The Bridegroom Wore Plaid

by Grace Burrowes

  His hands ached for the feel of her, and his heart…

  God damn his bloody, stupid heart.

  The meals weren’t the worst, and the nights weren’t the worst. At night he at least had the privacy of his thoughts and the pleasure of his dreams, dreams in which familial duty didn’t force him to make choices his heart knew were a recipe for misery.

  The worst part of his day was the hour after dinner, when he was required by manners to retire with his brothers, the baron, and the baron’s son to the parlor designated for exclusively male congregation. Altsax smoked and hadn’t the courtesy to take his filthy habit onto the terrace.

  Daniels—he was really no younger than Gilgallon—brooded and read correspondence in the corner, while Con, Gil, and Ian tried to make conversation that included guests but didn’t wander onto familial topics. In previous years, the exercise hadn’t seemed anywhere near as nerve-wracking.

  “I’m for bed.” The baron weaved a little as he got to his feet. “The thin air here has me fatigued, Balfour. Meaning no insult.” The idiot smiled and took an uncertain step toward the door.

  “I’ll light you up,” Gil said, getting to his feet. He rolled his eyes at Ian, out of Altsax’s line of sight, and plucked a single candle from the mantel.

  Daniels rose and folded his letters and reports into a leather satchel. “I’ll join you. Balfour, good night, and thank you again for a pleasant day. Another pleasant day.”

  When Ian was left alone with Con, he realized his brother had the look of a man with something to say.

  “Spit it out, Connor. I’m about dead on my feet from the effort of being charming the livelong damned day.”

  Con cocked his head and regarded Ian with the aggravating acumen of a younger sibling. “It never seemed to wear on you before.”

  “I was never stalking a bride before.” Ian considered another drink and decided against it. “Let’s go out on the terrace. Altsax has left this place reeking.”

  Con nodded but said nothing further until they’d gained the fresh night air.

  “Are you stalking your bride, Ian?”

  “Fair question.” Awkward, fair question. “She rode between me and Gil yesterday, she walked in the garden with me today after lunch, she sat next to me this morning at breakfast, and yet all the while, I have the sense she’s not really here.”

  “Like I have the sense you’re not really here?”

  Ian blew out a breath and scrubbed a hand over his face. “What are you trying to tell me, Connor?”

  Con ambled off a few steps and kept his back to Ian. There was light coming from a few of the windows, which meant had he been facing his brother, Ian might have had a chance to read his brother’s expression. He read his posture instead—tense, burdened, tired.

  “Connor, we’ve always been honest with each other. I’m too exhausted to settle anything with fists tonight.”

  “And Gil’s not on hand to referee. Do you want to marry this woman, Ian?”

  “I want to provide for my family. I want to have a family. It’s one of the many burdens attendant to bearing a title. Fee needs cousins.”

  “Yes, and we all want Asher to come home, but that’s not going to happen. If you don’t marry Genie…”

  “I’m going to marry Genie if it kills me.”

  “I’ve been a wee bit naughty.” Con didn’t sound even a wee bit contrite—he sounded bemused. Ian walked around his brother so they were facing each other.

  “At least somebody’s having some fun. Am I to be an uncle again, Con?”

  “Not on my account, but Gil saw me leaving Mrs. Redmond’s bedroom of a night.”

  Ian chose his words carefully and spoke with studied neutrality. “You would not force yourself on an unwilling woman, and Mrs. Redmond is a widow.” Widows were fair game; spinsters were not. Not even the ones who’d been misguided into surrendering their virginity long, lonely years ago, much less the ones who’d indulged in a single, understandable, unforgettable lapse thereafter.

  “So you wouldn’t banish me to the west for trifling with a guest?” Con made the question an even greater study in neutrality.

  “Who’d keep the stable lads in line if you took to the mountains?” Con’s shoulders relaxed a trifle at Ian’s rejoinder. “So have you trifled with her?”

  “I have not.” Yet. Ian understood his brother clearly. Connor enjoyed the ladies, and the ladies enjoyed Con. The lucky little widow’s fate was sealed. “Or, I haven’t trifled with her any more than she’s trifled with me.”

  “One likes a sense of fairness in one’s recreation.”

  “So if Gil tattles, you’ll be surprised? He hates keeping confidences.”

  “If Gil tattles, I shall reel with indignation that you were so clumsy as to be caught by your brother somewhere that might reflect poorly on a lady’s reputation. Now get to bed. I have to practice my reeling in private.”

  Con grinned, nodded, and sauntered back toward the house, punching Ian on the arm as he passed him.

  At least somebody was enjoying himself this summer. Ian eyed the house behind him and concluded more fresh air was in order. He had just decided which shadowed bench would best serve for a bout of sighing and brooding when a voice came out of the darkness.

  “For a man intent on marriage to my cousin, you’ve done precious little proposing to her.”

  Ten

  Matthew and his pretentious little schoolboy sack of letters turned right at the bottom of the stairs. The baron watched his son disappear down a gloomy corridor, wondering why such a devoted papa as himself was abruptly being cursed with multiple displays of rebellion among his progeny.

  When the baron and the Balfour spare got to the first landing, the baron headed left. “I’d like to bid my daughter good night, if you don’t mind.”

  MacGregor extended the candle toward him, but even an audience of one would be useful for what the baron had in mind. “This will take only a moment, Mr. MacGregor.”

  The stupid Scot had no choice but to follow, though when they reached Genie’s door, MacGregor set his candle on a low table and waited, arms crossed, lounging against the far wall.

  Gilgallon MacGregor wasn’t very sociable. No matter, his presence alone was sufficient for what would transpire.

  “Eugenia?” Altsax rapped lightly on his daughter’s door. There was no need for his nosey sister-in-law to add her presence to what was about to happen—assuming the little slut was even in her room. “Eugenia, come to the door.”

  She did, clad in nightgown and wrapper, a thick blond braid over one shoulder. She was a perfectly lovely female confection suitable for any impoverished Scottish earl’s countess.

  “Hello, Papa.” Her puzzled glance took in MacGregor, silent in the shadows a few feet away.

  “Daughter, are you enjoying your holiday so far?”

  “Yes, Papa.”

  “Well, I am not.”

  “I’m sorry, Papa.” She cast another nervous glance across the hall. Genie was a little brighter than her mother in a simple, animal sense. Thirty-plus years of marriage gave an astute man an instinct for how to correct the women burdening his household. With Genie, threatening to forbid her the company of her vapid, silly friends had usually been adequate to ensure her obedience.

  “You should be sorry, my girl, for you are the cause of my discontent. You are here to woo your earl, not to tat lace in your sitting room. Do I make myself clear?”

  She nodded, her gaze on him now. “Yes, Papa. Very clear.”

  He saw wary relief in her eyes that this little lecture was over.

  Not quite, silly girl. He struck without warning, a solid forehand slap to her pale cheek. Forehand was the way to go with women. Backhand ran the risk that rings wou
ld cut open flesh and knuckles would leave bruises. By contrast, the flat of a man’s palm delivered sufficient punishment and made a nice, satisfyingly loud—

  MacGregor moved so quickly Altsax had no chance to muster a defense. In the blink of an eye, the baron found himself face-first against the wall, an arm hiked painfully behind his back.

  “Strike her again, Altsax, and you will not live to regret it long. Eugenia is a guest in this house and due the protection of my family. We do not strike our women.”

  “Let him go, please.” Genie’s voice was soft, with a hint of tears behind her words. “Gil—Mr. MacGregor, you will please let my father go. This is a family matter.”

  The weight threatening to dislocate the baron’s arm eased away. He turned and twitched his smoking jacket into place.

  “Your brother will hear about this, MacGregor. All of Polite Society might be hearing about it.” Altsax treated the brute to a fulminating glance then glared at his daughter for good measure. He noted with some satisfaction her cheek was already red, even in the shadowed corridor. “Daughter, I bid you good night and caution you to assiduously heed my guidance. You won’t always have barbarians such as that”—he jerked his chin at MacGregor—“to interfere with your father’s authority.”

  He strode off, leaving his chastened daughter to deal with her champion. The earl had to tolerate his brother as a spare, but once Genie had said her vows and dropped a few bull calves in the Balfour pastures, there would be no more need for Gilgallon MacGregor.

  None at all. What a cheering thought for a man to take with him to his slumbers.

  ***

  Ian loomed out of the darkness before Augusta, a big, unhappy shadow in the gloom of the terrace. “Eavesdropping, Miss Merrick?”

  Miss Merrick, not Augusta. The rebuke hurt, as did the formality with which it was delivered. “You assumed you had privacy out here, your lordship.”

  He muttered something that started with “Bloody…” and fell away on sigh.

  “Canna sit with you?” He did, taking the place right beside her. “I’m out of sorts and distracted, but I wasn’t ignoring you. You’re not a woman scorned, Augusta, believe me.” He took her hand, wrapping it in both of his. The gesture seemed to comfort him as much as it did her.

  “I’m a woman invisible,” she said. “I expect you to eventually marry my cousin, Ian. I’m not trying to interfere with what you and she see as your duty, but it could take months for you get engaged. Aunt will want to make a fuss, to have the wedding in London, and that takes time.”

  “You aren’t invisible. Not to me.”

  That was good to hear. She ought to feel pathetic—except she didn’t. She felt… determined, which was gratifyingly far from pathetic.

  “How are you?” She hadn’t thought to ask, but he seemed weary and somehow without his usual defenses.

  The look he gave her was both sad and humorous. “I’m well, thank you, and you, my dear?”

  “You’re stubborn, Ian MacGregor. But I’m stubborn too when it comes to what I truly care about.”

  His arm came around her shoulders. “Lass, I have noticed this.” He sounded like he was admiring more than he was complaining.

  They sat like that, while Augusta slowly teased from him the concerns of his day. Con was flirting with Julia, the kittens in the stables were beginning to stir around and get underfoot, Mary Fran was leading Matthew a dance, and Fee had run across one of the neighbor’s daughters and taught her how to make mud pies and dirtballs.

  Prosaic, mundane things, such as a husband might share with his wife, except the feel of him beside her, the feel of his body heat warming her, was anything but prosaic. Her hands ached to learn the contours of him, to map his muscles and tendons, his joints and features. She wanted to know the tastes and sounds and textures of him until she knew them as well as she knew her own body.

  She wanted the feel of his arousal, warm and hard against her belly one more time.

  When Augusta realized neither of them had spoken for several moments, she wondered if he were imagining the same lovely, intimate things she was. She lifted her head. “You need your rest, sir.”

  He smoothed her hair back over her ear. “Let’s not be discussing what I need. You should go in without me.”

  He leaned over, and Augusta was certain he was going to kiss her forehead. She’d take even that, so hungry was she for any affection from him. Shameless, really, but what had years of protecting her dignity gotten her except happy chickens and a tidy garden hundreds of miles to the south?

  He brushed his mouth against hers. “Forgive me, Augusta…”

  She would not forgive him. She would kiss him within an inch of her sanity, rejoicing in each moment their mouths fused. His hand, big and warm, slid down her arm and brushed over her fingers.

  He was so careful with her, Augusta almost didn’t comprehend it when that same hand closed gently over her breast. Through her nightgown and wrapper she could feel the heat of him. His touch was intimate and cherishing, and ignited a hot, needy wanting for more of his touches, more of him.

  She arched into that heat, wrapping her hand over his to bring him closer. Longing rose up with a sharp, piercing ache. She wanted his hand on her skin, she wanted—

  Augusta ceased listing her frustrations, rose up and straddled him where he sat on the bench. His arms came around her with gratifying swiftness, and the kiss resumed with reckless heat. Nightclothes were marvelous attire for plundering kisses from a Highland earl—no stays, no pantalettes, no layers and layers of fashion to thwart a woman’s passionate impulses.

  Augusta rose higher on her knees, feeling the secure support of Ian’s arm low on her back. She sank both hands into his hair, intent on kissing him within an inch of his—

  The pleasure of plunging her tongue into his welcoming heat distracted her at first, but as Ian gentled the kiss, Augusta became aware of a whisper of night air on her left knee.

  Then on her thigh.

  Ian’s hand was warm, caressing her leg, shifting her nightclothes then stealing under her nightclothes. Augusta went still, hanging over him, waiting and focusing every scintilla of her awareness on his callused palm caressing her thigh.

  Mr. Post-Williams hadn’t touched Augusta intimately with his hands. He’d taken himself in his own hand and pushed at her with his erection—his member to her most intimate flesh. That he’d touch himself but not her had struck Augusta as vaguely shaming, as if her most intimate parts were dirty and not to be acknowledged, even as he’d taken his pleasure of her.

  Ian had no such reservations. Augusta might have begged, had she the ability to speak, but she didn’t need words. His fingers teased through her curls, a soft, skilled caress that made her breasts feel heavy and her insides weightless.

  “Ian—”

  “Wheesht, hinney.” His kiss was sweet, his touch sweeter still. With one blunt finger, he traced the creases and folds of Augusta’s sex, until she was damp, panting, and ready to shed every stitch of her clothing.

  She was about to tell him as much when his touch shifted, so he cupped her mons. The feel of his hand there, where Augusta rarely touched herself except to wash, was both arousing and comforting. She waited, poised on the precipice of things forbidden, wonderful, and necessary for her soul.

  Ian kissed her again, an achingly tender kiss that did nothing to assuage her disappointment at the feel of his hand sliding down her leg then tugging her nightclothes down to cover her knee.

  “Into the house with you, Augusta. I’ll not be taking you on a hard bench in the garden.”

  In the limited light, she saw when his own words registered with him. He shook his head and scrubbed a hand over his face—the same hand that had just touched her so carefully and intimately. “I’ll not be taking you
anywhere at all.”

  Ever again. He left those words mercifully unsaid.

  She’d pushed him as far as he could go, and he was right: This time, they were not far, far from the house, out in the hills with nobody but the birds of the air to see them. Anybody could come along for a bit of fresh night air. There were balconies on this side of the house.

  Then too, as a younger woman, Augusta had been coerced into sharing her intimate favors. She had no intention of coercing Ian, ever.

  She kissed his cheek and rose, conceding nothing. She was in her room, pondering her latest encounter with the man who was never very far from her thoughts, when another idea intruded:

  Augusta had overheard Connor’s confession to Ian, the one about visiting Julia in her bedroom. Connor had started his recitation with the fact that Gil had seen him coming out of Julia’s room. The only other occupied room on that floor belonged to Genie. What had Gilgallon MacGregor been doing outside Genie’s room so late the previous night?

  ***

  What was he doing, letting his hands wander over Augusta Merrick’s person in unseemly and intimate paths? She’d been so eager for his kisses, so yielding and feminine and warm…

  Twelve hours later, and Ian was still reliving the most fleeting caress of a breast he’d executed since he’d been a hesitant boy of fourteen. The most fleeting and the most memorable.

  Augusta Merrick was willing to risk her very livelihood just for a chance to share the same intimacies with Ian that Genie Daniels would go a lifetime disdaining. This paradox made Ian’s insides churn and his hand fist around his pen where he sat at his desk. Right and wrong were supposed to be clearly distinguishable, like up and down, Scottish and English, and yet…

  He was not engaged to anybody, and at this rate, he wasn’t likely to be soon.

  Augusta was not an innocent; she knew what she risked.

  And Ian was sure in his bones she hadn’t offered herself to any other man since her feckless beau had deserted her upon learning of her poverty. Ian stared at the letter he’d written to the feckless beau—a man Matthew had sworn was honorable—and signed the damned thing. Before Ian could change his mind, he sanded the signature.