Page 47 of The MacGregor's Lady
Ian spun him by the arm. “For God’s perishing sake, mon, will you let it go? You came back when you could, and there’s an end to it. We managed, you managed, and now we move on. You’re not the first man to wander too far from home for too long, and you willna be the last.”
“Home is a relative concept, and for some of us, a vague one. You’d best go see to your son.”
He was pulling rank, as an older brother, as the ostensible head of the family, as the host. Ian scrubbed a hand over eyes that conveyed fatigue, exasperation, and… affection.
Affection was better than pity—marginally.
“See to my son, I shall. You go rescue the Yankee rebel, though she seems a steady enough sort of female. It shouldn’t be too difficult to get her fired off, with the combined might of all the MacGregor womenfolk to see the thing done.” Ian’s gaze became speculative. “Squiring her about will keep you nicely occupied should the debutantes take notice of you.”
“The debutantes will be too busy admiring my brothers and envying their wives.”
Ian smirked and stepped back enough that Asher could open the door and flee—andleave.
***
“You can’t hide in here,” Balfour said, shoving away from the old wooden counter and stuffing a thick pair of glasses into a vest pocket. “I’mhiding here, and you should be upstairs with the rest of them, yodeling their ballads and stomping through their flings.”
Himself was in a cranky mood, despite the half smile on his lips. His vaguely belligerent stance, the way his hair stuck out on one side as if he’d run his hand through it repeatedly—not to mention the absence of a proper coat—all suggested Balfour was Not Receiving, not that Hannah’s bedclothes were appropriate to a social call either.
“I’m peckish. You wouldn’t deny a guest a snack, would you?” She brushed past him without more than glancing at his exposed knees and went to the tea drawers, measuring out a pot’s worth of an Assam blend.
“I would not deny you food. Make enough for two, if you please.” He set down a document of some sort and went to the bread box. “Will you join me in a scone?”
Hannah was inclined to refuse his offhand invitation, except… she’dmissedhim. In the days since his family had invaded the house, she’d had no peace, no quiet, and no time spent in Balfour’s exclusive company. She’d been dragged from one commercial emporium to another by the laughing, energetic MacGregor ladies; she’d been held captive in the nursery, reading stories to Fiona and trying not to notice how dear and adorable the baby was; she’d sat through endless noisy family meals where argument and teasing shared equal space on the menu with good food and fine drink…
While nobody called her Boston.
Nobody noticed what an ordeal it was to manage Aunt Enid.
Nobody kissed her.
“Half a scone will do for me. What are you reading, sir?”
“It’s a treatise written several years ago, ‘On the Mode of Communication of Cholera.’ Butter or jam?”
“Both, please.” She took the kettle off the hob and set the tea to steeping. “Is this your idea of recreational reading?”
He fetched the cream from the window box and arranged a tray with scones in a basket next to a little tub of butter and a jar of raspberry jam—all very orderly. “This city is ripe for another epidemic, and nobody really knows what causes them.”
“Anotherepidemic?”
“There was a bad outbreak here of Asian cholera less than twenty years ago. Nearly everybody who contracted the disease died from it. Doctor Snow does not think the thing is conveyed by foul miasmas.”
Cholera was not a cheering topic, but it apparently interested the earl. “What do you think?”
“I think, between the open sewers, the overcrowding, and the poor health of much of the populace, nobody in their right mind would call this place home if they could help it.”
His tone held despair and old misery. He stared at the full tray and ran his hand back through his hair. The light in the kitchen was dim, but Hannah suspected he’d lost weight since they’d come to London.
“Put me on a ship for Boston, Balfour. You can return to your wintry Highlands and brood about foul miasmas to your heart’s content.”
The half smile was back, and it was a relief to see it. “You never give up, do you, Hannah Cooper?”
She perched on a stool and pulled up her nightgown far enough to stick out her right foot. “I do not give up, but sometimes I accede to the dictates of common sense.” She wiggled her toes for good measure.
The half smile on his face blossomed into the genuine article, even reaching his dark eyes. “Maiden’s Blush becomes you. Does the lift make your foot ache?”
Hannah dropped her hem and hoped the shadows were sufficient to conceal her flaming cheeks. “Not my foot, but my hip, so to speak.”
