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

  She studied this big, clever, handsome man who was likely to become her husband. She’d wager her back teeth that he knew exactly how nice it was to lie down with someone he desired. She’d also wager that if he didn’t find satisfaction at home, he’d soon seek it elsewhere.

  Given she banned Hamish from her bed, she was hardly fair to resent him for finding relief in another woman’s arms. But lack of fairness didn’t stop her from resenting the prospect with every cell in her body.

  She didn’t like the idea of the world knowing that her husband was unfaithful. Because of course the world always found out. She’d heard enough on dits to understand how fast gossip spread. Today the talk was about her, and she hated it. She’d hate it, too, when London tittered over Hamish Douglas’s conquests and how his wife couldn’t keep her roving spouse at home. Even worse, while she mightn’t want Hamish touching her, something deep inside her didn’t want him touching anyone else either.

  "Emily?" His voice was kind.

  "Think about what we’re doing, Hamish." She sounded desperate, but whether desperate for him to walk away, or stay and bring this mad plan to fruition, she couldn’t have said. "If we marry, there’s no escape."

  Bleak humor quirked his lips. "No escape for you either."

  "I know," she said with such dourness that he laughed, although with a hint of chagrin.

  "I’m sure I’m not nearly as bad as you think I am. I was a barbarian at twenty, but that was a lifetime ago. Since then, I’ve become almost civilized."

  She didn’t smile. "Your temper can still get the better of you."

  His brief amusement faded, and he frowned as he stepped back from her. "By God, you’re not afraid of me, are you?"

  "You’re big."

  He gave a self-derisory grunt. "That I am. But I swear I’d never hit a woman."

  Actually despite his size, she’d never considered him a violent man. "I believe you."

  "Thank you." He looked relieved. "And I come down from the heights pretty quickly."

  Her lips compressed. "But by then, the damage is usually done."

  "This trouble we’re in is a case in point, isn’t it?"

  "Yes," she said, because really what else was there to say?

  Looking for all the world like a reasonable man, he spread his hands in appeal. But with Hamish Douglas, she knew better than to rely on appearances. "I’m sorry I didn’t believe you when you told me about the mistake. If I had, none of this would have happened."

  "I suppose your masculine superiority couldn’t countenance a mere woman pointing out your error."

  He subjected her to another of those piercing gazes that always breached her defenses. "You know, you’ve said something like that before."

  "Like what?"

  "That I think you’re a lesser creation because you’re a woman. As if being female makes you weak and foolish and incapable."

  "Don’t you think that?" she asked, astonished. "Most men do."

  "Not any men with a scrap of intelligence." He gave a wry laugh. "I might have made a few unfortunate remarks to that effect, but that was only to needle you. I grew up with formidable women. Damn it, my mother pretty much runs the government, whoever the newspapers might say is in charge."

  Lady Glen Lyon, a vaunted beauty in her youth, was now a famous political hostess. Emily had met her a couple of times and found her absolutely terrifying. Charming but daunting.

  "Then why do you always try to cut me down to size?"

  He responded with another of those amused grunts. "That’s not because you’re a woman. That’s because you’re…you."

  "I don’t understand."

  He ran his hand through his thick mane of golden hair. In private, Emily admitted that his mother wasn’t the only Douglas who could be charming. He’d arrived this morning dressed fit for a royal audience, and she’d wondered in despair how such a common creature as Emily Baylor could aspire to marry him. Now with his hair ruffled and with a gilded lock falling over his high forehead, he looked disarmingly approachable.

  "Do you really want to talk about this?"

  She folded her arms, wondering why he looked shifty all of a sudden. "I’d like us to understand each other better."

  He sighed and tilted his head back so he could stare at the plaster ceiling.

  "Seeking heavenly guidance?" she asked in the sweet voice that she knew drove him to the edge.

  His eyebrows arched as he shifted to survey her. "You always treat me like a blundering hound that someone had the bad manners to release in the drawing room. You act as if you’re not sure if I’m housetrained."

  "That’s not fair," she said, although to her regret, it really was.

  He shrugged. "You asked. When I arrived here ten years ago, you stuck that perfect little nose in the air. Since then, it hasn’t lowered an inch. Every time I opened my mouth, you delivered a crushing response. What else is a man to do but fight back?"

  "That doesn’t paint a very flattering picture." She swung away, trying to evade his accusations.

  Although looking back, he was right. From the first, she’d set out to puncture what she saw as Hamish’s arrogance. Which now seemed silly, given that he was considerably less arrogant than most of her father’s cronies. At least Hamish always acknowledged her existence.

  "Is it Scotsmen you don’t like?"

  She came to a stop near the fire and curled one hand over the corner of the mantelpiece, which as Hamish had pointed out, now lacked two Chinese vases. "You never sound like a Scotsman."

  His features froze. She must have hit a nerve. Goodness knew why. It seemed a less controversial comment than some of the other things she’d said to him today.

  "My father lived in London all through the war, so I was brought up with a crowd of useless Sassenachs." He sounded defensive, although she hadn’t meant to insult him. "I can’t help it if I talk like them."

  "Sassenachs?"

  "The English. North of the border, it’s no favor to sound like the enemy, believe me."

  Startled, she stared at him. "Surely you don’t think of the English as your enemy."

  He sighed again. "No, not really." As she noted the revealing "really," he went on. "Old hatreds die hard in my homeland."

  She hadn’t factored his nationality into the barriers to their marriage. Perhaps she should. "Now you’re marrying an Englishwoman."

  He stepped closer. "Emily, let’s just admit that in an ideal world, neither of us would contemplate this marriage. Yes, I’d always hoped to marry a Scotswoman and raise my children as good little Highlanders. That isn’t going to happen, just as if you marry me, you won’t have the love match you wanted. But right now, we need to work out the best way to proceed in the world we live in. The world we live in will punish both of us for breaking its rules."

  "Perhaps this marriage is our punishment," she said in a low voice, burying shaking hands in her dark blue skirts and staring blindly down into the flames.

  "Perhaps it is." His voice held no trace of humor. "Do you want more time to think?"

  If she thought any longer, she’d go mad. Hamish was right. He’d always been right. They were trapped.

  "No. I’ve made up my mind." She raised her chin until she met his eyes, and she tried very hard to keep her voice steady. "I’ll marry you, Hamish."

  "That’s a bonny decision." He didn’t smile. Why would he? He was as much a victim of a malicious fate as she was. "Thank you. I swear I won’t let you down."

  His promise, while patently sincere, offered no reassurance. Feeling as if she was drowning, she made a despairing gesture. "What happens now?"

  "I’ll go ahead and make the arrangements. You’ve got enough on your plate looking after your father." His tone hardened. "But there’s one thing I want to make clear, Emily."

  She braced for some added proviso, something unbearable that she couldn’t refuse because she’d already given him her consent. So far, he’d placed no conditions on their nuptials at all.
"What’s that?"

  His jaw firmed, and that muscle danced in his cheek. His answer emerged sharp as the flick of a whip. "We won’t be putting any of these private arrangements in writing."

  Chapter 8

  "What a lovely day for a wedding," Emily’s father said. He sat opposite her in the luxurious closed carriage that Hamish had bought last week.

  "Yes, Papa," Emily said, because what was the point of saying that while the sun might shine with a brightness exceptional for November, in her heart it rained fit to flood the Midlands?

  Wearing his best coat, her father looked well and happy. One might almost imagine he was still the brilliant, self-assured man who had dazzled London’s intellectual elite. He’d get tired later, she knew. She’d made arrangements for him to leave the wedding breakfast in the care of Miss McCorquodale, the nurse who now ran the sickroom like a well-oiled machine. And somehow did it with such tact that Emily didn’t hate her.

  Miss McCorquodale worked at the house, courtesy of Hamish’s generosity, too. These days Emily began to feel that every breath she took was courtesy of Hamish’s generosity.

  Which wasn’t fair, when life was so much easier since he’d opened his coffers to help her and her father.

  It was doubly unfair when she thought how much better Papa had been since his protégé, the young Laird of Glen Lyon, had called to request permission to marry his daughter. The daughter who now sat ten minutes away from St George’s in Hanover Square and wished herself on the dark side of the moon.

  As she’d expected, her father had been in alt about the engagement. When Emily saw how the news lifted his spirits, she verged as close to being glad about the marriage as she’d come before or since. Only at that moment did she realize that her father had also fretted about what was to become of her. Now she was to marry a rich man with close connections to the scientific community among whom she’d grown up, an oppressive weight had lifted from Papa’s spirit.

  That was one of the most upsetting things about her father’s decline. She was never sure how much of a grip he kept on what happened around him.

  True to his word, Hamish had carried off this betrothal in high style. He’d placed a notice in the Morning Post. He hadn’t rushed to get a special license. Instead, he’d had the banns called on three successive Sundays.

  He’d escorted Emily around town as gallantly as if he really wanted to marry her. They’d been to the theatre and the opera, four lectures, and two balls. What a pity that she missed the one event she’d have liked to attend, Hamish’s presentation about his comet, this time with correct calculations. But women were barred from the Royal Society’s meetings.

  Now instead of a hole-in-the-corner affair cobbled together to hush up a scandal, she and Hamish were marrying under the full glare of society’s gaze.

  Up to a point, his bravado had succeeded. She wasn’t fool enough to think her fall from grace forgotten. But nobody at their outings had snubbed her, and the neighbors were back talking to her.

  Emily supposed she should be grateful that she was too busy feeling scared to have room left for other emotions. For most of her life, she’d been in control of her life – too much so, according to her father’s more conservative colleagues. But after today, she stopped being Emily Baylor and became Emily Douglas, Lady Glen Lyon. She had no idea what that would mean. She had a horrid feeling that she’d stop being Emily Baylor in more ways than just her name.

  "You and Hamish make an excellent pairing. Stop stewing, kitten."

  Surprised out of her miasma of doubt and despair, Emily stared at her father. She’d clearly underestimated quite how much he did notice. He looked more alert than she’d seen him in months. "Yes, Papa."

  The love in her father’s smile had her blinking away tears. Because while restoring her reputation was an important consideration, it was a recent one. Her fears for her father’s health had dogged her for nearly two years.

  "Don’t say ‘yes, Papa,’ to keep me quiet. I know you’re frightened and uncertain, but you and Hamish will both find your way."

  "Because he’s plump in the pocket." She couldn’t conceal a hint of bitterness. The carriage turned a corner, and she looked out the window at tall rows of pristine white houses as they proceeded through Mayfair.

  "I won’t pretend I’m not relieved that your material future is secure. But that’s the least of the reasons this match pleases me. You’re an unusual person, Emily. You’re a particularly unusual woman. I’ve long wanted you to set your heart on a man who appreciates you for the treasure you are."

  "Papa…" she said, shocked and moved and cringing with guilt, because it was clear her father believed this was a love match.

  Her father went on before she could clarify her arrangement with Hamish, which was fortunate. Far better that Papa believed she followed her personal inclinations, rather than just doing her best to keep her name out of the gutter.

  "I’m happy that you’ve found a man who won’t seek to crush your spirit, just because you’re a girl. I’m happy you’re marrying someone who is your equal in intelligence and heart. You’re an exceptional woman, Emily, and I’m proud to call you my daughter. Hamish is a good man, and he knows how lucky he is to win you."

  Her father’s generous praise left her floundering. He sounded like he was in full possession of his wits, and she couldn’t mistake how sincerely he meant what he said. "Does he?" she asked before she could stop herself.

  "He told me so when he asked for your hand."

  She should be grateful that Hamish had put a gloss of false affection on his proposal when he spoke to her father, but she was too busy digesting what her father told her to be tactful. "We’ve always clashed."

  Her father smiled. "You’ve studied enough chemistry to know that when two volatile substances combine, there’s always an explosion. A bit of excitement is good for a marriage, kitten."

  A bit of excitement? She was likely to strangle Hamish, if he didn’t strangle her first. The problem with explosive combinations was that there were explosions. "He’s a stubborn brute."

  Her father leaned forward and took her gloved hand. "Yes, he is. But you’re stubborn, too. I long feared that you’d give yourself to someone who wasn’t strong enough to stand up to you."

  "Hamish stands up to me."

  "Yes, he does, and you stand up to him. I’ve known for a long time that you two are meant to be together. I’m just thankful that I lived to see this day."

  Emily struggled to banish the mist in front of her eyes, and when she did, she saw the sheen in her father’s eyes. He was so happy she was marrying Hamish. She couldn’t destroy his illusion that she only suffered bridal nerves, instead of the conviction that this was the stupidest thing she’d ever done. "I’m glad you’re here, too, Papa."

  At least that wasn’t a lie.

  "I love you, Emily. I just wish your mamma was with us. She’d be so proud of you. You remind me of her so much. I just hope that you and Hamish are half as happy as we were."

  A jagged lump of emotion clogged Emily’s throat. She always missed her mother, never more than in these last two years. Her determination to marry only for a great love was born in witnessing the bond between her parents. She betrayed that today by wedding Hamish Douglas.

  But that was yet another insight she couldn’t share with Papa. So she lifted his hand to her lips and kissed it with a reverence she saw he noted. "I love you, too, Papa. And I know Mamma is looking down from heaven and wishing us well."

  She wanted to say more, tell him what a wonderful father he’d been and how grateful she was that he’d valued and nurtured her talents, despite her being a girl. But the carriage was drawing to a stop. "Too soon, too soon," she wanted to cry. When she looked out the window, she saw the imposing columns of St George’s portico.

  "I wish you and Hamish all the luck in the world, Emily," her father said, as the footman opened the door and held out a hand to assist her to the pavement.

  "Thank
you, Papa," Emily forced out, her nerves threatening to snap.

  She didn’t want to do this, she really didn’t. But it was too late to back out. She raised her chin and straightened her spine. Summoning a smile, she emerged from the carriage to a ragged cheer from the crowd of onlookers gathered around the church.

  ***

  Hamish stood at the altar beside his cousin Diarmid Mactavish, who had come down from Scotland to be his groomsman. Diarmid’s lovely wife Fiona sat in the congregation. The profound love his cousin had found with the pretty blonde provided a cruel contrast to the barren bargain Hamish made in wedding Emily.

  "Stop acting as if you’re afraid she willnae show up," Diarmid hissed at him. His intense features were rigid with impatience at Hamish’s constant fidgeting.

  "I am afraid she won’t show up," Hamish said, glancing behind him for what must be the hundredth time. But the wide doors to the big, ornate church remained empty.

  The pews however were packed. All Hamish’s numerous family attended, most of them having crossed the border for the ceremony. His scientific colleagues were here, as were his society friends. It turned out Emily had very little family, but as she’d lived her whole life in London, she had plenty of people to fill her half of the church. It was a large enough crowd to witness his humiliation, if his intended decided to jilt him.

  His original idea was that a splashy wedding would give his bride countenance, prove to the world that he and Emily had nothing to hide. Right now, he was rethinking that particular flash of brilliance.

  The church was infested with massed hothouse flowers. The sickly sweet smell of lilies weighted the air and made Hamish feel nauseous. He resisted the urge to tug at his elaborately arranged neck cloth. It felt too tight, but he knew that was only because he was nervous and uncomfortable. He really wasn’t strangling, even if that was how he felt.

  "She sounds like a lassie who kens her own mind. If she said she’ll marry ye, I suspect she means to. Especially as leaving ye flat will only add to the gossip."