Grace Burrowes - [MacGregor 02] Page 22

  “Not a word. I’m keeping the telegraph office in coin, sending wires all over the Continent. Not a single reply.”

  “This is not good. You are certain Spathfoy hasn’t told Hester his plans for Fee?”

  “I would bet my horse on it. It isn’t that Spathfoy is so English, it’s that he has no wife, no children of his own. He sees them as separate bits of business: you propose to this one, you collect that one for delivery to the marquess. If anything, he probably thinks having Fee at the family seat will be an inducement for Hester to marry him.”

  Augusta blew out a breath, her brows knitting in thought. “That is diabolical.”

  “That is what happens when a man has no countess to show him how to go on.” He tucked an arm around her shoulders and saw that their son—drat the boy, for it meant Ian wasn’t to have a turn holding him—was falling asleep in Augusta’s arms. “The way the lad is tending to his slumbers now, we won’t get our nap this afternoon, Wife. I would bet my horse on that as well.”

  “You seem to think Hester will throw Spathfoy’s proposal back in his face.”

  “Of course she will. Hester got a bellyful of scheming, charming men with that Merriford jackanapes.”

  “Merriman. And you have it all wrong, Husband.”

  He closed his eyes. Augusta might know her own cousin, but Ian knew women. “How is that, my love?”

  “Spathfoy is cunning, Ian. Hester might detest the man for flying false colors, for taking Fee away from those who love her just because some old man in England has rediscovered his familial conscience, but Hester will go for Fee’s sake. She’ll marry that useless, handsome excuse for a raiding Englishman to make sure Fee isn’t all alone in Northumbria among strangers.”

  “She wouldn’t be that daft.”

  “It isn’t daft when you love somebody. Hester spends more time with Fiona than Mary Fran did.”

  Ian felt yet another cold slither of misgiving in his vitals. “Than Mary Fran could, you mean. Running Balfour on a shoestring took up more of my sister’s energies than it should have, but Fee had three uncles about her to keep their eyes on her.”

  The baby let out a tiny, peaceful sigh, making Ian and his wife momentarily pause to behold their son. For no reason at all, Ian kissed his wife’s cheek.

  “Fiona is a child,” Ian said. “All she knows is her mother was always preoccupied with household matters at Balfour, then Mary Fran became enthralled with Matthew. Of course Fee appreciates an adult spending time with her.”

  Even an adult such as Spathfoy?

  Augusta busied herself cuddling the baby close. “And now her mama and step-papa are off on an extended honeymoon, and Hester has come to the Highlands to mend a broken heart. She and Fee are thick as thieves, Husband. This cannot end well, not for Hester, and not for Fiona.”

  Ian wanted to argue; he wanted to soothe and reason and offer the comfort of superior male wisdom, though he was nearly certain Augusta had the right of things. He also wanted to beat Spathfoy within an inch of the damned English border.

  He settled for tucking his wife closer and drawing the blankets a little more securely around their son.

  ***

  Hale Flynn, ninth Marquess of Quinworth, took his brandy to the balcony of his private sitting room. In the west, the sun was taking its damned time to sink below the surrounding green hills, but to the east, the comfort of night was making an approach.

  He sank into a chair, set his brandy aside, and withdrew the letter from his pocket.

  Nights were no better really, though when the sun rose, he could ride out over the vast Quinworth acreage and at least find a few hours’ enjoyment at the start of his day.

  He didn’t need to read the letter—he’d written it himself, addressed it himself, sealed it himself. The staff knew, of course. They took the post off each day and brought him the incoming mail all sorted into business, personal, and family correspondence.

  This letter had gone out as family correspondence; it came back as personal, as if by action of post, his marchioness could dissolve their marital bond—though not the decades of familiarity marriage had engendered.

  Her ladyship was dissolving his sanity. Season by season, year by year, her stubbornness and independence were taking a toll on his reason and on his ability to hold his head up socially. Nobody said anything to his face, of course, but his womenfolk were not biddable.

  Not the girls and not their mother. Taking their cue from the marchioness, his three daughters went about socializing all over the realm, spending the Season in London, the summer at various house parties or by the sea, back to London for the Little Season, and then Yuletide with friends and cousins.

  If the northern summer light didn’t appeal to Joan’s confounded artistic inclinations, he’d have nobody to share an eighty-seven-room mansion with but Spathfoy. And Spathfoy bided at the family seat only periodically to look in on the farms, or possibly—lowering, odious thought—on his own father.

  Quinworth’s voting record in the Lords was distinguished. His holdings prospered year after year. He was accounted a handsome man, a man still in his prime, and from time to time he considered forming the kinds of liaisons available to wealthy, titled men even long past their prime.

  Then discarded the notion, unwilling to take the final step that would prove Deirdre had won. With a sense of growing despair, he held the letter to his nose and inhaled.

  ***

  “Spathfoy has proposed marriage to me.” Hester had to speak slowly because her Gaelic was very much a work in progress. She could understand almost everything Fee and Aunt Ariadne said to her, but they made allowances for her weak vocabulary and faulty syntax.

  Ariadne’s face lit with pleasure. “This is marvelous! You will be Fiona’s aunt twice over. Have you told the child?”

  Hester got up to pace the small, slightly overheated drawing room where they were having their late-morning tea. “I haven’t given Spathfoy my answer, and to be honest, I’m not sure what it will be. Augusta says I should make him wait, and suggests because of what happened with Jasper, I might not know my own mind.”

  “What happened with Jasper was unfortunate. I trust your fears in this regard have been relieved by Spathfoy’s attentions?”

  The question was delicately put while Aunt Ariadne fussed with the tea tray. Hester stopped her pacing and regarded Ariadne’s serene countenance.

  “Is there something you’d say to me, Aunt?”

  “Mr. Deal checks the sconces in the occupied hallways twice each night, or he has one of the footmen do it to ensure the wicks aren’t smoking and there’s adequate oil in the lamps. He told Mrs. Deal, who told me, that he heard laughter coming from your bedroom long after the family had gone to sleep. According to him, this is proof the house is once again haunted by some previous owner of dubious political judgment.”

  Hester turned away as if regarding the gardens beyond the window, though she couldn’t help but smile.

  “Laughter in bed is a wonderful thing, young lady. A thing to be treasured, and if I had to guess, I’d say Spathfoy is overdue for some laughter wherever he can find it.”

  “You’ll think me wicked.” And still, Hester did not risk looking Aunt Ariadne in the eye.

  “I’m the one who told you to get back on the horse. Aren’t you going to drink your tea?”

  Sly old boots. Hester obediently resumed a place on the sofa. “I haven’t, you know. Not entirely. Gotten back on the, um, horse.”

  “Oh, of course not.” Ariadne passed Hester a cup of tea that had to be tepid by now at best. “Though in my day, we didn’t buy a pair of boots without trying them on.”

  Hester hid her smile behind her teacup. “You are incorrigible, Aunt.”

  “I’m an old woman with a lot of lovely memories. If you’re lucky, you’ll grow up to be just like me.”


  “Are you telling me to accept Spathfoy’s proposal?”

  “I’m telling you not to let me eat all these cakes by myself. You haven’t known his lordship long, but sometimes, long acquaintance isn’t necessary in affairs of the heart. Has he said he loves you?”

  Hester set her teacup down more quickly than she’d intended to. “Love?”

  “It’s all the modern rage, the love match, or at least the appearance of one. You can marry where you will, Hester, and Spathfoy can likewise. In my day a woman was bound by the preferences of her parents, at least the first time around, but so were the young men. It put the new husband and wife in some sympathy with each other, which was often an adequate basis for friendship.”

  “I think Spathfoy could be my friend and I his.” This felt like the greater confidence, not the fact of his proposal, but why she was considering it.

  “Ah. You really should have some cakes, my dear.”

  “You are no help whatsoever, Aunt.” Hester took two chocolate cakes—Fee wasn’t underfoot to appropriate all the chocolate ones before anybody else had a chance—and regarded them side by side on her plate. “I want to accept Spathfoy’s proposal, but I am uncertain.”

  “It’s hard to be completely sure, though nice if you can be. I was with my second and third husbands.”

  “And?”

  “One turned out to be an idiot, the other was the love of my life.” She took a placid sip of her tea while Hester wanted to pitch a cake at her.

  “I haven’t known Spathfoy long, I haven’t met his family, I don’t know the state of his finances, he hasn’t given me a ring, and he has not declared his feelings for me.”

  “If you wait for a proper Englishman to declare his feelings, you will soon be an old maid. The ring can be procured easily enough, and I can assure you the man’s wealthy. His mother is a genius with figures. What is the real reason you’re hesitating, my dear?”

  Hester considered her tea cakes, then the view out the window, then the hearth, which sported a fire despite the temperate day.

  “I’m not sure.”

  But it had to do with love. She was fairly certain her hesitation had to do with love, and the likely lack thereof—on Spathfoy’s part.

  Or maybe it had to do with a lack of courage on hers.

  ***

  Tye had two days left before he had to leave or risk his father indulging in rash behavior. Two days and two nights to convince a shy, headstrong, passionate young lady not just to get back on the horse but to accept possession of the beast for the remainder of her earthly days—and nights.

  He didn’t even knock on her door this time, just pushed it open to see Hester sprawling belly-down on the hearth rug, a book open before her, her feet pointing toward the ceiling and her hair in a golden rope over her shoulder.

  “I trust I am not intruding?” He strolled into the room and did not permit himself to stare at the soft, warm, wool socks on her upthrust feet.

  “Spathfoy.” She glanced up but did not rise. “You were very quiet at dinner. I thought perhaps you’d need to catch up on your rest tonight.”

  She was teasing him. She knew how to tease; he did not. It left him feeling at a disadvantage, until another thought popped into his head: perhaps she was not teasing so much as seeking reassurances.

  He came down beside her, arranging himself so she was between him and the fire. “What are you reading?”

  “A journal I wrote when I was Fee’s age. My penmanship was atrocious—I doubt anybody else would be motivated to decipher it, which is probably a mercy.”

  “Were you very serious as a child?” He ran his palm down the length of her braid while she set the book aside and rested her cheek on her folded arms.

  “I was a happy child as long as I could stay out of Papa’s gun sights. Girl children were fortunately beneath his notice for the most part, until Genie became of marriageable age, and then he mostly tormented her and Mother.”

  She sounded forlorn. “Do you miss your mother?” God knew, he missed his—particularly since coming to Scotland.

  “No, I do not.” She rolled to her back and heaved out a sigh. “I wish I did, but I’ve tried to miss her and I can’t. I envy Fee having a mother and stepfather she can miss terribly.”

  Which topic, Tye was not about to explore any further under present circumstances. He settled his hand on her belly, let it ride up on her next breath. “Will you miss me, Hester Daniels? I leave shortly. I’d have your answer to my proposal before I ride off to the south.”

  “This is a time-limited proposal, then?” She captured his hand and turned her cheek into his palm, the tenderness of the gesture at variance with the pragmatism of her question.

  And with her query, Tye found himself on tricky ground. In the manner of women the world over, she’d dropped him square in the middle of a conversational quagmire, where every reply was fraught with risk.

  “Either you want to be my marchioness and bear my children or you do not. I am hoping you do, though I will not beg.”

  She regarded him by the firelight, her expression so unreadable—so unencouraging—Tye would have gotten up and left the room had she not wrapped a hand around the back of his neck. “When I left London, I did not know you, Tiberius, and now you want to give me children.”

  “I want to give you legitimate children.” With Hester, he could envision having a big family. The thought had never appealed before.

  “I do not intend to buy a pair of boots without trying them on, Spathfoy.”

  “I speak of holy matrimony, and you want to go shopping.” He kissed her, because a woman could prose on about her shopping at tiresome length. And Hester would prose on while Tye watched and felt the rising and falling of her breathing, and slowly lost his mind with the pleasure of it.

  “I do adore the scent of you, Tiberius.” She wound her arms around his neck and scooted closer, which reassured Tye he wouldn’t be stomping from the room in a rejected huff. The thought that she might, indeed, turn down his offer was… untenable. Leaving Scotland without Hester did not bear contemplation—and not because it would ease Fiona’s adjustment to a new household.

  “You are in the mood to tease me, Miss Daniels. Am I only to have kisses of you tonight?”

  “About my new boots.” She levered up and kissed him—really kissed him—her fingers trailing softly along his jaw then stealing down to slip inside his dressing gown and stroke over his bare chest. “I want to ask a favor of you, Tiberius Flynn.”

  Her thumb grazed his nipple, sending an electric current racing down through Tye’s body. “I am disposed to grant favors to you in my present situation.” He was also disposed to shift his hand so he covered the fullness of her breast through her nightclothes. Her nipple peaked against his palm, which had to be one of the most erotic sensations a man could endure.

  “It’s a small favor.” She pushed him onto his back, though it took him a moment to realize what she was about. He’d never made love on the floor before, but it loomed as a capital notion in those regions of his brain still capable of thought.

  “You have to close your eyes.” She brushed her hand down over his face. He caught a whiff of sweet flowers and tart lemon, probably from the lotion she rubbed into her skin.

  “My eyes are closed.” He found the bottom of her braid with his hands and slipped the ribbon off it. “What is this favor you seek?”

  “In a minute.”

  He felt her untying the sash of his robe. This too struck him as a positive development. While she parted the folds of his robe, he unraveled her braid and enjoyed the knowledge that she was in all likelihood looking at his rampant erection. If anything, the knowledge made him harder.

  “Shall you blindfold me, Hester? I’d enjoy it, I think.” The night was rife with firsts—he’d never meant such an offer so sincerely: he would enjoy it.
“I’m told it heightens the other senses, so I could better revel in the scent, feel, sound, and taste of you.”

  “Taste.” She didn’t make it a question, or maybe he didn’t give her time to elaborate. Using a hank of her unbound hair, Tye tugged her closer, cradled her cheek with his free hand, and guided her down to his mouth.

  “Taste,” he echoed. With his eyes closed, the kiss became a lovely, voluptuous, opening ceremony for what he sincerely hoped was another step in the seduction of his future wife.

  Or possibly, of her future husband.

  “Keep your eyes closed, Tiberius.” Fabric rustled and brushed against his ribs. “And you must not move.”

  At her admonition, he found himself blindfolded and bound by nothing more than the desire to please her, to be whatever she needed him to be for however long she wanted to keep him sprawled naked on her hearth rug.

  “Hester?”

  “Hmm?” A silky strand of hair wafted across his chest.

  “Do I, or does marriage to me, perchance, in some way resemble a new pair of boots?”

  More rustling. When he reached out this time, his hand encountered the smooth curve of her naked back, but the position wasn’t the right one for kiss—

  “More a parasol, I think.”

  The weight of her head settled low on his belly, and Tye’s heartbeat slowed to a dull, pounding thud against his ribs. “My dear, what are you about?”

  “Eyes closed. You mustn’t stop me.”

  As if… He licked dry lips. “How do I resemble a parasol?”

  He felt her fingers trace up the length of his erection, felt her breath waft across the engorged glans.

  “You appear all unassuming, folded up and waiting in the corner for an outing, and then”—she licked him, a delicate, catlike swirl of her tongue over the most sensitive spot—“one unfurls you and reveals your beauty, and all manner of interesting uses come to mind.”

  He should say something, before she—

  She took him into her mouth, slid her lips along his shaft, and withdrew, but not all the way. He fisted his hand in her hair and prayed for fortitude. “Hester, you must not.”