Page 46 of The MacGregor's Lady
“I loathe shopping.” The words were out, clipped, emphatic, and irretrievable.
“Ye loathe shoppin’?” Like her brother, Mary Fran’s burr became more in evidence as her sentiments came to the fore. “Now what manner of shops has Asher been taking you to, that you’d say such a thing?”
What followed was nothing less than a conference of generals intent on raiding the best shops from one end of the Strand to the other. The ladies planned forays down in Knightsbridge, sweet shops targeted on the fringes of Mayfair, and a milliner’s singled out up in Bloomsbury—because they’d be shopping for books in that general direction anyway.
Midway through the planning, large trays appeared with hot drink, sandwiches, and bowls of something that looked like curdled pudding.
“A toast,” Mary Fran said, holding up a mug. “Miss Cooper, you’ll join us.”
The drink was steaming and smelled of clove, lemon, and cinnamon… also of spirits and black tea.
“To successful shopping,” Mary Fran said, smiling broadly. “For the necessities and for the fripperies.”
Hannah put her drink to her lips, finding the brew restorative indeed. “That’s very… pleasant.”
“You call Balfour’s best whiskey pleasant?” Genie asked.
“Lord Balfour has taken me to some grog shops, and my head for spirits is improving the longer I visit.” The ladies found this amusing, as evidenced by their smiles and the way they peered at their drinks, at the cat, and anywhere but at Hannah.
Hannah finished her drink, not wanting to be rude. The ladies did not finish theirs, which struck her as odd—it was a very fine toddy, and the clove flavor put her in mind of Balfour’s kiss earlier in the day.
While the others chatted about finding Hannah a decent mount—decent being British for safe and sane—Hannah’s thoughts drifted back to that kiss.
She’d wanted to remain in Balfour’s arms forever, feeling safe and cherished and anything but sane.
She’d wanted to ask him if her kisses passed muster.
She’d wanted to tell him that his certainly had.
But mostly, she’d wanted to hold him and be held by him, and to never ever leave his arms.
***
“Do I mistake the matter, or did you invite us to travel the length of the realm—your siblings, our spouses, our children, and Fiona’s dratted cat—to join you here in London?”
Ian’s voice held patience and a touch of amusement. Asher gave him credit for waiting until Con and Gil had gone to “check on the baggage” before posing it.
“I don’t recall summoning the cat,” Asher replied. “Another dram?”
Ian didn’t immediately answer. He studied his brother with green eyes grown perspicacious with age.
Or marriage, or fatherhood. Perhaps from having been declared the earl for a year or two.
“You are staring at that door as closely as Con and Gill did,” Ian said, ambling over to the sideboard and refreshing his drink. “They have the excuse of having been cooped up in the damn train for most of the past two days, breathing soot, listening to Fiona beg for stories, and wishing neither the cat nor the baby enjoyed such relentlessly healthy digestion. Why are you pacing like a caged beast?”
Asher came to a halt before the fireplace, which sported the typical stinking, desultory blaze fed by coal. “I have two female guests, foreigners, one of whom doesn’t often leave the house, and the other is determined to be difficult about finding a husband. You’d be pacing too.”
Which explanation earned him another quiet perusal from his younger brother before Ian passed his drink to Asher. “Let’s nip off to the nursery, shall we? Augusta is tarrying there, I’ve no doubt of it, and you need a proper introduction to our mutual heir.”
Asher would rather be put in a cage in the Menagerie than visit the nursery. “This would be the little fellow with the healthy digestion? We exchanged greetings in the general melee accompanying his arrival. You go hide in the nursery with your wife and son, and I’ll ensure the womenfolk aren’t devouring Miss Cooper’s limited store of genteel manners one dainty, carnivorous bite at a time.”
He set the drink down untasted and made for the door, hoping Ian would fall in behind without further interrogation.
“He’s just a wee baby, Asher. He’ll likely have a deal of siblings to get into trouble with, and I’ve a suspicion his cousins are already on the way. Mary Fran certainly hasn’t wasted any time adding to her collection.”
Ian spoke quietly, his burr evident: a wee babbie, siblin’s…
Asher paused with his hand on the door, his back to his brother, while something—censure, curiosity,pity—wafted thickly on the coal-scented air. “All of which reassures me that should I fail to find a bride this year, the succession will continue to be in good hands.”
