Bridegroom Wore Plaid (14 page)

She turned, and to his horror there were tears shining in her eyes. “Connor, I didn’t know what else to do.”

The misery in her voice was genuine, he’d give her that much, but forgiveness was still beyond him. “You didn’t know what else to do besides
offer
me
money
for
taking
you
to
bed
?”

She bit her lip while one of those tears trickled down her cheek. “I didn’t expect you to do something distasteful for free.”

“You didn’t…!” He walked off a few paces then glared at her over his shoulder. “Let me ask you something, Julia Redmond. How would you have felt if I’d offered you money to let me rut on you? Would you have been pleased? Flattered? Would you have entertained my proposition for a moment?”

When she should have been firing off denials and protests, she only peered at him while another tear followed the first. “I feel so…”

Ridiculous? Foolish? If she went around making this offer to the gentlemen of London…

“Tell me you haven’t propositioned anyone else, Julia. Lie to me if you have to, but the idea that you’d hold yourself worse than cheap…”

She shook her head. “I tried flirting. I tried innuendo. I tried notes so bold they couldn’t be misconstrued. But they always were, or ignored. Ignored is worse.”

He let himself return to her side. She was speaking softly for one thing, and she needed his handkerchief for another.

He did not need to catch another whiff of her fragrance. “My estimation of the average Englishman is at risk for a small upward revision if these fellows showed some restraint where your virtue is concerned.”

“Little you know.” She snatched his handkerchief and tromped over to a trunk along the wall. “It’s not restraint if a man finds you too plain to inspire his passion.”

Now
this
was utter balderdash. “Lass, the man hasna been born who’d find you too plain for bedsport.”

She waved an impatient hand at his words. “Genie is graceful and willowy, Hester is horse mad and great fun, Augusta is well read and poised. I’m none of those things. I’m short, plain, boring, brown-haired, and d-dying of it.”

She buried her face in the handkerchief, while Con tried to puzzle out her reasoning. In a convoluted female sort of way, it made sense she’d attribute to herself too little appeal rather than too much. It made female sense, which was likely a contradiction in terms.

He took a seat beside her and patted her knee. “You needn’t take on. I’ve told no one of your folly. They all think you were carried away with your attraction to me.”

She looked up, eyes glittering. “I was.”

“No, you weren’t. Any toothsome fellow would have done, which is why I’m insulted by your offer.”

She let her hands fall to her lap and leaned back against the wall. “Not any toothsome fellow, just you. It’s all very well and good for men to go around handing out coin to secure a lady’s cooperation. I don’t see why my offer was such a great insult.”

Decent women weren’t even to admit they knew of such arrangements, and yet Julia Redmond was decent. Lonely and foolish, but decent.

“I have never paid a woman to tolerate my attentions, and I never will. And the women taking that coin are no longer ladies.”

She started folding up his linen in her lap. “Some of them are. They live in their mansions, ordering their servants about, and yet their jewelry boxes are full of tokens of esteem from admirers. It’s the same thing.”

There was such bewilderment and hurt in her voice, this time he patted her hand. “Do you want to be one of those ladies, Julia? The kind no decent hostess trusts around her husband? The kind mamas never allow their daughters to converse with? Do you want a full jewelry case of tokens?”

She sighed, her head clonking against the wall as she leaned back. “My husband gave me all manner of jewels. He spent my money on me, but he did spend it. And no, Connor, I do not want to be a predatory female. I just want…”

He waited while a horse down the aisle groaned sleepily. There were stalls to muck—there were always stalls to muck—but just now, he could spare her a few minutes to hear her… apology.

“I want to feel desired, to feel wanted. My husband wasn’t young, and passion was beyond him. He consummated the marriage, and then after a few months, it was as if I were his ward or his apprentice. He’d read the financial pages to me until I thought I’d go mad.” She stopped and closed her eyes. “Maybe I am going mad.”

A suspicion bloomed in Connor’s mind. A suspicion of no little wickedness, but one he was going to investigate. “Then he didn’t see to your pleasure, this husband?”

“How could reading me the paper be a pleasure? Morning after morning, and then again at night, sometimes the same articles twice in one day.”

Ah. Well, then. It put her situation in a different light altogether, but Con wasn’t going to make any precipitous moves.

“You need to know two things, Julia Redmond.”

She lifted her head from the wall to meet his gaze. “I was an idiot again. I know that. I’m sorry if I offended your honor, but I see things, Connor. Your stable is aging, your domestics are either very young or very old, the windows in the family wing all need a good glazing, your wood is bare of deadfall. There’s a need for coin—”

He stopped her with an upraised hand. “That’s none of your concern, and yes, you were an idiot, though you’re not to be an idiot with any other men. Gil would likely expire from apoplexy if you waylaid him, and Ian is in pursuit of a bride.”

“I don’t want Ian or—”

He put a finger over her lips. “Two things. First, I accept your apology. We need not speak of this again.”

“Thank you. And second?”

He leaned over and kissed her on the mouth, sweetly, gently, not in any hurry but not exactly lingering either. “I would have taken a woman as comely, dear, and determined as you to my bed for free.
Gladly
, for free.”

Before she could slap him or kiss him back—he figured the odds of each were about the same—he got up and sauntered away. Had he looked back, he would have seen her sitting all alone on her trunk, two fingers pressed to her mouth and a stunned smile on her face.

But he didn’t look back, and he didn’t tell her that if ever there was a woman he’d beg for her favors—beg, plead, and all but pay—it would be her.

***

Ian closed up the little volume of poetry and glanced over at the woman he intended to wed. She was pretty enough, with long, gold-tipped eyelashes, patrician features, and big blue eyes that were at present closed in slumber—blue eyes some would say were unremarkable. She had a decent figure in a long-limbed, English sort of way.

He wished to God he were tempted to steal a kiss. He might have been, had the lady shown the least inclination to steal a kiss from him, but no.

She reclined on her fainting couch, her ankle propped on a pillow. She’d remained unmoving for the past half hour. He’d read her nigh half of Tennyson’s damned “Princess,” then switched to French poetry recited from memory. She’d closed her eyes by then, and even switching to the Gaelic hadn’t gotten her notice.

“Are you enjoying the poetry?”

Her eyes flew open. “The poetry? Oh, a great deal, my lord. You have such a lovely burr.”

The
burr
had been beaten out of him in public school, though he could hardly tell her that. “Have you a favorite poem, Miss Genie?”

“I like the simple ones, the ones that make sense.”

Her reply had him wondering what Augusta Merrick had been reading in the library, which was absolutely irrelevant to the present situation. “Whom do you like besides Tennyson?”

“I’m not sure I know any other poets.” Her fingers twitched at the afghan over her lap, which Ian took for a sign of mendacity. English schoolgirls knew their poetry. “I do appreciate your taking time from your busy day to entertain me, my lord.”

“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.