Page 82 of Romancing the Scot
While serving as a cavalry officer, Hugh had been filled with thoughts of duty and ambitions of glory. He’d never taken even a moment to think of the meaning of fatherhood until his son was gone. Unlike his own father, who’d been everything to his children—teacher, counselor, judge and jury, and protector—Hugh somehow missed the responsibility of what it took to be a parent until it was too late. And then he had mourned, wishing he could page back through the book of time. But in the end, the bitter past remained in the past, and a blank future was all he was left with.
Until now.
Hugh looked up the hill at Baronsford. A curtain danced softly out the window of Grace’s bedroom. He recalled how he’d left her this morning at dawn, her blue eyes watching him lovingly, her hand reaching out to him until he went to her and kissed her lips. During the night, each time they’d joined together, they’d loved recklessly, both giving their all, until they lay in the sheets, watching the sky brighten with the coming day. Sometime in the night, he recalled wishing that perhaps she’d end up carrying their child.
Hugh was older now, wiser than the young man of a decade ago. He recognized that Grace was the single thing that made him whole. And if it be a child that they created together or one that they adopted—as Jo had come to be his sister—he now hoped for a second chance at fatherhood.
This morning, his father had sent a rider ahead from the inn to inform them of their arrival, and the shouts relayed across the fields now stirred him from his reveries.
By the time he reached the front courtyard, the servants were streaming out of the house and forming their lines. Truscott and Violet had also just arrived. Hugh watched in amusement as Jo came out, holding firmly to Grace’s arm, as if making certain that she wouldn’t run away.
Grace had decided on a blue dress that matched the color of her magical eyes. She saw him and blushed, and he was swept up with the urgency of wanting to go to her and kiss her on the lips, regardless of their audience.
“Well, every sitting room, salon, and bedchamber in Baronsford has been turned upside down and shaken twice by the staff,” Jo said, motioning toward Mrs. Henson and Mr. Simons, still squabbling as they made their way out into the yard. “Every window has been opened. Every floor has been scrubbed. Fresh flowers have been cut, arranged, and placed in every room. And they’re still not happy.”
“One growl by my father and that will be the end of their bickering.”
“Don’t scare our friend here with stories of him,” Jo chided.
Hugh saw Grace run a hand down the front of her dress. Her shoulders were stiff, her back ramrod straight. She was nervous.
He went to stand next to her. “Our mother is soft-spoken and gentle. She is the embodiment of affection. She will love you on sight.”
“His lordship has a gruff tone and a strong voice,” Jo started. “He’s direct with his questions to the point of being abrupt. It’s just his way.”
“But when it comes to his daughters, they can do no wrong.” He leaned close and whispered in her ear, “And don’t forget, you’re already one of those.”
The blush turned a darker shade, and she looked down at the tips of her shoes just as two carriages appeared over the crest of the hill.
* * *
Grace thought the flock of butterflies that had taken flight in her stomach would lift her up and carry her away. She almost wished they would.
Lady Aytoun was the first one out of the carriage. No sooner had her foot touched the gravel than Hugh lifted her off the ground and swung her around like a doll. The countess squealed and then protested happily until he put her down.
“Where is your sense of decorum?” she complained, unable to keep the smile from her face.
“You know he has no decorum when it comes to you.” The Earl of Aytoun stepped down from the carriage. Despite his graying hair and a slight limp, his lordship was as tall and broad in the shoulders as his son. He stretched a hand out to Hugh as the countess embraced Jo. “I warn you. If you even think about twirling me about like your mother, we’ll have it out right here.”
Hugh went to him and, ignoring the extended hand, lifted his father off the ground in a bear’s hug, albeit only a few inches. The earl laughed heartily as his son set him down.
The affection which both the parents showed their son and daughter warmed Grace’s heart. Their greeting of Truscott and Violet was no less familial. As the two passed down the long line of assembled staff with the butler at their elbow, they paused to speak with so many. Between the two of them, the earl and countess knew nearly every person by name, and the butler introduced new staff members. They asked about families, wanted to know particulars.
Watching them, Grace realized Hugh’s gray eyes were inherited from his mother, while his height and build had come from his father. And like Hugh, the earl’s face displayed scars that only added to his threatening bearing.
In spite of that, Grace saw how Lord Aytoun stayed close to the countess as they moved along the line toward the main entrance. The caress of his wife’s back when they paused to speak to someone was matched by affectionate glances she directed toward him as he addressed a footman or a maid. Their love for each other was impossible to miss, and Grace recalled Jo saying that their story was one of second chances at love . . . for both of them.
Backing away from the reception line while his wife was speaking to the housekeeper, the earl turned to his son. “So where are you hiding her?” he demanded gruffly.
Grace didn’t realize it until now, but she’d edged behind one of the footmen by the door. She stepped forward just as Hugh reached her.
“Don’t worry, my love,” he whispered, putting a hand on the small of her back. “I’m stronger, and I’ll knock him down if need be.”
Suddenly, the armor of protective confidence fell away. As she stood watching them approach, her heart palpitated, her chest tightened. Grace curtsied as Hugh made the introductions.
The countess handed off her gloves to her husband and took both of Grace’s hands in hers. The woman’s kindly gray eyes dropped to their fingers, which Grace realized had turned to blocks of ice.
“May I call you Grace?” Hugh’s mother asked. “We have a tradition of first names in our family that goes back generations.”
