trace of shame.

  She tried again. “Papa, please.”

  “Stop groveling. It is beneath your dignity.”

  “Then I will say it plainly. I love him most ardently, Father. I want to marry him.”

  Wharton withdrew his hand and returned to his letter. “You’re infatuated now, but it will pass.”

  “It will not. I will always love him.”

  His palm hit the desktop forcefully and Georgiana jumped. “Then let me say this more plainly, daughter. What you feel is irrelevant. You try my patience with this nonsense. Pr
ostrating yourself further will not sway me. I’ve said my final word on the matter.”

  It was a battle of wills she had no hope of winning regardless of how resolute she was. Hurt and defeated by his unyielding dismissal, Georgiana rose and turned away.

  “I was planning on waiting until next year when your Aunt Martha might present you properly,” he said gruffly when she reached the door. “All things considered, it might do to have you come up to London with me to finish out the Season. You’ll see once you’ve had a chance to meet more gentlemen of good ton that affection can be found in most any advantageous marriage.”

  It was a consolatory offer, one meant to soothe the sting of his rejection. A few months ago, she would have leapt at the chance. It wasn’t the prospect of balls, routs, and appropriate beaux that thrilled her. Rather it was taking part in more literary pursuits and visiting the renowned Hatchards Booksellers on Piccadilly as she’d longed to for years.

  She’d pictured Mal there. They’d ride in Hyde Park, visit the British Museum, or go to poetry readings. The thought of life in such a populous city without him was intolerable.

  In any case, this offer for a Season, however, wasn’t a chance for she and Mal to spend more time together, but a wedge to force them apart.

  * * *

  “I ken in his eyes I’m no’ a fit husband for the daughter of a duke, but to think so little of yer wishes? Does he no’ care for yer feelings at all?”

  Mal paced the small landing on the narrow back staircase of the Assembly Hall. Many young couples had discovered the hideaway, convenient for a quick kiss or two away from a chaperone’s watchful gaze. Near enough not to be missed if one didn’t linger for too long. She and Mal had used it a time or two for more pleasurable interludes.

  This evening, it was not so pleasant.

  “I know you’re upset—”