Page 8 of The MacGregor's Lady
Hannah needed his arm, between the wet cobblestones, her limp, and the rum. He was utterly solid, his pace was sedate, and given the way his coat had hung over hers, his scent was wafting into her nose. Cinnamon, clove, nutmeg, a little ginger, and a dash of sea travel.
His scent reminded her of the rum buns, but in the privacy of her thoughts, Hannah admitted the earl’s fragrance was the more attractive.
***
Asher had caught the lady, though only barely. That was the good news, but the bad news…
Damn and blast if the old man hadn’t given Asher an impossible task. Bad enough Asher was to go bride hunting, bad enough he had to drag this red-haired American rebel-spinster-heiress around with him, bad enough she would limp onto the dance floor if she could even dance, worse yet helikedthe infernal woman, but now he’d nearly dropped her on a patch of ice, and her locomotion was further jeopardized.
“She was bobbing along beside me, enjoying the air, and then she hit a patch of wet ice, and down she went,” Asher told the aunt. Miss Hannah had nearly taken him with her, too, so frantically had she struggled to maintain her balance.
The aunt shrugged as she took a sip of her wine. “She falls occasionally. When she was younger, my brother ordered that all of Hannah’s clothes be in plain dark colors so the mud wouldn’t show. Fortunately, she has gained some poise.”
“She doesn’t wear dark colors exclusively now, I hope? Here the darker colors are mostly for married women, widows, older companions, and so forth.” And the darkest colors were for mourning, to which Miss Hannah might well consider herself entitled.
“You will have to take this up with her.” Miss Cooper gestured with her glass of claret, spilling a drop on the pristine tablecloth. “Do you know what a pleasure it is to have Continental wines of an evening? Back home, they are a rare and expensive treat.”
“I’m glad you’re enjoying yourself.” If chronic mild inebriation could be called enjoying oneself. “Assuming your niece recovers adequately, by the end of next week I’d like to depart for London, where the selection of all manner of delicacies will be superior.”
“We are in your hands, my lord. My brother told me to show you every respect, so I must trust your judgment in all matters.”
She batted her lashes, and Asher felt a lick of dyspepsia to think the woman might be flirting with him.
“Madam, if you will excuse me, rather than chase you to the parlor for your tea, I’ll leave you the table so you might linger over your wine and cheese.”
He bowed and left the dining parlor at a swift walk, knowing he was being rude. Let her have her Continental wines, and he’d have his guilty conscience. It was a companion of long standing, not quite an old friend, but the next best thing—a familiar enemy.
Asher found Miss Hannah in her sitting room, her foot propped under a blanket while she reclined on a chaise near the fire. He knocked on the slightly open door, then let himself in, leaving the door ajar as a nod to propriety.
“Good evening, Miss Cooper. How can you read with the lamps turned so low?” And why would she be reading, when she might have turned to any one of her aunt’s various patent remedies instead?
“When I started to read it was quite light,” she said, putting down a bound version ofDavidCopperfield.
“You have bellpulls in America.” He fingered the strip of tasseled brocade dangling above her. “Why not have a maid turn up the lamps, refresh your tea, and generally cosset you?”
“Cosset?” She gave him a thin-lipped look, as if this was one of those words that meant something altogether less savory on this side of the Atlantic. Woe unto the London swains who merited that look from her.
“So you neither swan nor permit cosseting,” he concluded, moving around the room to turn up the lamps. “Are you comfortable enough? The physician said you could have some laudanum.”
Her expression grew, if anything, more severe.
“This is growing to be a long list, Hannah Cooper.” He sat on the raised hearth at her side. “No cosseting, no swanning, no laudanum. One wonders what you do for recreation.” Though given her aunt’s proclivities, he could understand that last prohibition.
“I love to read.” She traced a finger over the gilt lettering of the book’s title, gently, as if poor Trot’s peregrinations through life’s vicissitudes comforted her.
“You’re going to love to shop, too,” Asher said. “Your aunt abdicated decision-making authority in this sphere to me at dinner, so be warned.”
She closed the book with a snap, a peacock feather marking her place. “I most assuredly do not love to shop, not for clothing, if that’s what you’re implying.”
He rose and shifted the fireplace screen, then pokered some air into the coals and layered wood and coal on the blaze.
“We don’t burn as much coal in Boston,” his guest observed. “It has a distinctive aroma.”
Coal smoke purely stank, and in Asher’s experience, aggravated the lungs. The longhouse had been full of smoke too, though, and that had resulted in all manner of consumptive ailments.
“I prefer wood smoke myself.” And starry nights, too. Since returning to Scotland this time, he’d even lain awake, missing the howling of the wolves.
Asher repositioned the screen and resumed his perch on the hearth. “England has more coal than trees, or it soon will, so needs must. Let’s make a list of things you’re going to fight me on, shall we?”
