Page 13 of The MacGregor's Lady
“Odd notions such as?”
She returned the book to her lap and gazed past him, into the fire. “I would like to be held in affection by my spouse, not merely tolerated for my fortune, for one thing.”
“Affection doesn’t strike me as too odd a notion.” Though affection for her? A fellow would have to scale the battlements of her disappointment and self-sufficiency, bare his soul, and place his heart entirely in her hands.
But what a lucky fellow he’d be, if she surrendered her heart in return.
“I would like my spouse to take me to wife whether I’ve a great fortune or only a modest dowry.”
“Many men marry women with modest dowries.” Many men with modest expectations, or personal fortunes of their own. Perhaps those were in short supply in Boston.
“Men generally only marry women of modest means when the fellow’s heart is engaged.”
“Affection and means of his own, then,” Asher said, and he wanted to add some deprecating little aside, except Boston wasn’t being unreasonable at all. Affection in a marriage would be… wonderful.
It had been wonderful.
“Does that smile suggest you are laughing at me, sir?”
“Was I smiling? I thought I was agreeing with you. Is your stepfather so easily disappointed that your modest requirements foiled his ambitions for you?”
“He presented me several choices, all of them beholden to him or deeply indebted to him or even in his employ. I considered each man and declined them one by one. He presented more, and more, until I realized he wasn’t going to stop.”
“What did you do?” Because clearly, she’d taken control of the situation somehow.
She used her peacock-feather bookmark to stroke her chin, the gesture distracting as hell. “I rejected those too.”
“You’ll have a whole crop of dandies to choose from when we reach London,” he said. Miss Hannah Cooper wasn’t being honest with him, not about her romantic past, in any case. “You will consider them too, I hope, and find at least one worthy of your hand.”
“What of you? Will you be considering the crop of ladies available to become Mrs. Lord Balfour?”
“Lady Balfour,” he corrected her, though he knew she was being Colonial on purpose, as he had often been Scottish on purpose, or even Mohawk. “And yes, I am specifically charged with that happy task.”
“You’re laughing at me again.” She picked up her book and ran her finger halfway down the page. “Not well done of you.”
He had to smile. Her choice of expression was British, the rebuke all the more effective for her crisp accent.
“Perhaps I’m laughing at myself. If you could spare me a few more minutes of your busy day?”
She did not put her book down but turned to gaze out the window. “It’s pouring snow out there, and you have a wonderful library. Forgive me for appreciating it—at your invitation.”
“Despite the snow, I am also charged with getting you and your aunt safely to London posthaste. My uncle the baron has suggested we depart several days hence.”
This time she batted her nose with the peacock feather, and Archer had to study the frigid weather lest he snatch the feather from her. “Aunt is not one to put up with discomforts silently.”
Unlike Miss Hannah Cooper, who had not once complained about her disability, nor had she complained about her stepfather, exactly. She’d answer Asher’s questions, albeit only up to a point.
“If we can’t take an express train, we’ll go in easy stages. The inns along the main routes boast decent accommodations, so your aunt should have no cause for complaint.”
“She will complain, though. Aunt has prodigious ability when it comes to manufacturing complaints.”
She studied her infernal feather, while Asher caught the ghost of a smile tilting her lips up.
Asmile?
“You want us delayed,” he said. “You’re enjoying this storm, looking forward to the lousy roads, the delayed trains, hoping they mean you miss the start of the Season.”
“They can’t possibly,” she said. “It’s barely March. The Season won’t start until the second week of April this year.”
