The Highlander’s English Bride: The Lairds Most Likely Book 6 Read online

  "Delayed? Why delayed?" Her father glanced around the packed room, and she watched him retreat into the mists of confusion.

  Hamish faced the crowd, and his voice rang with effortless authority. "I believe Sir John needs quiet and privacy. Under the circumstances, I won’t be making my presentation. It’s also been brought to my attention that the pamphlets contain a printing error. So all round, we must delay our celebration of the new comet for a few weeks. I apologize for your disappointment and I thank you for coming tonight."

  Emily regarded him in amazement and unwilling admiration. She’d forgotten he was a lord up in his wild Scottish hills. His air of command and his clear-eyed gaze had quite a few of the guests shuffling in embarrassment. She also had to give him credit for his quick thinking when it came to the pamphlets. A printing error indeed.

  The guests started to shuffle toward the doors, however reluctantly. To her surprise, that lordly dictate achieved its purpose, despite Hamish being younger than nearly every man here and the room heaving with London’s great and good. Not to mention that this wasn’t his house, so he had no right to order visitors on their way.

  On the other hand, Hamish was big and strong enough to toss any naysayers out on their ear if they dared to dawdle. When Emily first met him, his size as much as his intellectual self-confidence had daunted her. He was a huge, yellow-haired bear of a man. Handsome, she supposed, if one wanted a great lump of potent masculinity overshadowing one. She had more refined tastes. Although few of her female friends had ever found all that raw muscle and Scottish vigor off-putting.

  "We must expect some high spirits from the young people. A storm in a teacup. Speaking of storms, given the weather, it would be prudent to make our way home." Sir Humphry Davy, President of the Royal Society for the last two years, threw his considerable influence into clearing the room. He hadn’t been well lately and walked with a stick which he deployed with complete lack of ceremony to usher the guests out. After the previous president, the urbane Sir Joseph Banks, Sir Humphry’s bluff manners had come as a jolt to the gentleman scientists. "I’ll arrange for Mr. Douglas to present his findings at the next meeting. No harm done. No harm done."

  Except Emily could see that great harm had been done. The crowd might disburse as requested, but she caught the speculative glances leveled at her and Hamish. With difficulty, she kept herself from cringing away from the knowing looks. She knew just what the scientists of London and their wives would talk about over their toast and marmalade tomorrow morning. That shameless hussy Emily Baylor and that rogue Hamish Douglas.

  Nausea churned in her stomach, and her hand tightened on her father’s skeletal arm. Once upon a time, he’d been fit and alert. Once upon a time, he’d be the first to defend his daughter’s honor. Now he was old and frail and lost to what went on around him most of the time. That was the cruelest cut of all. Because in his more lucid moments, he’d understand the spiteful things that people said after tonight’s farrago.

  Sir Humphry bustled toward them. She read concern and apprehension beneath his air of bonhomie. "John, Emily, I’m so sorry the evening has come to an early end. John, we haven’t seen enough of you these past months. I hope you’ll come to the society’s meeting when this young Apollo finally gets his chance to report on his discovery."

  With a vague air of recognition, her father peered at the man who had been one of his closest friends. Emily mustered a shaky smile for her godfather. "Uncle Humphry, I’m sorry for causing all this trouble. I swear nothing untoward happened. My frock got caught in a shrub."

  Uncle Humphry’s round, blunt-featured face flushed with embarrassment. "I trust your word." His voice lowered, although Emily could have told him her father was too tired to follow the conversation. "Perhaps not the wisest—"

  "My fault entirely, Sir Humphry. Please accept my apologies," Hamish said. "Such a pity that my request for a few moments of private conversation should cause this brouhaha."

  Sir Humphry directed a disapproving stare at Hamish. "Yes, well, this room might be packed to the gills with the biggest brains in England. That doesn’t stop them enjoying a good gossip. They lap up scandal as avidly as any empty-headed old maid in Tunbridge Wells."

  A warning Emily didn’t need. Her stomach heaved and she feared she might actually be sick. By tomorrow morning, the tale of her lapse with the young Laird of Glen Lyon would be all over Town.

  Chapter 4

  Emily was in the library at the Bloomsbury house, struggling to focus on the household accounts. That task was always a trial, even when she felt vigorous and alert. But her father had had a bad night, and she’d been up to him several times. Eventually just before dawn, he’d fallen into a restless doze. This was his second interrupted night in a row, and it was all Hamish Douglas’s fault. Papa had come back from Greenwich in a state, despite her best efforts to reassure him that everything was as it should be.

  The problem was that she was a terrible liar, especially when she was in a state herself. While her father drifted in and out of reality with bewildering swiftness, enough of his native brilliance remained for him to note a room’s emotional temperature. Not only that, he knew her too well to believe her comforting falsehoods. Since her mamma’s death eleven years ago, Emily had worked in close partnership with him. He knew she was upset, he knew something untoward had happened at Pascoe Place, and he knew nobody had yet told him the full story.

  No wonder he fretted.

  Now on this rainy morning, Emily fretted, too, as eyes scratchy with sleeplessness studied the neat rows of figures in the ledger. There was enough money – just – but it was clear that she needed to make more economies. In recognition of his distinguished scientific work, the Crown had granted her father a modest pension. But the next payment wasn’t due for another six weeks.

  She struggled not to think of the grim future awaiting, once her father passed away and the pension ceased. Aside from her inevitable grief, she’d have to find some way of supporting herself in a world that didn’t favor overeducated females with a high opinion of their capabilities.

  Groaning, she covered her face as she recalled those vile moments in Greenwich. The queasy feeling returned with a vengeance, although it had never really gone away. Thanks to the night before last, she wasn’t just an overeducated female with a high opinion of her capabilities. She also had a scandal hanging over her head.

  Emily was so lost in misery, it took her a moment to realize that someone knocked at the door. With a heartfelt sigh, she lowered her hands and squared her shoulders. No doubt, given how gossip spread, the staff already knew about her disgrace, but she intended to put a brave face on things for as long as she could. "Come."

  Polly the housemaid opened the door and curtsied. "Begging your pardon for interrupting, miss, but Mr. Douglas is here."

  Mr. Douglas? Outrage twisted Emily’s stomach. The author of her current troubles was the last person she wanted to see. How she wished to heaven she’d left Hamish to stew. "I’m not at home to visitors this morning, Polly."

  The maid cast a quick look behind her. "He’s very set on seeing you."

  She could imagine. No wonder Polly looked flustered. Hamish in full flight could take on Napoleon and win. A mere housemaid would have no chance against him.

  Nonetheless after about three hours’ sleep in the last two days, Emily was in no mood to hear his apologies. If apologies were indeed what he came for.

  "Well, he can be set somewhere else," she said. "I’m busy."

  "Not too busy to see me, I’m sure," a rumbling bass voice said from the corridor. Hamish brushed past a fluttery Polly to stand large and vivid and so cursed self-satisfied in the middle of the floor.

  Emily ground her teeth and narrowed her eyes on the almost ridiculously virile male adorning her library. How she wished he wasn’t such a supreme example of masculinity. His self-confidence had always stuck in her craw, and she hated having to admit that there might be some justification for his swagge
r.

  Perhaps it was because he was Scottish – even if he sounded as London-bred as she did – that Hamish always brought the suggestion of a wilder, more exciting world with him. He was huge, taller than any other man she knew, and built like a Viking raider. Broad shoulders, beefy arms, a chest that should be covered in chainmail instead of the perfect Savile Row tailoring he wore.

  He was fair like a Viking, too. With wheat-blond hair, and golden skin that never faded to a London pallor, and bright blue eyes that didn’t miss a thing. On first meeting him, people sometimes assumed that Mr. Douglas’s overwhelming physical presence must equate to a dull mind. They didn’t assume that for long.

  Emily had grown up surrounded by clever men. Hamish Douglas was the cleverest man she’d ever met. Or at least he was when his volatile emotions didn’t get the better of him.

  The way they’d got the better of him two nights ago.

  The recollection of the disaster he’d caused lent her voice a hard edge. "My father may have let you run tame over this house, Hamish. But right now I’m in charge, and I don’t have time for your nonsense this morning. In fact, after what happened at Greenwich, I doubt I’ll ever have time for you again."

  Since leaving Lord Pascoe’s, her main concern had been calming her father’s agitation. Her secondary concern had been how on earth she could come around from the wreck of her reputation.

  No one had called at the house yesterday, which was indication enough that the world was busy elsewhere, dragging her name through the mud. Her pride shied away from the thought. Even without fearing how this scandal would affect her future, she cringed from being the target of vicious gossip. With her odd intellectual interests and outspoken manner, she’d never been the ideal of womanhood. But in all her twenty-four years, nobody had ever questioned her virtue.

  Which was why right now she’d happily slap the cheerful smile from Hamish Douglas’s face. If only he’d acted like a reasonable man in Greenwich and accepted her conclusions, she wouldn’t be in trouble.

  "That would be a pity when we’re such old friends," Hamish said, which was a blatant lie. They’d never been friends. He cast a meaningful glance at Polly. "I’d like a word alone with your mistress."

  "Polly, please show Mr. Douglas out," Emily said over the girl’s quick, "As you wish, Mr. Douglas."

  "Polly!"

  Hamish smiled at the maid with the flashing charm Emily had always acknowledged, however reluctantly. "Someone’s in a ticklish mood today."

  "Miss Baylor was up all night to the master, sir. I’m not surprised she’s a bit grumpy."

  "Polly, that’s enough," Emily snapped.

  "Yes, miss. I’m sorry, miss." The girl blushed and avoided her eye. "I’ll go now."

  "Not before you show Mr. Douglas to…"

  But the maid had already scuttled out of the room and closed the door behind her. If Emily had a shred of reputation left to lose, she might worry about the propriety of staying behind a closed door with Hamish. She was too furious to be worried.

  Surging to her feet, she clenched her hands at her sides. She told herself she couldn’t punch him. She was a lady. But by God, she’d like to, even if he was too lumbering and brawny to notice her flimsy attempts to harm him.

  "Hamish, this isn’t your house," she said through stiff lips. "You no longer live here. You have no special rights. I’ve been polite and asked you to leave. I’ll thank you to cooperate."

  One dark gold eyebrow quirked in her direction. "Polite?"

  Her lips tightened. "At least as polite as you’ve been, barging your way in here, when you must know you’re the last person I want to see."

  The spark of teasing amusement faded from his eyes, although he didn’t show any sign of leaving, damn him. As if to confirm that, he placed his high-crowned beaver hat on a chair. "I’m sorry to hear that."

  "But surely not surprised," she retorted.

  He shrugged. "Not entirely. I’m also sorry to hear your father isn’t well."

  "He hasn’t been well for two years."

  Hamish frowned, and she shrank from the compassion that softened his eyes. That unwelcome sensitivity was one of the most grating things about him. She’d dearly love to dismiss him as nothing but a mountain of puffed-up male conceit, but Hamish was among the few of her father’s protégés who had made a real effort to help Sir John in his decline. "I know. But I was shocked to see him at the reception."

  Since her father’s health started to fade, anxiety and grief underlay everything Emily did. Now that sorrow threatened to rise and shatter her shaky control. Frantic not to break down, she chased after her anger and caught it in a firm grip.

  Her anger with Hamish made her feel strong. Dissolving into a storm of tears in front of him would not.

  "Your actions the other night didn’t help."

  She waited for him to defend himself, but instead he leveled his shoulders and subjected her to an unwavering stare. She’d never seen him look so serious. "That’s what I’m here to talk about."

  Oh, dear Lord. What was the point of going over the finer points of that shambles? "It’s too late for an apology."

  "Yes, it is. Nonetheless, I apologize unreservedly. I wronged you, Emily."

  Surprised, she met his eyes. He still looked somber and troubled. And damn him, far too handsome for his own good. Or hers.

  His ready shouldering of the blame forced her to a grudging confession. "It wasn’t all your fault. I knew better than to go outside with you."

  Grim humor turned down that expressive mouth. "When I build up a head of steam, I’m hard to gainsay."

  That was something else she liked about Hamish – once his temper subsided, he was willing to own up to being in the wrong. Even in Greenwich, after he checked the offending calculation, he’d admitted his mistake. But by then, faulty mathematics had been the least of their problems.

  Her belligerence became more and more difficult to maintain. She sighed and despite everything, the taut, high line of her shoulders relaxed. "You are. And we were unlucky, too. I wanted to throttle that blasted henwit Matilda Conley."

  "Bad luck was only an issue because of my bad judgment."

  She gestured for him to sit, accepting that she wasn’t going to throw him out. Raising her chin, she injected false cheerfulness into her tone. "It will all blow over."

  Hamish didn’t shift from where he stood. "No. I don’t think it will."

  Nor did she. Not really.

  Feeling cornered, she backed away and curled one hand over the back of the chair she’d been sitting in. "We didn’t do anything wrong."

  No trace of his usual smile lit the deep blue eyes he leveled on her. Nor did he sit down, which meant he still loomed over her like a mighty cliffside. "The world sees it differently."

  She sliced the air with a dismissive hand. "I’m a spinster lady past marriageable age and up until this point, I’ve had a spotless reputation. Outside the scientific community, nobody even knows I’m alive."

  She hid a wince as more of that dratted compassion softened his gaze. Hamish Douglas would not feel sorry for her. She would not permit him to.

  "The scientific community includes many of society’s darlings. Only the great and the good have the money to dabble in arcane matters like the discovery of comets."

  A realization struck her, and not a particularly pleasant one at that. "You’re worried for your own reputation."

  He didn’t even flinch. "I am indeed. I hope one day to be Astronomer Royal. At the very least, I plan to spend the rest of my life working with the men who witnessed our downfall."

  She wanted to object to his use of the word "men," but they both knew how few women carved out a scientific career. Influence in London’s intellectual circles was a masculine prerogative.

  "I’m sorry your ambition has suffered a minor setback," she said with a hint of sarcasm.

  "Hardly minor. A man with a dishonored name is unlikely to reach the peak of acclaim. Don’t mistak
e me. I also care about the damage to your name. These things are always worse for the lady, however much I wish that wasn’t the case. But nor am I blind to the harm all this talk will do to my hopes."

  Emily hid another wince. She felt small for mocking him.

  As a woman, she’d always be an outsider in the scientific community, however clever she was. Hamish had started with a disadvantage that was almost as fatal. He was Scottish, and he’d arrived in London with no connections in the world he aspired to dominate. But because he was a man and because he had an exceptional brain, he’d made his way so successfully that when he spoke of becoming Astronomer Royal, it didn’t sound like hubris.

  "I’m sure they’ll forgive you in time. You just need to keep your nose clean from here on in."

  With visible regret, he shook his head. "They’ll forgive me after I make amends for my sins."

  She frowned. "Are you going away until it all dies down?"

  "That would be something."

  "So you’re here to say goodbye to Papa?" Both of them knew that if Hamish went into extended exile, Sir John Baylor wouldn’t live to see his return.

  She felt a pang at the idea of him going. Which was mad when he’d caused her so much trouble.

  Hamish’s chiseled jaw set in a determined line, and a muscle flickered in his lean cheek. "No."

  "I’m sure he wouldn’t mind if I woke him. He always loves to see you. Although I’m not sure how alert he’ll be."

  One large, capable hand made a sweeping gesture. "Yes, I’ll need to talk to him. But, Emily…Miss Baylor, you misunderstand me. I’m not here to say goodbye. I’m here to ask you to become a permanent part of my life."

  Oh, no… Not this. Not this.

  Her knees turned to water, and she gripped the back of the chair so tightly that her knuckles went white. Icy dread trickled down her backbone. Surely he couldn’t mean what she feared he did. "Hamish, I…"

  He rushed on before she could finish. Nor did he sound any happier to say what he did than she was to hear it. "Miss Baylor, I’d count myself the luckiest man in England if you will consent to become my wife."