The Bridegroom Wore Plaid

by Grace Burrowes

  “My pleasure. Perhaps I should order us some luncheon, it being past noon.”

  Disgruntlement passed through her eyes, as if having luncheon with him was not in her plans. Good God, how could they fashion any sort of marriage when even an hour in each other’s company had them both eyeing the door?

  “I’m not hungry, my lord.”

  “A tea tray, then? I can stop by the kitchen on my way out.”

  Relief showed on her face. “That would be considerate, my lord. And perhaps you could have the footman scare up my brother and send him to me? Matthew went out riding with Lady Mary Frances, but I’m sure they would have come in by now.”

  Ian was being dismissed, which was no worse than having been tolerated. A bolt of hopelessness went through him at the prospect of years and years of dismissal and tolerance. How was he to bed her, for God’s sake?

  “You know, Miss Genie, I would try to be considerate of you under all circumstances.”

  She glanced over at him uncertainly. “You have been a very amiable host, my lord.”

  He rose and let himself look out the windows at the summer gardens in all their glory. “Do you want children, Miss Genie? I do. Not just for the title, but for my heart and for my family’s heart. I want children to love and guide and leave my legacy to, modest though it will be. Scotland has lost so much, seen so many children leave her shores…”

  “Every woman of good birth hopes to marry well and have children.”

  She spoke quietly, miserably.

  He turned around and addressed the top of her bent head. “Genie, can’t you trust me enough to at least try? I’d like to be friends if nothing else, but at the very least I am not your enemy.”

  She took a breath while Ian waited. If he were any more blunt, she’d hobble out of the room and demand to board her papa’s private railcar for the South, but at this rate their marriage was going to be in name only—and Ian wasn’t sure he could tolerate that.

  “My lord, I am trying. I really am.”

  She said nothing more. He didn’t know what else to do, what else to say, and kissing even her cheek was beyond him. “Then we keep trying. I’ll have a tray sent up and find your brother. Is there anything else you need?”

  “No, my lord, but thank you.”

  “For what?”

  “I know you’re trying too.”

  Well. She hadn’t dissolved in a fit of the vapors, hadn’t sent him packing. They’d been under the same roof only a week. Maybe there was hope.

  And maybe he was an idiot, blind to all save the need for coin.

  Ian asked among the servants, and no one had seen Matthew Daniels or Mary Fran all morning. Two horses were gone from the stables, but only two, which meant Mary Fran had eschewed a groom. Ian spied Con emerging from the dairy in work clothes, his shirt more unbuttoned than buttoned.

  “Do you know which way Mary Fran and Daniels went?”

  Con stopped and frowned. “I last saw them heading into the woods toward Balmoral. I wouldn’t have thought Daniels the kind to gawk at royalty.”

  “They left after breakfast?”

  “They did. I helped saddle their mounts. Why?”

  Ian ran a hand through his hair. Connor was not ordinarily prone to missing the obvious. “Because they’ve been gone for three hours, Connor. They’re not gawking at royalty.”

  Con’s brows rose, then he shrugged. “Bully for Mary Fran.”

  “Yes, bully for Mary Fran, but Fiona’s probably loose in those same woods, likely spying in the windows of the gamekeeper’s cottage as we speak.”

  “Hadn’t thought of that.”

  “And neither, apparently, has Mary Fran.” Which was intriguing and not in a good way.

  “You want me to fetch Mary Fran home?”

  “I’ll do it. You’re hardly dressed for riding, and I—may God have mercy on my soul—am the head of this family, at least until Asher gets tired of chasing bears in Canada.”

  “Asher’s dead, Ian.” Con said it almost cheerfully.

  “Asher is not dead, and you smell like a sweaty muck pit. If you see Fee, keep her near the house.”

  “I’ll tie her to the piano; that ought to work.”

  “Unless you’re playing it, in which case she’ll chew through her bonds.”

  The sibling civilities having been observed, Con smiled and sauntered off, his expression in charity with the world.

  Ian didn’t exactly relish the task of tracking down his sister and her escort, but it was a pretty day, and spending time with his intended made him itchy for a good cross-country gallop. He turned for the stables and paused in midstride.

  “Lord Balfour, a moment if you will.” Altsax came churning along the crushed gravel walk from the gardens, his complexion florid, sweat beading around his muttonchop sideburns. He swung a riding crop at the occasional gladiolus, leaving a path of decapitated, colorful casualties in his wake.

  “Baron, I’m at your disposal.”

  “Shall we walk, Balfour? The walls have ears, particularly in the stable.” He smiled conspiratorially, though there was insult in his observation. Of course Ian’s help would overhear, and of course they’d make it a point to guard the laird’s back while they did.

  Pushing distaste aside, Ian fell in step with his guest. “Are you enjoying your visit, Baron?”

  “Enjoying my visit? Oh, come, Balfour. You needn’t play polite host with me. I’m a man of sophistication forced to rusticate in Scotland while my daughter leads you a dance, and for reasons known only to my wife, I am paying handsomely for this privilege.”

  “Blunt speaking, Altsax.” There was nothing wrong with direct speech, but from his future father-in-law Ian had allowed himself to hope for a bit more… civility.

  “Why dissemble? I tolerate your pursuit of my daughter because you’ve the highest title of all the hounds slobbering at her heels.”

  “Lucky me.”

  “Lucky you, indeed,” the baron rejoined, completely missing Ian’s irony. “I’ve a few conditions to the settlements you need to be informed of.”

  Ian strolled along beside his guest, forcing himself to note the sound of gravel crunching under their feet, the way the breeze fluttered the ivy growing up the north wall of the house, the raven sitting on the weathercock atop the stable. This was a lovely home, a home Ian wanted to pass along to his children. He wanted to provide for his family and provide well. He wanted the next Earl of Balfour to have a good, honorable example to follow.

  For these reasons he kept his tone perfectly genial while Altsax huffed and puffed next to him. “I haven’t asked for the lady’s hand yet, Altsax. Don’t you think negotiations at this point are a bit premature?”

  “No, I do not. I think you’re a complete lackwit for not stealing into her room, anticipating the vows, and having done with this farce. You can dance around the rowan tree with her, or whatever passes for a wedding up here, and I can get back to my own estates and a gentleman’s more civilized pursuits in Town. A mistress the caliber of mine isn’t going to tolerate indefinite neglect.”

  “You’re encouraging me to take liberties with your daughter?” No wonder Genie was nervous.

  “I’m encouraging you to have done with this pretense of a courtship. Marriage is business, man. I know, I’ve been married for better than thirty years, and I can tell you most honestly marriage is business, and a sorely vexing business at least half the time.”

  Ian’s parents would have argued that conclusion. His grandparents would have laughed at it outright. “What conditions did you want to discuss?”

  “Not conditions, Balfour. Demands, and for God’s sake find a man some shade.”

  If a man hadn’t left his bedroom trussed up to the nin
es in the latest fashion in riding attire, he might not be turning red as a beet in the summer sun. “Over there.” Ian gestured to a shaded bench but declined to sit beside Altsax. “What are your demands?”

  “It’s not complicated. You must offer written assurances Genie is marrying a member of the MacGregor family in expectation of a title.”

  Ian nodded. Of course he could offer those assurances, but he wasn’t about to agree to anything with this buffoon so easily. “Go on.”

  “Genie will be hostess at Balfour House in the summer months. You’re not to be hauling her off to the Continent or allowing that sister of yours to run this household when Her Majesty is in residence next door.”

  Forgive me, Mary Fran, for not planting my fist in this English piece of shit’s face. “I’m listening. What else?”

  “Genie will attend the London Season with her husband’s escort when she so chooses, provided she isn’t knocked up.”

  “I take it your baroness has contributed a mother’s perspective on this situation?” Surely that had to be the explanation for such a request.

  “God, no. Do you take me for a fool? The whole point of this match is so I might show off my ability to marry my daughter to the title of my choice. She’s to come to Town for a few months every year and flaunt her prize, show the world what her papa married her to. Her daughters will hold the title lady, and that’s no mean accomplishment for a baron’s get.”

  Show the world what her papa married her to. Ian had long considered the London social Season akin to a livestock fair, though he’d never felt the comparison quite as keenly as now, when he’d been demoted from a who to a what.

  “I’ll pass these requests on to my solicitors, Altsax. If I accede to them, they will of course affect the settlements.”

  “Affect the…? You have to be jesting.”

  “Residing here over the summer means all manner of friends and relations will want to visit us, so they, like you, can claim to have been out walking with Her Majesty. Entertaining costs money, and if Genie is in residence here, that will preclude my family from putting the house to paying purposes. Seasons cost a great deal of money. Traveling hundreds of miles to and from London costs money. Making over this entire house to reflect my wife’s preferences rather than my sister’s costs money I had not intended to spend.”

  “Ah, so you weren’t going to establish Genie here as your lady?”

  “Of course, she would be the lady of whatever house we dwell in, but I have a property of my own, Altsax, among the finest in the shire.”

  Altsax waved a hand. “Some little farm left to you by your granddame. That will not do, Balfour.”

  It was thousands of acres of the most arable soil in all of Deeside, with grounds made gorgeous by the mountains rising up just west of the house. It was also profitable as hell. The sparkling jewel in the otherwise tarnished financial crown of the MacGregor family portfolio. It would more than do.

  “I’ll pass along these requests to the lawyers,” Ian said. “You may await our response, assuming I offer for your daughter.” He turned in the direction of the stables, needing to get away from Altsax before violent urges overcame his sense of familial duty.

  “I don’t judge a man for driving a hard bargain,” the baron said from where he sat. “After all, you’ll have to take on Genie for the rest of your life. Why else would I be paying you a small fortune to get her off my hands?”

  He snorted jovially at his own reasoning, while Ian walked off and wondered how in the name of Almighty God he was going to come to terms with such a cretin.

  Because he was going to, even if it killed him.

  Seven

  Augusta watched as Fiona made a clover chain, nimble little fingers fashioning a crown from the lowliest of flowers.

  “It’s beautiful,” Augusta said when Fiona carefully placed it on her guest’s head. “I’m queen of the pasture.”

  Fiona grinned and plopped down on the blanket beside Augusta. “I don’t see why you’d want to sketch a silly old pasture. It’s just for cows.”

  “For today, it’s for us and our picnic.” And it was a gorgeous pasture. Lush and green under a perfect blue sky, the mountains rising around them in summer splendor. “What’s the word for cow?”

  Fiona had been helping Augusta with some Gaelic. As long as they kept away from the challenge of trying to spell properly, Augusta could build on the conversational skills she’d gleaned in childhood from her mother and grandfather. It wasn’t like French or German in sound—it was far more musical—but it did have some commonalities with Latin in structure.

  “I can tell you the Scottish words too, if you like,” Fiona said. “The uncles say one has to know the Scots to do business with the Lowlanders. They do a lot of business, my uncles.”

  “Let’s stick to Gaelic for now.”

  Augusta did not examine motives for that decision. It was becoming a habit, this not looking too closely at why she felt and acted as she did. In this manner, she avoided admitting she was attracted to her cousin’s intended—intimately attracted. She avoided admitting she’d tried to keep herself from the man’s company upon this realization, and she avoided admitting such a course was painful.

  But not, she hoped, as painful as some other possibilities.

  White clover symbolized promises. Augusta promised herself tomorrow’s outing with Ian—with his lordship—would be the first and last of its kind. She also promised herself she would enjoy it to the fullest extent possible without asking the earl to compromise his honor.

  “I think my ma likes your cousin.” Fiona dug about in the wicker hamper they’d lugged to the pasture.

  “I hope Lady Mary Frances likes Genie, for they might be sharing a household. Let me peel that orange.”

  Fiona passed her the orange, her expression solemn. “I didn’t mean Miss Genie. I meant Mr. Daniels. He told me about his first pony.”

  Oh… Oh.

  “He loved his pony very much.” Augusta tore into the skin of the orange and cast around for a way to shift the topic.

  “If I had a pony, I’d love him very much too. Uncle Gil says I can have Merlin when I’m older and Merlin is older too.”

  Merlin was a safer topic, thank God. From the corner of Augusta’s eye, she detected movement. When she glanced up, her mouth went dry and her heart started up a slow, tense pounding in her chest.

  “Fiona? I want you to listen to me, but you must stay perfectly calm.”

  The child was perceptive. She ceased pawing in the hamper and met Augusta’s gaze.

  “There’s a bull in this pasture,” Augusta said, glancing up the hill behind them. “A great, pitch-black fellow with an unhappy expression on his face. I’m thinking he’s lonely for his ladies or perhaps resentful we’re encroaching on his territory.”

  “That’s Romeo,” Fiona said, her voice laden with misgiving. “He’s always cranky, but this isn’t his pasture. This is the pasture between his proper paddock and the yearling heifers beyond the hill.”

  Oh, marvelous. They were sitting between a mating bull and his next conquests. The beast swung its great head in their direction and stomped one cloven hoof.

  “I want you to start walking for the fence, Fiona. Keep me and this blanket between you and Romeo. Do it now, child, as quietly as you can. Don’t move too quickly. Don’t move too slowly, unless he charges. Then, you run like the wind.”

  God bless the girl, she got up and started walking.

  Augusta had known a man in her girlhood who’d lost a leg when he was trampled by a charging bull. For all their size, intact male bovines could be fast and nimble, also very determined.

  Well, Augusta was more determined still.

  “Hullo, Mr. Romeo.” She rose from the blanket, knowing the b
ull was going to see her movement more clearly than her specific form. She shook her skirt gently. “It’s a fine morning for a little stroll, don’t you think?” Over her shoulder she saw Fiona was making steady, silent progress toward the gate.

  The bull watched as Augusta began to pace back and forth. “We didn’t mean to intrude on your solitude, sir, and would account it a great courtesy if you’d allow us to withdraw from your parlor without incident. Keep moving, Fiona.”

  Another stomp, then a loud, admonitory snort.

  “I know. We should have simply left our cards and moved along, not tarried here when you weren’t receiving. Fiona, don’t you dare stop. When you get to the house, bring one of your uncles back here.”

  The bull was focused on Augusta, his head raising and lowering, his muscular quarters swinging around as if to launch a charge at her.

  “You can have my crown.” Augusta pulled the clover chain from her head and swung it in a slow loop from her hand. “I’ll sing to you if you like as well. You should have some recompense for our having disturbed your peace.” Except her mouth was too dry for her to sing. “Perhaps you’d like my orange?”

  She pitched it hard across the bull’s line of sight, momentarily distracting him. But only momentarily. As the orange rolled to a stop in the grass, the bull once again turned to regard Augusta. He whisked his short tail against his haunches, and when he stomped this time, he followed it up by pawing a divot of sod from the earth.

  I’m going to die. I’m going to die here in a Scottish pasture on a beautiful day with that innocent child looking on.

  “Go get help, Fiona. I’ll just have a visit with Romeo.” Augusta took one step back and knew her life was over. The bull began trotting in her direction, then lowered his head and broke to a faster gait.

  Her plan was to dodge him at the last minute, if she could. If she were capable of movement. He came on, making the earth tremble with his charge. Augusta could hear the bellows of his lungs working, see the dampness on his big black snout.