The MacGregor's Lady (25 page)

It all came out, the regular consumption of spirits, the maintenance of business activities no lady ought to concern herself with, the complete lack of deference to the man who provided the roof over their heads, and above all, the refusal to die when the old woman by rights should have shuffled off this mortal coil decades ago. By the time Enid had swilled an entire pot of tea, the earl was looking thoughtful.

“So you see, even though the lady is no bigger than this”—Enid held her hand out at about rib height—“and can barely see, she has exerted enormous sway over Hannah, and all of it bad. The girl would be safely wed, several times over, were it not for that woman’s pernicious influence.”

When the earl said nothing but stirred his tea in silence, Enid felt compelled to add, “She does love Hannah, though. She loves all the children, but her devotion to Hannah cannot be questioned.”

“Nor, apparently, Hannah’s to her.”

“Lamentably. One can only hope the Lord sees fit to handle the situation in a just, swift, and compassionate manner before Hannah’s last prayer of a decent match is gone. The company of a more frail, wizened, and stubborn woman, I have yet to endure.”

Perhaps that was a bit too honest. His lordship swiveled his head to gaze out the window of the breakfast parlor, where sunshine came streaming in from the east. When he once again turned his dark eyes on Enid, she had the sense he’d changed his mental horses, put away one topic and started on another.

“About Trundle, Miss Cooper.”

Oh, my.
Enid reached for the teapot, then recalled it was empty. “My lord?”

“Shall I make further inquiries on your behalf? He’s persistent and has the look of a seasoned soldier not about to give up the campaign.”

What a charming—and slightly alarming—image, if it was accurate. “Thaddeus enjoys a full complement of determination.”

Enid cast around for something to say that would obscure her use of a gentleman’s Christian name over her morning tea. If she’d stayed tucked up in her room, a tot of Dr. Melvin Giles’s Root Juice and Tincture of Everlasting Health in her tea, then this entire uncomfortable discussion might not be taking place.

But then, neither would Enid have the image of dear Thaddeus, battling his way across the ballrooms to gain a waltz with her.

Or two waltzes, in one evening. Twice now.

Or perhaps it was three times. All that waltzing made a woman so muddled she couldn’t keep her evenings straight.

“I will have my men of business make the usual discreet inquiries and post a suitable endorsement to your brother.” His lordship patted Enid’s hand, the gesture suggesting a familial interest in her situation.

The earl went back to his toast, as if family confidences over breakfast were nothing unusual, as if he were indeed the MacGregor patriarch, and Enid his honored guest. Such consideration of a mere, retiring maiden aunt could only bode well for Hannah.

***

“You aren’t eating enough.”

In response to that observation, Hannah beamed up at her dance partner with what she hoped looked like great good cheer as opposed to an urge to throttle the man.

“I’m trying to fit into the dresses you had me buy in such quantity.”

Balfour’s answering smile held a daunting quantity of genuine concern for her. “I didn’t force you to buy dresses that don’t fit, Hannah Cooper. If you think for one moment I endorse the contortion of women’s waists into impossibly small dimensions simply to make their bosoms look larger by comparison, you are much mistaken about this too.”

About
this
too?

They were in the middle of a London ballroom, and there were limits to how much trouble Hannah could get into simply by being honest.

“Would you care to elaborate? This is the supper waltz, and we’ll have time to go at least another two rounds on the topics of your choice.”

This was how she managed now, by dodging him at meals or dodging meals altogether, needling him when they had to be together, and dropping into bed each night too exhausted to torment herself with wishes that would never come true.

“You need a husband, and if it can’t be me, then choose some dim-witted, pretty, biddable boy, Hannah. Malcolm would suit admirably—he’s kindhearted without being ambitious. Take over the remittance, and he’ll never trouble you again.”

Hannah regarded him more closely, because this approach—tossing other Eligibles at her—was a new tactic. “I could not bind him to a contract to that effect. I’ve asked my lawyers about a husband of convenience, and they say no such agreement would be enforceable. It thwarts the sacred purposes of marriage, or some such rot.”

As they turned a corner of the ballroom, Balfour drew her a bit closer, and Hannah allowed it. Dancing with Asher had become her guilty pleasure, a few minutes of the evening when she could be in his arms, inhale his scent, revel in his strength and nearness, and torment herself thoroughly.

Though that last turn… Hannah felt a wave of dizziness pass over her.

“Are you all right?”

“I’m overpowered by your wit and charm, my lord. Don’t worry, the effect is fleeting.”

The look he gave her shamed her. It held wry humor, concern, and a hint of sympathy. “I’ve been thinking I should take you back North.”

She tried to draw back, the better to regard him. “Kidnap me?”

“No, take you and the entire family entourage to Edinburgh, which is quite fashionable, especially in the warmer months. A Scottish husband might be up to your mettle.”

She could not fathom that he’d marry her off to somebody else, and yet, he honestly believed marriage was in her best interests.

“You’re Scottish, and I’m not marrying
you
.” Saying it aloud hurt, again. Hannah stumbled a little with the pain of it.

“For God’s sake, what’s amiss?”

“If you mention female bodily functions, my lord, I will not answer for the—” She tried to draw in a full breath, but her stays prevented it.

“Come with me.” He deftly turned her off the dance floor and led her through the milling crowd around the ballroom’s edge. Hannah followed blindly, the music sounding as if it were coming from a great distance, the edges of her vision darkening.

“I cannot understand why a woman with as much sense as you possess, as much single-minded determination to attend to her own—”

Asher’s words made little sense, but his voice and the grasp of his gloved hand on her wrist kept Hannah moving along behind him, even as she struggled to breathe.

Even as the thought tripped through her mind:
So
this
is
what
it’s like to faint.

Fourteen

“We cannot—” Hannah pulled against Asher’s grip as she struggled audibly to breathe. “We cannot be private.” She sagged against a wall of the corridor, her complexion translucent by the light of the sconces.

Asher had seen many women faint, some of them even honestly, but the sight had never engendered such an upwelling of rage, protectiveness, and exasperation.

“You’d rather swoon on the dance floor as so many fashionable ladies do?” He scooped her up against his chest, which made her ball gown and petticoats billow all the hell over the place.

“I’m not—”

Except she was. As he carried her away from the ballroom, she went pliant and silent against him, not entirely lost to consciousness—not her—but subdued to an alarming extent. Asher pushed open the door to the Alcincoates’ library and found the room mercifully unoccupied.

A fireplace at least five feet high and five feet deep sported no blaze whatsoever, suggesting continued privacy, as did the meager light cast from two sconces burning low along the inside wall.

“You, madam, know better than to lace your stays this snugly. Avoiding food compounds your folly, and several glasses of Alcincoate’s punch was similarly ill-advised.” As he laid her on the velvet sofa, he went on lecturing her, mostly to give her something to focus on.

“We should not be in here.”

The very feebleness of Hannah’s protest made him furious.

“You should not be in that damned corset.” Had he been wearing boots, a knife would have been immediately at hand. He had to rummage in the desk drawer for a penknife, though the one he found was blessedly sharp.

He hauled her to a sitting position. “Hold still, Hannah Cooper, lest I turn you over my knee. You don’t need a husband, you need a warden.”

He undid a few hooks down the back of her gown, then ripped the damned thing apart, haste his only goal. When he’d tucked her dress aside, he sliced through the lacings of her stays in one careful pass of the knife. They parted on a rush of Hannah’s indrawn breath.

“Thank you.” She lay back, nearly panting, her chest rising and falling in its newfound liberty. “It’s the ball gowns, I think.”

“Don’t think, just breathe.” He sat at her hip and smoothed her hair back from her forehead, then laid the back of his hand against her brow. She was cool rather than warm, and when he tugged her glove off to take her pulse, her fingers were cool as well.

Without bothering to consult his watch, he could tell her heartbeat was rapid and her pulse thready.

“I’m taking you home, Hannah. You’ve laced yourself into a swoon, and considering you aren’t even pretending to look for a husband, all this waltzing and smiling is serving no purpose anyway.”

She stopped him from escalating into a tirade by pushing his hair off his forehead with one cool hand. “You’re to look for a bride. You promised.”

Her reminder was gentle, rueful even. Her fingers slipped around to trace the rim of his ear, and all thought, all sense, and certainly any tirades went flying from Asher’s mind. The incongruity of her words—he was to be finding a bride—with her touch, which was intimate, dear, and arousing—brought his thoughts to a grand pause.

“Hannah…” He removed her hand from his person, and instead brought her knuckles to his lips. “We can argue about that later. I’m going to call for the carriage and have Augusta and Ian make your excuses.”

“You can’t.” She was trying to sit up, so Asher did not dare attempt to touch her, not with her bodice gaping open and the imprint of her stays visible on parts of her Asher could not stop staring at. Thank God for her chemise, for it was the only thing between Asher and a complete loss of sanity.

He made himself leave the sofa and located a carafe on a gate-legged table against the wall. For himself, he poured a tot of whatever spirits were in the decanter; for Hannah he poured a glass of water.

Of course, there were some who believed London’s water supply was responsible for various deadly epidemics. Asher set the water glass down and poured out another tot of spirits.

“It’s whiskey,” he said, returning to the couch and passing Hannah the glass. “Sip it slowly. When was the last time you ate?”

She barely wet her lips at the rim of the glass. “I eat. It’s the oddest thing. The dresses I’ve brought with me, like my riding habit, are looser on me, but the dresses I ordered here require me to lace up very tightly. I didn’t request that they be made that way.”

She looked at him inquiringly.

“For God’s sake, I wouldn’t meddle with your wardrobe.” Except he had, with her dancing slipper, in any case. Hannah’s rejoinder was lost when the door was swept open, bringing light, noise, and a knot of people into the room.

“My goodness—!” Lady Alcincoate’s gloved hand went to the vast, jiggling expanse above her décolletage. “My lord, whatever—”

Malcolm crowded in at Lady Alcincoate’s side, and thank God and all his winged angels, Augusta flanked their hostess on the other side. Augusta’s height meant the two women behind her had to crane their necks to peer into the darkened library.

“Miss Cooper fainted,” Asher said, and because this pronouncement met with nothing but silence, he added, “I was concerned for her.”

Hannah was for once exhibiting some cooperation and remaining tucked out of sight on the sofa, but the silence lengthened. Augusta pushed past the gaping Lady Alcincoate and grabbed an afghan from the back of a reading chair. “Late nights will catch up with us. I suppose you’ll be wanting the carriage.”

Augusta had the blanket tucked over Hannah in moments, hiding the damage to her dress. Lady Alcincoate advanced into the room, her acolytes coming with her, and all three women wearing looks of gleeful expectation.

“If the young lady was feeling light-headed, my lord, surely escorting her off the dance floor, finding her a seat and a glass of punch would have sufficed.”

We
must
not
be
private.
“She was not light-headed,” Asher said, feeling the beginnings of temper. “She was cool to the touch, short of breath, vertiginous, and unless I miss my guess, suffering diminution of the faculties of hearing and sight.”

“Diminution—?” Four syllables didn’t stop the lady for long. She planted her hands on her cinched-in waist, making her look like a large, indignant insect. “If there was a diminution of senses going on, as opposed to a diminution of
sense
, my lord, then one calls a physician. One does not escort a young lady to a darkened library and allow her to be found reclining with—unless I miss
my
guess—a glass of strong spirits at hand.”

The triumph in her voice was that of a hostess presiding at the birth of a scandal. One of the other ladies spoke up; her tone was sweetly snide. “Perhaps we ought to fetch a physician, now?”

“Oh, for pity’s sake.” Augusta rose from the sofa to her full height. “Lord Balfour
is
a physician, having gained his credentials at St. Andrews years ago. He was in practice in Canada and is certainly capable of dealing with one young lady’s case of the vapors. Further delay while some local fellow is roused from his slumbers is hardly in order. If Lord Balfour, who is charged with Miss Cooper’s well-being, says she needs to be taken home now, surely a gracious hostess would be calling for her guest’s carriage?”

Asher had never been more grateful for an English sister-in-law. The look of disdain Augusta cast down the length of her nose at the other three women was worthy of Mrs. Siddons, and Malcolm did not miss his cue.