Page 80 of The MacGregor's Lady
“Saw me?”
“Last night.” Her Grace was a tall woman. When she slipped her arm through Hannah’s, Hannah had no choice but to wander down the white gravel walkway with her guest. “At the ball. Your swain was so concerned for you he did not notice one little old lady on her way to the retiring room. He was carrying you down the corridor, your skirts billowing, and you were so pale…”
Her Grace’s gaze strayed to the flower in Hannah’s hand.Littleoldlady, indeed. Hannah found the duchess neither little nor old, though she was, unquestionably, a lady.
“I fainted, Your Grace. I don’t know what gossip you’ve heard, but Lord Balfour was concerned for me, nothing more.”
“He was beside himself. I wasn’t at all sure we should call so soon, but Moreland was of the opinion that it couldn’t hurt.”
A duke and a duchess had discussed Hannah’s swoon. The notion was unfathomable, and not in a comforting sense. “We’re very pleased to have your company, Your Grace. Were Ash—his lordship here, I’m sure he’d agree.”
Except Asher hadn’t come back from his ride in the park with his brothers. He’d said something to them about business in the City, and now all and sundry were milling about the garden among near royalty without benefit of Lord Balfour’s charming presence.
“I have nine children, Miss Cooper, and an embarrassment of grandchildren. Do you know your eyes change when you think of him?”
Hannah did not dare slip her arm free, but she wanted to. She wanted to tear off directly for the docks. It was one thing to be interrogated by a duchess, quite another to be interrogated by a mother of nine, and something else yet again to answer questions put by a seasoned grandmother.
“Lord Balfour is an estimable man and an exemplary host.”
“Moreland says the fellow is besotted with you. His Grace has an instinct for these things—much as his father did—though you’d never think it to watch him duking about.”
Her Grace gave her husband a little wave.
“I’m sure His Grace is a very good judge of character.” Hannah was wearing gloves too, of course, excellent gloves of pale kidskin. As she twirled the rose between her fingers, a thorn managed to prick her even through the leather.
“He is an excellent judge of character, among many other things—he married me, didn’t he?” She beamed at her husband like a girl of eighteen. “His reasoning, to which it is my ceaseless privilege to be privy, went thus: if you and your swain needed a little persuading toward the altar, then this minor tempest would see you wed. That’s fine, assuming you are equally besotted.” The duchess paused and regarded Hannah levelly. “Are you besotted?”
Of course she was. Besotted wasn’t merely in love. Besotted was somewhere between passionately fond and enamored nigh to illness. Hannah considered dissembling, considered mentioning the increasingly cloudy sky. Considered tossing the rose at the duchess’s dainty feet and bolting for the house.
“I esteem Lord Balfour above all others, Your Grace, but my responsibilities lie in Boston, and his are in Scotland.”
They walked on in silence while Hannah tried to swallow past a tightness in her throat.
“It’s as well we came to call then. Were you to marry his lordship, we’d be offering felicitations. Since you are not to marry, our call will ensure a peer of the realm and a blameless young lady preserve their spotless reputations. A word of advice, though, before my husband attaches himself to your other arm and begins to dispense same.”
“I am much in need of wise counsel, Your Grace.”
“Methinks you are in need of a handkerchief more, or perhaps a stout blow to your common sense.”
Grandmothers saw too much, regardless of rank, station, or society of origin. The duke was on his feet, bowing over each lady’s hand a dozen yards away.
“Do not hare off to the Colonies posthaste, Miss Cooper. Gad about at the seashore, go walking in the Lakes, enjoy the rest of the Season, flirt with the young men, make the young ladies jealous. If you make a hasty departure for America now, my efforts will mean nothing. There will be speculation, and that can be as damaging as outright accusations. And, Miss Cooper?”
Would this walk about the garden never end? “Yes, Your Grace?”
“Rare blooms are sometimes surprisingly hardy. They don’t merely survive transplanting. Sometimes they thrive all the better for new conditions.”
Her Grace patted Hannah’s cheek with the exact same blend of affection and warning Hannah’s own grandmother would have applied, then turned and called out to the duke. Five minutes later, amid much fluttering and smiling, the ducal conveyance rumbled off, though somehow, despite all the kind wishes and good cheer, the bloom in Hannah’s grasp had been torn to shreds.
***
“Letter for you.” Malcolm bounced into the parlor and handed the little epistle to Hannah. “It’s from Boston. I peeked. Shameless of me, but there you have it.”
“My thanks. If it’s for me, then it’s likely from Boston, isn’t it?”
Malcolm seated himself to Hannah’s left, studying his American soon-to-be-cousin. “Earlier today you were officially blessed by more venerable titles than London is likely to see outside of a royal christening, and yet, you look downcast. The Marchioness of Deene herselfwinkedat me, Hannah, and I’m thinking of posting a notice inTheTimesto this effect. What can possibly be amiss?”
He did not add that Hannah was soon to be laughing in the faces of all who’d smirked behind their fans the previous evening. One ducal bouquet would quiet the tabbies utterly, and a visit all but assured Hannah the wedding of the Season. He’d felt bad about the smirking, of course, but inspiration had struck when he’d seen Hannah and Asher skulking out of the ballroom hand in hand.
