Page 91 of The MacGregor's Lady
Matthew caught Mary Fran’s eye in one of those silent marital dialogues Hannah was also coming to envy.
“A few days of being stuffed with cream cakes never hurt any child,” Mary Fran said. “Never hurt a cat either.”
The marchioness’s smile faltered then blazed anew. “Cats, rabbits, uncles—if Fiona loves them, then they’re welcome in my houses. But, Balfour, you are remiss.” Still holding Fiona’s hand, the marchioness turned her smile on Asher. “Word of your engagement has preceded you. You must introduce me to your fiancée.”
Beside Hannah, Asher froze, while the marchioness’s smile became bright enough to guide lost ships through dense fog.
He untangled himself from Hannah’s arm and bowed over the marchioness’s hand. “I’m afraid your ladyship has mistaken the—”
Hannah spoke right over him. “We’re not engaged.”
The lady’s smile, full of teeth and conviction, was aimed at Hannah. “My dear, I’m very certain—very, very certain—that you and his lordship are quite engaged after all. Not another word now. We’ll discuss itlater. Come along, breakfast en famille is not to be missed.”
She swanned off so quickly, Fiona barely had time to snatch up her yowling cat before being towed away toward the waiting coach.
***
“Spathfoy’s mama is a Scotswoman and a damned English marchioness, Boston. You’ll not gainsay her in public if you value your life, my life, either of our reputations, or the standing of any of my siblings. The cat alone is safe from her reach, only because he belongs to Fiona.”
Hannah was nearly running to keep up with him, and Asher might have slowed down except he was nearly running to keep up with the damned marchioness. When a lady of wealth and title roused herself before dawn, tricked herself out in glorious finery, and met a train in her full regalia, mischief had to be brewing.
Some more mischief, in addition to what he and Hannah had already brewed up.
“Are we engaged, Asher? You said the license was just a piece of paper.”
Hannah sounded more bewildered than furious, fortunately. “Her ladyship won’t say another word until we’re assured of privacy. That was the intent of her ambush, to make sure we couldn’t misstep before strangers. Something’s afoot.”
“Something’samiss. Who is she?”
“Fiona’s paternal grandmother—another interfering granny. She’s Spathfoy’s mama, which explains much about them both.”
Though as grannies went, Deirdre Flynn, Marchioness of Quinworth, was a force of nature. She looked appreciably younger than her nearly fifty years and wore boldness like an exotic perfume blended exclusively for her.
Asher liked her, though he didn’t turn his back on her if he could avoid it. He’d noted that Spathfoy and her husband, the marquess, adopted the same policy while the woman’s three daughters emulated her in every particular.
“Into the coach, my dears.” Her ladyship’s smile still had that compelling quality, like a drill sergeant smiling at newly uniformed recruits before their first forced march. “Fee, you and the beast will join us at the town house. I’ll want to hear all about your adventures in London, and so will your grandpapa.”
More fussing and organizing took place while ladies were handed into coaches, and Hannah said nothing. At some point, Asher had linked his fingers with hers to make sure she didn’t hare off to the docks.
Or perhaps to comfort her.
When Hannah and Lady Quinworth were settled on the forward-facing seat and Asher on the bench across from them, Lady Quinworth gave the roof a smart rap with the handle of her parasol and produced a flask.
“It’s the custom in the Western Isles to start the day off with a wee nip. They’re hardy people out west.”
Hannah accepted the flask and tipped it to her lips. “Thank you, your ladyship. Do I offer it to—?”
“You do not.” Her ladyship collected the flask in a purple-gloved hand. “Balfour has his own. Now, imagine my pleasure at being disturbed at my slumbers late last night by a telegram from my darling son. Not a word of greeting, no felicitations—the boy takes after his father—but all dire warnings and bad news. I suspect his dear little wife put him up to it—she’s sensible, is our Hester.”
Asher did not take out his flask, though the temptation was great. “And the nature of those warnings, my lady?”
The coach lurched off in the direction of the New Town. Hannah wasn’t even pretending an interest in the passing sights.
“Forgive me, Miss Cooper, for being blunt. We have little time, because the announcement of your impending nuptials will be in the paper this very morning. I shall be inundated with callers, and we must fashion a proper story, mustn’t we?”
Hannah did not answer, but she’d gone pale enough that from across the coach Asher could count the freckles dusting the bridge of her nose.
Asher asked the obvious question, lest Hannah get to contradicting the marchioness again. “Who would announce our engagement, my lady? Miss Cooper and I have not, that I know of, plighted our troth.”
