The Bridegroom Wore Plaid

by Grace Burrowes

  “Anybody whom I do not… anybody seeking to trade a title for my wealth.”

  She sounded very sure of herself, which left Gil both relieved and oddly disappointed. Though whether he was disappointed for her, for Ian, or—God help him—for himself, he could not have said.

  And it hardly mattered, regardless.

  “You must explain your situation to Ian,” Gil said, rising from their boulder. “He’s a canny man, and you wouldn’t want for a better friend in a pinch. If anybody can aid you, Miss Daniels, he can.”

  “He can’t help me.”

  “Not even with a long engagement from which he allows you to cry off and keep much of your settlements?”

  She was in the process of shaking out the skirts of her habit as he spoke, but she paused to meet his eyes. “Such arrangements are possible?”

  He winged his arm at her, having no idea whatsoever what was possible once lawyers got hold of marriage contracts. His brother, however, he both knew and trusted.

  “Ian isn’t a good negotiator, he’s a great negotiator. Our neighbors have been known to solicit Ian’s input on sticky foreign policy matters, and in dealing with their various local retainers. He studied law for years, and he can sort out most any situation and draft language to address it.”

  “Then it’s possible? To write a contract such that some of the money will stay with the jilted groom even after a long engagement?”

  Why in God’s name did she sound so intrigued? Even he knew a woman who jilted her fiancé was effectively ruined. “It may be possible, though Ian has made no secret we need coin sooner rather than later. Still, I suggest you bring up with him whatever is troubling you and solicit his aid. As a gentleman, he’s honor bound to help you.”

  She let Gil assist her into the saddle but said little all the way back to the stables. Gil was going to have to tell Ian something of what had transpired in the woods—that the woman was reluctant, of course. That she’d taken arranged marriage as an institution into dislike for a certainty.

  But not that the lady had literally cried on Gil’s shoulder. Her dignity alone required he hold that much in confidence.

  Four

  “Gussie, you must arise! Con says we might spot Her Majesty or His Highness today. After a rainy day, they often take the children for an outing on the walking paths.”

  Julia’s eyes were as animated as any girl’s at her first ball, while Augusta stifled the urge to shut the door in the other woman’s face. A solitary walk in the woods was apparently not to be had today, though the sun shone brightly enough outside Augusta’s bedroom to make the wet grass sparkle invitingly.

  “I’ll be down to breakfast directly,” Augusta said, stepping back from her door. Then a thought struck her. “Con, Julia?”

  She’d seen the pair of them at dinner, heads together, the quiet Scot occasionally offering Julia a subdued smile that charmed with its very subtlety. It was a just-for-you smile, more personal than the beaming bonhomie of the other MacGregor brothers.

  “Connor, then. We agreed it grows awkward to have two Mr. MacGregors at the table, and Con said Gilgallon will become violent if we refer to him as Deesely, which he isn’t quite, not really. Or maybe he is.”

  Augusta watched as Julia moved over to the French doors. For a widow of mature years—Julia would be thirty on her next birthday—she was positively bouncing along.

  “Where is your cat, Gus? I should think he’d be reclining in splendor on that great bed.”

  “He’s likely out sunning himself somewhere. That’s why the French doors are left open, so Ulysses may go on his royal progress at his leisure.” And so the brisk Highland air could find its way into Augusta’s room as she slept.

  “He might decide to make his residence here, as Her Majesty has.”

  Augusta frowned at the French door. Yes, Ulysses might decide he preferred the earl’s stables to a glorified farmhouse in Oxfordshire, and if he did, she would miss her cat.

  Miss him terribly, which was pathetic.

  Julia moved away from the doors. “Let’s go down to breakfast, or Con and Gil will have eaten all the scones. I think Hester has quite a crush on Gilgallon.”

  “Hester has quite a crush on the breakfast offerings.”

  Augusta found them to her liking as well. The lavish spread of hearty fare was a far cry from the bread, butter, and tea that sustained her at home. Dinners, by contrast, were lighter than their English equivalents, boasting an array of rich, savory sauces and smaller portions.

  Somebody had an eye for presentation, Augusta decided as she filled her plate with eggs, ham, and buttered toast. The cuisine was a fine blend of Continental and local, and a decided improvement over even what was served in Aunt and Uncle’s house.

  For the first time in ages, Augusta’s mind wandered into a corner she’d forbidden it to explore out of sheer self-preservation.

  If I had my own household, a real household, I’d want the food to be like this. To be hearty and flavorful at the same time. Abundant but not wasteful. Food that was relished down to the last crumb, and lovely in its appearance, scent, and taste. I’d want the food in my kitchens to be prepared with genuine caring for those who consumed it and how it was consumed. I’d take a hand in that myself…

  She might even set a table like this, with a blue, brown, and white plaid tablecloth as the centerpiece, and everything from the tea service to the serviettes to the curtains coordinated to match.

  “Tea, Miss Augusta?”

  The earl had appropriated the seat beside her. She’d noticed this about him: he wandered from his expected locations. He’d done it at dinner last night to sit beside Genie for the dessert course, but then he’d engaged her father in discussion, leaving Genie to Gilgallon’s silly teasing. The strategy had worked, because when the ladies departed for the drawing room, it was the earl left holding Genie’s chair and giving her his arm as escort.

  “Tea would be lovely. I was just admiring the skill of your kitchens, my lord.”

  “That’s Ian to you, Miss Augusta.” He’d dropped his voice, and when she glanced up at his face, she saw a hint of mischief in his eye. The man had no notion of how to be a proper earl, but then he was a spare, just finding his way with the role.

  A spare with a delightful and alarming tendency to reciprocate misplaced kisses.

  She took the teapot from where it sat before him and poured for them both. “You are a reluctant earl, aren’t you?”

  The mischief died abruptly, replaced by an appraising light. “I am not reluctant. I am kicking and screaming, lest you be deceived by appearances to the contrary. I’ve considered going to Canada to find my older brother, leaving Gil to manage in my stead. He’s more ruthless than I am, better suited to the title.”

  Oh, for pity’s sake, he was being honest. He stirred his cream into his tea with all the diffidence of a boy waiting for his elders to spring him from the table, and there was a grim set to his mouth that made Augusta wish she’d been less forward.

  “I was a reluctant spinster at first.” The words were not planned, but they seemed to catch his attention. “I’d stirred some interest during my Season, and I had always assumed��what girl from a wealthy family doesn’t assume?—I’d have a husband, children, a household of my own. I did not adjust easily to my new expectations.”

  “And none of your adoring swains saw fit to rescue you from those expectations?”

  He would ask that. Except his voice hadn’t been sardonic or flippant.

  “The swains adored my fortune, I’m afraid.” And then her stupid mouth would not hush or busy itself slurping at the cooling tea. “Some of them subsequently offered for Genie. I expect they’ll make a try for Hester too.”

  A small silence ensued between them, punctuated by a pa
rticularly loud laugh from Julia, who was sitting between the Misters MacGregor down the table.

  “I will not offer for Hester should I fail with Genie.” His expression was rueful. “I hope.”

  “Persistence, my lord. You’re making progress with Genie, and it’s early days yet.”

  She was so bold as to reach over and pat his arm in company. The idea that this handsome, charming man was admitting of some trepidation was oddly gratifying. Maybe there were worse things than sharing a glorified farmhouse with a cat and an elderly cousin in Oxfordshire.

  ***

  Miss Augusta—not Gus, Gussie, or Auggie—patted Ian’s arm and topped up his tea, little gestures that ought to have irritated him, but they were instead soothing. His siblings had never been the sort to cosset each other, and any tendency they’d had in that direction had fallen away completely when it became obvious Asher wasn’t coming back.

  “Is it really so bad?” Miss Augusta asked him. She kept her voice down and her expression bland as she reached for her utensils. This was probably a spinster’s trick, the ability to lurk beneath notice in her conversations and her mannerisms. Nobody’s gaze would pause at the tableau they presented—a host and his guest exchanging civilities over breakfast, nothing more.

  “You mean our finances?”

  “Your situation.” She took a dainty bite of her eggs, casual as you please, while she invited Ian to lay bare his shortcomings as earl.

  Or to share his burdens.

  He decided her intentions more closely fit the latter.

  “It’s… delicate. Matters are improving, but an estate requires long-term maintenance. We could probably manage well enough over the next few years because my grandfather was a shrewd and practical man, but when the roof needs attention, or if a crop fails again, or Mary Fran or her daughter Fiona require a dowry…”

  The myriad threatening disasters started to list themselves in Ian’s mind: The stables consisted of enormous plough horses, green stock being prepared for sale and near-pensioners, including Ian’s own mount. There was no dowry gathering interest for either Fiona or Mary Fran. The roof was going to need attention in the next five years, or after the very next hard winter—and when wasn’t a Highland winter hard?

  The carpets were all getting worn, and in the family wing there were precious few carpets left. Cook wanted a more modern stove, and the deadfall in the wood was getting thin from providing wood fires for their guests for much of the summer.

  Miss Augusta put down her fork, her earnest expression interrupting Ian’s mental litany of unmet responsibilities.

  “You are a good earl. I recall my own grandfather cautioning my mother to look to the next generation, not the next season. You’re a good brother too. Your siblings are lucky to have you.”

  She didn’t pat his arm again, but she might as well have, so nicely did her words settle in Ian’s ear. “Despite the pressing burdens, one must soldier on,” she said quietly. “Your tea is getting cold, my lord.”

  Ian. He wanted this quiet mouse with the gentian eyes and innocent kisses to call him Ian. He took a sip of tea rather than admit this to her and did not speculate about what such a wayward impulse might portend.

  ***

  The young people were at last away, gamboling like puppies across the park. Watching from his sitting-room balcony, the baron wished them a long and happy ramble. Bleating, laughing sheep, the lot of them. The Scotsmen were big, strapping rams posturing and pawing before the ewes, and the women were brainless twits, just hoping to catch the notice of the fellow of their choice.

  But how obliging of them all, to leave him the run of the house so early in his visit. And what great good fortune that Matthew had for once allowed himself a frivolous outing. What was to be done would be done for Matthew, but the man was too stiff-rumped to ever appreciate his father’s efforts.

  A slow smile spread across the baron’s face. The plan was perfect, a work of art. This way, all suspicion would fall on the strutting Scottish earl, making him even more willing to snap up a baron’s daughter.

  When word of the misfortune befalling one of the earl’s guests reached Polite Society, Balfour would never again be able to charge exorbitant sums for simple hospitality.

  ***

  “Tell me of your home, Miss Genie. How does it compare with Balfour?”

  The young lady at Ian’s side seemed incapable of uttering a sentence without a considering silence before she opened her mouth. Maybe she was thoughtful by nature, maybe she was intimidated, and maybe this was some hen-witted attempt at coyness falling far short of its mark.

  “Which home would that be, my lord? We have the London townhouse, a house in the New Town in Edinburgh, the family seat in Kent, a very nice little set of estates in Oxfordshire, as well as a hunting box in Cumbria, and dower properties for me and Hester in Surrey and Sussex respectively.”

  Of course they did. “Which is your favorite?”

  Another pause, while Ian guided her around a tree root protruding into the path.

  “I like them all. The town house is for the Season, so we have great good fun there. My dower property is quite lovely, but I expect you know that.”

  “I know no such thing, Miss Genie. You could describe it to me.”

  “I haven’t seen it since I was seventeen…”

  She had the knack of implying questions where they made no sense, like at the end of her last pronouncement. Some query hung in the air:

  Shall I describe it to you? Or maybe, Might we finish conversing now, my lord? Walking and talking at the same time taxes my brain so sorely.

  Except she wasn’t stupid. Ian would have bet his best bull doddy the lady wasn’t stupid. She was just unforthcoming in his company. At breakfast she’d been laughing and flirting with Gil and Con as shamelessly as her aunt.

  “Miss Genie, perhaps there’s something you’d like to ask me? My attempts at conversation aren’t taking us very far in the direction of getting acquainted.”

  “Why would you wish to acquaint yourself with me, my lord?”

  No hesitation there. “Because you are my guest, because you are a lovely young lady, because my great-aunt suggested we might suit, because we’re wandering about here in the woods with no one else to converse with, largely by the design of my enterprising younger siblings.”

  A slight smile creased her lips. Very slight, but genuine.

  She glanced meaningfully over her shoulder at Hester, striding along, opera glasses plastered to her nose supposedly the better to identify Highland birds. “Younger siblings can be the devil, can’t they?”

  “A mixed blessing, but you and Hester seem close.”

  This was firmer ground, something they honestly had in common, and Ian mentally kicked himself for not thinking of it sooner. Beside him, he felt the lady relax just a little. Her stride opened up; her grip on his arm became more functional and less decorative.

  “Hester is the very best sister, but she is a little sister, if you take my meaning. She embarrasses me with her pithy observations—always in company, of course—without even intending to, but she’s also my staunchest ally.”

  “I think your cousin, your brother, and your aunt are all allies too. In his own way, even your papa takes your welfare seriously.”

  “Oh, he’d better. Mama will sulk for ages if this excursion at Balfour doesn’t go well.”

  The smile was gone, and Ian wondered if Miss Genie recalled with whom she walked. He steered her past another upthrust root.

  “What can I do to ensure your visit goes well, Miss Genie? I am your host, after all. Your pleasure is my first concern.”

  That might have been laying it on a bit thick, but she nibbled her lip and glanced over at him, a considering, somewhat fretful gesture
. He waited, hoping they were on the verge of some genuine honesty, a small step in the direction of betrothal, but an important first step.

  She dropped her gaze and then stumbled hard, pitching into Ian with an unladylike yelp. He caught her around the middle before she could hit the ground and hauled her up against him.

  She stood awkwardly, one foot raised, letting Ian keep her balanced by virtue of leaning into him.

  “I am so sorry, my lord. I’m not usually clumsy. I’m never clumsy, in fact, but I can be preoccupied… oh, blast. Excuse my language, but it hurts.”

  She was going to cry. Ian scooped her up against his chest and carried her to a fallen tree lying sideways along the path. When he had her seated, he fished for his handkerchief, wondering all the while if this was a ploy or a genuine mishap.

  “Genie?” Miss Augusta came bustling up, Gil at her side. Ian had never been so glad to see a decent woman in his life. “Dear heart, have you come a cropper?”

  “I twisted my ankle, Gussie. I feel so terribly stupid.”

  “We can heal your ankle,” Augusta said, patting her cousin’s shoulder. “The stupid part is a chronic facet of the human condition.”

  Gil whipped out his handkerchief and passed it to the lady, while Ian wondered when his brother had started using monogrammed linen.

  “Here, now. Let’s have that boot off.” Gil knelt on one knee like some damned parfit gentil knight and started on the laces of Genie’s walking boot, while Augusta—what was wrong with the woman?—stepped back to allow him.

  “Oh, that cannot be comfortable,” Augusta murmured, taking the boot from Gil’s hand. “You did yourself an injury, my dear.”

  “I feel so stupid.”

  Yes, they knew that. Ian was beginning to feel rather stupid himself. He shifted to Augusta’s side.

  “We can have the grooms bring a pony cart for you,” he said. “Or I can simply carry you back to the house.”