Sadness moved through her.
It shouldn’t be important. The ceremony would be short, scarcely a minute. The blacksmith wouldn’t muse over the meaning of life and love. What did it matter if she were there to witness it?
Georgiana nodded and sank down onto a bench. She was exhausted.
Where was Charlotte?
Had something horrible befallen her? Had she decided not to elope after all? Charlotte tended to have traditional urges... And if Charlotte and the duke were not coming—who would vouch for her presence? Had she destroyed her reputation for no reason at all?
“Perhaps they were married in disguise,” Hamish suggested.
“They would have to use their real names for the marriage to be legal, and then—”
“—And then they would have known who they were.”
Hamish looked thoughtful.
He should have looked upset. He should have looked furious.
This was Georgiana’s life, and now it was in tatters.
Charlotte was not here.
Her stomach churned, as if assuming she were at sea in the midst of a terrible storm, as if thinking it impossible that only her emotions tumbled against her.
She would need to resign herself to being a spinster, making the occasional cryptic comment to suggest that she had been in possession of a past—the proper sort, with occurrences in it, but to be mostly respectable and allowed to cultivate her own interests. Would she be able to ever design a garden again? She’d torn up the vicarage garden three times, and it now looked spectacular. Would she ever be able to receive a commission if her reputation would become known as ruined? Would she be able to be taken seriously in anything if people knew that she hadn’t even taken her own reputation seriously?
It wasn’t as if she could explain the rush of emotions she received when in the presence of Hamish.
Carriages drove through the town, and she scrutinized each one for a glimpse of her sister’s flaxen hair.
Most carriages when they entered Gretna Green moved slowly, as if the passengers were aware of the momentous change they were about to undergo. Though this practice was useful at allowing her to determine if her sister was in one of the carriages, it was always disappointing when a carriage neared them and contained strangers.
A strange heavy feeling in her stomach thickened and twisted. At some point her legs had become leaden, and if Hamish had desired her to amble, she was not certain she could have done so.
Hamish stepped forward and took her hands in his. She glanced down, conscious of the warmth that emanated from him.
Or perhaps his hands merely managed to make her heart race.
“Georgiana,” he said.
Was his tone more serious than normal?
“You’re wrong,” he said. “There is going to be a wedding.”
She blinked. “Much as you seem to take pleasure in disagreeing with me, I don’t see how—”
“Then I’ll tell you.” He beamed, and light seemed to radiate from him.
Something seemed odd.
Something seemed like—
Hope surged within her, moving swiftly so she found herself for one ridiculous moment smiling back at him. She forced herself to shut any absurd sentimental thoughts down. They’d had a pleasant few days. She’d cherish their journey forever. Every man would be compared to him, and no man would live up to him, but that was fine. At least she’d experienced time with him, and if the ache in her heart, the ache that she felt, even though she was still in his presence, even though they’d not yet separated, felt strong, that didn’t mean she wanted it to go away. It would be a blissful reminder.
Perhaps Georgiana had been a bit too talkative in her seasons. Perhaps her hair had been a bit too auburn, and undecided men might perhaps have decided a bit too often to go with someone who was less likely to birth redheads who might be teased as witches on Eton and Rugby playgrounds. Perhaps even Georgiana had been not quite accomplished enough; her watercolors might be only tolerable. The colors she chose might be appealing in her way, but her likenesses never quite resembled her subjects enough to win praise with men whose only criterion for judging art was comparing it to reality. And though she managed to hit all the right notes in the correct order, she never managed to have that mysterious otherness that would cause people to really listen.
But despite her normalcy, she’d traveled to Scotland, all alone with Hamish. She’d experienced more of life than she could have if she’d married the first timid member of the ton who’d offered her to dance.
She shouldn’t expect more.
Except...
Hamish kept his eyes fixed on her, and his lips were pointing in a distinctly upward direction. His eyes, always pleasant, could now be described as sparkling.
The man who’d climbed up through her balcony window and proceeded to give her insults had transformed.
She shifted her feet on the ground, and tried to see if, despite everything, the duke and Charlotte were approaching.
There were many couples.
But perhaps some man had donned a Scottish kilt or some woman had draped herself with tartan. Perhaps there was some other reason for the man to be grinning at her in this fashion.
And then the moment was lost.
A coach was barreling down the street, and Hamish’s lips quirked. “Those people are eager to marry.”
“Y-yes,” she said, wondering what it would be like to be one of those couples, knowing that all one’s betrothed wanted to do was to marry one—and hastily.
The couples’ bliss seemed so far removed from anything to which she could ever aspire, and shame moved through her. For a wild moment she’d hoped for the impossible. Of course Hamish wouldn’t go about proposing to her. There would be many weddings here today. That was just a fact. She shouldn’t imagine things that weren’t there from his attempts at conversation. Everyone knew that men were less prone to good conversation than their female counterparts. It was practically a fact, and nothing that should be held against him.
The driver urged the horses forward, and they galloped over the dirt road. Dust rose up about them, as if seeking to mimic the clouds above.
“Whoa!” the driver called. “Whoa.”
Hamish’s expression immediately grew to one of concern. “It’s a runaway.” Hamish dashed toward it. “I’m going to help.”
“Wait!” Georgiana called out, her voice wobbling, fighting nausea.
Hamish turned. “What is it?”
“It’s not a runaway,” she said, and her voice trembled. “I think they’re just moving quickly.”
“Are you certain?”
Georgiana wanted to nod, but her gaze was transfixed to the coach.
It slowed to a stop.
“You’re right.” Hamish’s voice emanated pride, as if he were impressed at her cleverness.
He needn’t be.
The lump in her throat grew larger.
“They don’t want to marry. They’re already married. The carriage—I—er—recognize it.” She’d seen it many times before, and Hamish’s smiling face managed to pale.
He remembers it.
“You-hoo!” A soprano voice Georgiana could never forget, would never forget soared through the village. “Georgiana!”
He swallowed hard. “It’s—”
“Yes,” Georgiana said.
It belonged, of course, to her mother.
Which no doubt meant that her father was also present.
Georgiana had never particularly feared her father, or, for that matter, her mother, but she suspected that they might not like to discover her with Hamish.
The idea had been that she would find her sister, and her sister would vouch for her.
The idea had certainly never been that her parents would discover her, alone with an unmarried man with absolutely no chaperone in sight. Not when they would be able to discern that she’d traveled with him.
Heavens.
She hadn’t meant to
do this to him.
She’d sneaked onto his coach, deliberately, confident in her plan without giving him even the courtesy of discussing it with him.
If she had told him that she intended to travel alone with him all the way to Gretna Green, all the way to Scotland, he would of course have disagreed.
She hadn’t given him that choice.
I have to now.
So even though Georgiana could see that it was her family’s carriage, and even though she recognized her mother’s voice and it seemed clear that her mother recognized her, given the enthusiasm with which her mother was shouting her name, Georgiana fled.
The action was ridiculous, but remaining seemed impossible. Her feet padded over the dirt lane, and she wove around the occasional puddle.
Her heartbeat quickened, as if urging her to continue faster, and she picked up her skirts and ran. Her legs burned and her throat was dry, but it didn’t matter.
All that mattered was that he not be found to have compromised her.
Chapter Twenty-eight
She was running away from him.
Again.
Georgiana dashed away from him, as if her life depended on it.
She clutched the skirt of her dress, evidently not bothered by the prospect of the gauze netting tearing, and rushed away, unhampered by the poor state of her slippers, or simply driven by a desire to separate from him.
And then she was gone.
This whole week they’d been together. They’d kissed, they’d been intimate, but the thought of being discovered alone with him, the thought of perhaps her parents demanding they marry...that had evidently been too much.
His heartbeat lurched, as if struggling to regain some normalcy after the vision of Georgiana rushing away from him. Perhaps he’d once known how to holler, but his throat felt dry, as if any function were now impossible.
She’s gone. She’s gone. She’s gone.
He tightened his grasp on the ring tucked in his hand. The circular shape, with all its connotations of eternal unity, eternal bliss, seemed to mock him.
She’s gone.
His limbs were stiff, as if he were a tin soldier, some poor impression of a real man, an imperfect vision created by a stranger. Perhaps his blood had simply stopped flowing into his limbs.
He’d thought—
His heart panged. His thoughts seemed excessively sentimental, fairy tales told to children during a war when cannons were firing about around them.
He’d never been one for naivety, but where Georgiana was concerned, it seemed he’d lapsed.
He’d been so certain... So hopeful. So happy.
The emotion seemed ludicrous, and he cringed at the memory of riding through Gretna Green this morning, so joyous, telling every villager in sight that he needed to buy the best ring, for the very best woman. Were they peeking behind their lace curtains, laughing or saddened, depending on their particular momentary attitude toward romance?
She’s gone.
The words were a refrain, one that would echo through his mind the rest of his life. At what point had she decided it would be better to flee than to marry him? Why would she choose a tarnished reputation rather than a life with him?
He should have been concerned by his brother’s absence. Perhaps he’d already married Miss Charlotte Butterworth and made her his duchess. Perhaps he’d see Georgiana over holidays, and she would remain a constant reminder of the life he could have had, had he been worthy of selection.
But naturally.
He was the second son.
The spare.
He’d been convenient since he’d come only eight minutes later than Callum, no doubt easing his parents’ minds and assuring them that Montgomery Castle would always be cared for. Hamish had been the emergency option if something were to befall the first choice.
If he had been expected to help look after the estate, he certainly hadn’t succeeded. Ensuring the lines in the estate’s books added and subtracted in a correct fashion couldn’t undo the harm Callum had done now, if he had indeed chosen to marry Miss Charlotte Butterworth.
Hamish didn’t come with a title. He couldn’t make Georgiana a duchess. He couldn’t even make her a baroness. He’d have to give up the home he’d lived in. Perhaps he could continue to find architectural work, and perhaps it would be compensated better than her own father’s work as a minister, but didn’t Georgiana deserve everything?
He’d been in the midst of proposing to her, in perhaps a clumsy fashion, and then she’d disappeared.
She hadn’t given him a chance.
His heart twisted.
Hamish spoke in an accent that made even barmaids dismiss him, thinking him ridden with violent tendencies, perhaps because some of his ancestors had bravely defended themselves against the English invaders and had spoken of it when they arrived home.
If he married Georgiana—he paused as the thought came into his mind—she would lack the large estate on which to exercise her talent for her garden design.
Hamish hadn’t thought she’d considered respectability important before, but then, before she hadn’t been dashing away as if her life depended on widening the distance between them, even as her parents were approaching.
Georgiana’s parents really were approaching. The coach had stopped moving, and the groom was helping them out.
Mrs. Butterworth had placed a gypsy bonnet over her ruffled white cap, and the veil blew in the wind. She pulled the netting down with one hand, though had evidently given up on securing the trimming of her bonnet, and her ribbons flayed over her, as if conspiring with the wind to make her taller and more intimidating.
She needed no help from nature to appear daunting.
“Lord Hamish Montgomery!” 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 mother’s 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 is a civilized woman, not given to fits of spontaneous running.”
“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 would never 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.
Don't Tie the Knot (Wedding Trouble Book 1) Page 18
