Page 69 of The MacGregor's Lady
Balfour’s answering smile held a daunting quantity of genuine concern for her. “I didn’t force you to buy dresses that don’t fit, Hannah Cooper. If you think for one moment I endorse the contortion of women’s waists into impossibly small dimensions simply to make their bosoms look larger by comparison, you are much mistaken about this too.”
Aboutthistoo?
They were in the middle of a London ballroom, and there were limits to how much trouble Hannah could get into simply by being honest.
“Would you care to elaborate? This is the supper waltz, and we’ll have time to go at least another two rounds on the topics of your choice.”
This was how she managed now, by dodging him at meals or dodging meals altogether, needling him when they had to be together, and dropping into bed each night too exhausted to torment herself with wishes that would never come true.
“You need a husband, and if it can’t be me, then choose some dim-witted, pretty, biddable boy, Hannah. Malcolm would suit admirably—he’s kindhearted without being ambitious. Take over the remittance, and he’ll never trouble you again.”
Hannah regarded him more closely, because this approach—tossing other Eligibles at her—was a new tactic. “I could not bind him to a contract to that effect. I’ve asked my lawyers about a husband of convenience, and they say no such agreement would be enforceable. It thwarts the sacred purposes of marriage, or some such rot.”
As they turned a corner of the ballroom, Balfour drew her a bit closer, and Hannah allowed it. Dancing with Asher had become her guilty pleasure, a few minutes of the evening when she could be in his arms, inhale his scent, revel in his strength and nearness, and torment herself thoroughly.
Though that last turn… Hannah felt a wave of dizziness pass over her.
“Are you all right?”
“I’m overpowered by your wit and charm, my lord. Don’t worry, the effect is fleeting.”
The look he gave her shamed her. It held wry humor, concern, and a hint of sympathy. “I’ve been thinking I should take you back North.”
She tried to draw back, the better to regard him. “Kidnap me?”
“No, take you and the entire family entourage to Edinburgh, which is quite fashionable, especially in the warmer months. A Scottish husband might be up to your mettle.”
She could not fathom that he’d marry her off to somebody else, and yet, he honestly believed marriage was in her best interests.
“You’re Scottish, and I’m not marryingyou.” Saying it aloud hurt, again. Hannah stumbled a little with the pain of it.
“For God’s sake, what’s amiss?”
“If you mention female bodily functions, my lord, I will not answer for the—” She tried to draw in a full breath, but her stays prevented it.
“Come with me.” He deftly turned her off the dance floor and led her through the milling crowd around the ballroom’s edge. Hannah followed blindly, the music sounding as if it were coming from a great distance, the edges of her vision darkening.
“I cannot understand why a woman with as much sense as you possess, as much single-minded determination to attend to her own—”
Asher’s words made little sense, but his voice and the grasp of his gloved hand on her wrist kept Hannah moving along behind him, even as she struggled to breathe.
Even as the thought tripped through her mind:Sothisiswhatit’s like to faint.
Fourteen
“We cannot—” Hannah pulled against Asher’s grip as she struggled audibly to breathe. “We cannot be private.” She sagged against a wall of the corridor, her complexion translucent by the light of the sconces.
Asher had seen many women faint, some of them even honestly, but the sight had never engendered such an upwelling of rage, protectiveness, and exasperation.
“You’d rather swoon on the dance floor as so many fashionable ladies do?” He scooped her up against his chest, which made her ball gown and petticoats billow all the hell over the place.
“I’m not—”
Except she was. As he carried her away from the ballroom, she went pliant and silent against him, not entirely lost to consciousness—not her—but subdued to an alarming extent. Asher pushed open the door to the Alcincoates’ library and found the room mercifully unoccupied.
A fireplace at least five feet high and five feet deep sported no blaze whatsoever, suggesting continued privacy, as did the meager light cast from two sconces burning low along the inside wall.
“You, madam, know better than to lace your stays this snugly. Avoiding food compounds your folly, and several glasses of Alcincoate’s punch was similarly ill-advised.” As he laid her on the velvet sofa, he went on lecturing her, mostly to give her something to focus on.
