Page 54 of The MacGregor's Lady
“The lift in her shoe gives her balance, and that’s a greater boon than either my title or my company.”
“Augusta says the Scots ought to hire out as professional martyrs, but my theory is that you’re letting Miss Hannah have her Season tormenting the bachelors and worrying the debutantes before you put your ring on her finger.”
Abruptly, the ballroom was too warm, the hour too late, the scent of wealth, perfumes, and overheated bodies too cloying. All that preliminary skirmishing over Mon—over the past had been merely the opening feint, for Ian had only now laid his true concern at his brother’s feet.
“Miss Hannah will return to Boston at the end of the Season, there to set up housekeeping with her aging granny, whom I’m given to believe is frail and much in need of cosseting.”
Ian’s gaze followed Hannah as she beamed at some relation of the Marquess of Spathfoy. Some wealthy, handsome English relation of marriageable age. Cousin Malcolm had his toothsome self glued to the side of her Connor did not occupy, and the looks from the chaperones had become venomous.
“No female related to Hannah Cooper could have the least patience for cosseting,” Ian replied.
Which had been Asher’s initial surmise too. “I’ve made some inquiries. Hannah’s stepfather is known for shrewd business practices, and for ruling his home with an iron hand.”
“I’m shrewd.” Ian’s observation held neither arrogance nor humor. “You’re shrewd.”
“I was trying to be delicate. My sources indicate the man’s commercial behaviors cross the line into sharp practice. He’s socially tolerated because of his Old World connections, upon which he trades at every opportunity. He has the sole care of Hannah’s paternal grandmother, whom Hannah characterizes as a poor relation.”
A poor relation who could manage to send her granddaughter only two brief letters in all the weeks Hannah had been from home.
“You’re not poor, Asher, and neither would you take advantage of a woman under your protection.” Something in the banked ferocity of Ian’s gaze suggested the comment did not allude to Hannah’s grandmother.
“Do we need to step outside, Ian?”
“We need to clarify what your intentions are toward Miss Hannah.”
Ian was shrewd, but he wasn’t prescient, nor could he read Asher’s thoughts. That he’d turn up as Hannah’s champion was something of a puzzle. “I have proposed marriage to the woman on more than one occasion.”
The satisfaction of having surprised his brother was bittersweet and short-lived, because Ian immediately reasoned to the logical conclusion. “She’s turned you down. What did you do, Asher? You’re passably good-looking, wealthy, you’ve the damned title, and your land marches with royal holdings. No woman in her right mind would turn down all that.”
“And yet… Twice, quite decisively. I didn’t get the impression she was dithering for show, either. She lectured me sincerely on my duty lying on this side of the Atlantic and hers on the other, and while a gentleman does not argue with a lady, even when she’s in error, in this case, the lady is right.” And all the while she’d lectured him, Hannah had fastened his waistcoat buttons and tidied his clothing and then his hair.
She’d smoothed her thumbs over his eyebrows too, which curious caress Asher was coming to crave.
Ian dumped his drink in a potted palm. “You own some of the fastest goddamned ships ever to carry freight. Why can’t she nip over to Boston every summer and check in on the granny, if the woman’s too frail to brave an ocean crossing?”
Yes, why couldn’t she?
Whywouldn’tshe?
“My charms are apparently not sufficient to convince Hannah such an arrangement would serve, any more than I could manage the earldom by popping in for a few weeks every summer.”
“Get some more charms, then.”
Miss Hannah Cooper had fully inspected all but a few of Asher’s limited charms, though Ian hardly needed to be apprised of that. “Ian, Hannah may have the right of it. I do need to be in Scotland, and her grandmother may well need the protection Hannah can offer her.”
“Elders don’t live forever.”
Ian had an answer for everything, but his expression had taken on the same resigned exasperation Asher had felt since leaving Hannah in the kitchen three nights past. “Not forever, but how old is Fenimore?”
The soft swearing that ensued was virtuosic, encompassing English, Gaelic, and even a touch of French. Across the room, Cousin Malcolm had found some bloody polite pretext for kissing Hannah’s gloved fingers, while Asher occupied himself with calculating the earliest date he might have more answers to the questions he’d sent to his office in Boston.
Eleven
Malcolm Macallan was a flirt and a comfort.
The comfort came from his smile, which was sympathetic, conveying to Hannah that with Malcolm, she would never have to use her knee to good advantage in some dark corner. His height was reassuring too—just an inch over six feet, which made him merely tall—as were his sandy hair and blue eyes. Nothing about Malcolm held the sense of banked power and emotion common to his MacGregor relations.
Malcolm’s friendly smile was at variance with Asher’s version of the same expression, which had had a lot of teeth and more than a little challenge to it.Thatsmile had gotten Hannah through the ordeal of her first public waltz.
