Page 45 of The MacGregor's Lady
His Boston, ferocious kisser of presuming earls, sounded shy, while her expression was so resolute it made him want to…
“Ye look damnably composed, Boston. I suppose you’ve made a squirrel’s nest of my hair?” This was intended to force her to look at him. She obligingly eyed him up and down and then went up her on toes.
“You look a fright. The squirrels in Canada must be the size of moose,” she said, smoothing her hand over his hair and her thumb over his bedamnedeyebrows, while treating Asher to a maddening hint of lavender.
“It’s more a matter of the squirrels in London being the size of American heiresses.”
She dropped back to her heels and took his arm, when he’d been half hoping she’d stomp off in a female taking—for reasons not clear to any man Asher knew, only a female could get into a taking.
“You look presentable now, and I think you’re safe from squirrels for the remainder of my stay here in England. Come along, Balfour. The temperature’s dropping, and you promised me a tot of grog.”
They started back in the direction of the house, arm in arm, though Asher was not sure whose arm was steadying whom.
“Balfour!”
Asher stopped. Beside him, Hannah shook loose of his arm and pivoted to face the stables. An instant of concern for her went through him, lest she lose her balance.
A large kilted fellow was striding from the direction of the stables. “By God, man, it’s supposed to be spring this far south, and I’m about to freeze my ba—boots off. Perhaps you’ll introduce me to the lady?”
Ian MacGregor stood in the middle of the alley in all his dark-haired, green-eyed glory, grinning like a handsome idiot—grinning like a younger brother who had seen far too much in the past few minutes, and who would remain silent about far too little of it.
***
The men in Scotland must all be the size of trees. Based on the dimensions of Balfour’s siblings and their wives, the women weren’t much smaller.
First Ian MacGregor had come laughing and shouting out of the stables, the man nearly as tall as his brother, and while he’d treated Balfour to a back-pounding male embrace, he’d bowed properly over Hannah’s hand and subjected her to a smile that would have parted any sighted female from her sanity.
Then the others had arrived in two enormous coaches commandeered at the new King’s Cross train station. Gilgallon MacGregor and his wife, Genie; Connor MacGregor and Julia; Matthew Daniels and Mary Fran MacGregor Daniels; and Mary Fran’s daughter, a delightful sprite by the name of Fiona. Julia, Genie, and Matthew were of English extraction, but their hearts had clearly been claimed by their Scottish spouses.
“You can relax,” Genie said as the men departed for “a wee dram” in the library, and the ladies repaired to the family parlor. “Asher’s brothers are here at his invitation, and they’ll behave, more or less.”
Genie was an English beauty, tall, slim, blond, and reserved, while the brown-haired Julia was shorter, rounder, and a few years Genie’s senior. Mary Fran, by contrast, was a red-haired Valkyrie whose voice carried a lilting burr not unlike Asher’s.
“You’ll scare the girl,” Mary Fran said, showing a toothy grin. “The menfolk will all be on their good behavior, at least once Ian has Augusta’s assurances the baby is settled in.” With a confidence Hannah envied, Mary Fran gave orders to the household staff to produce “decent sustenance and some toddies.”
“Ian and Augusta seem like devoted parents,” Hannah observed, though the word that first came to mind wasbesotted. As Augusta MacGregor had emerged from the coach, she’d handed her baby off to Ian, and the baby had remained in his father’s arms until the infant had been pried loose by the mother for transport to the nursery.
“They are ridiculous,” Julia said, flopping onto the settee. “I hope Connor is every bit as bad.”
She exchanged a look with Mary Fran, and then with Genie, and abruptly, Hannah became aware that all three of these women were likely in expectation of blessed events. Mary Fran’s blessed event looked to be making an appearance sooner rather than later.
Gracious heavens.
“The men will behave,” Genie said again, taking a seat beside Julia, “but we are not about to be so polite. Tell us, Miss Cooper, how you’re faring in London and what we can do to help you make an enviable match.”
The lady’s blue eyes shone with sincerity, and the expressions of her companions pilloried Hannah with a similarly earnest complement of good will. They deserved honesty, and for all their smiles were kind, Hannah had the sense Balfour’s womenfolk would have honesty from her, will she, nil she.
Hannah perched on the edge of her seat, back straight. “I am not set on making an enviable match. I’d like to make no match at all. What I want is to return to Boston as soon as may be, to eventually take up residence with my grandmother. That’s all I’ve ever wanted.”
Another set of glances passed around and across the room, more speculative but no less kind, maybe even concerned.
Mary Fran reached down to pet a black-and-white cat that had apparently made the journey south from Scotland. “You’re not looking to snatch a title from under the noses of the English debutantes, then?”
“I want to acquit myself adequately through the social Season, then return home on the fastest ship I can find.”
To her own ears, Hannah sounded neither wistful nor resolute. She sounded as if she were reciting a prayer by rote—or a history lesson.
“That’s a shame,” Julia said as the cat stropped itself against Genie’s skirts. “The Highlands in summer are glorious, the society to be had in Edinburgh wonderful, and a shopping trip to Paris not to be missed.”
