Dukes Prefer Bluestockings Page 11

  He grinned. “I thought a garden enthusiast would favor being outside.”

  The man needn’t look so proud, and she willed her facial features to display rather less enthusiasm. Despite the pleasant surroundings, the fact remained that Mr. MacTavish was ushering her away from everything she knew.

  “I still consider myself to be captured,” Georgiana said.

  “You have made my job too easy for that to be correct,” he said.

  She frowned. “Why don’t you want your brother to be happy?”

  He blinked. “But I do want that. Everything I am doing is for his good.”

  “He can be happy marrying the woman he loves.”

  Mr. MacTavish sighed. “Didn’t you find it odd that they barely spoke to each other?”

  Georgiana frowned. The man might actually have a point, but Charlotte was hardly the bubbly type and the duke was evidently the strong and silent type. Besides their mother was quite capable of chattering enough for both of them.

  Georgiana raised her chin. “Their passion needs no words.”

  “You know about passion, lassie?”

  She despised that his voice managed to be so mocking, and she despised more that the words seemed to have some strange impression on her body.

  It was the word passion, she decided. It was a word utterly lacking in propriety, and if she shivered, it was just in revulsion.

  “I don’t matter,” she said. “They do. Please do not commit them to a lifetime of misery.”

  He blinked, and for a moment something like respect seemed to flicker in his eyes. “It’s not just about the money.”

  “Of course not. How could you think that?”

  “But your family—” His cheeks seemed to redden. “They don’t—” He looked down again, obviously embarrassed, and she gave an exasperated sigh.

  He could be embarrassed. That was fine. She wasn’t going to lessen his unease.

  “Don’t you think they might be forcing my brother to marry your sister because of my brother’s more established—er—finances?”

  She scowled. “There’s so much wrong with what you said.”

  “It’s the truth.”

  “You’re making assumptions.”

  Bewilderment seemed to leap over his face, and she sighed. “First of all… I doubt my parents could force your brother to do anything. Papa was never even in the local militia, and he’s hardly a source for bribes.”

  “Well—”

  “Moreover—” She tossed her hair, and his eyes seemed to widen, sending a definitely inappropriate thrill through her. “If my parents had such an interest in money, wouldn’t they have achieved it now?”

  “I don’t think it’s that easy—”

  “Well, my mother could have married someone else. A vicar’s studious second son is hardly mistaken for being a source of riches. And father? Well, father isn’t forced to devote himself to fading leather tomes. He enjoys it. In fact,” and she allowed herself a smile, “he’s rather an expert.”

  “I see.”

  “They’re really quite wonderful,” she said. “But you understand. Your family—”

  His skin paled, and she looked down hastily. Too late she remembered that his family was dead, had died so long ago that he might not even remember them.

  “You mean I wouldn’t know anything about families?” he asked, and she flinched at the slight sarcasm in his voice.

  “I’m sorry,” she said.

  The man’s facial muscles still seemed too tight, but he gave a curt nod. “There’s a posting inn here. I think we better get out and eat.”

  Oh.

  “Good idea,” she said brightly, as if smiling might keep guilt from churning in her stomach.

  The posting inn was a small structure that looked as if it had been pieced together rapidly in the hopes of serving passengers.

  She missed the friendly half-timbered coaching inns that sat majestically in some parts of the countryside as if they’d been around for centuries, and would remain for centuries, unruffled by even the most eccentric guest. Those coaching inns had thatched roofs and window boxes.

  This place didn’t even have windows; evidently the owner had seen no need to get taxed for something as intangible as natural light.

  Mr. MacTavish guided the horses into the courtyard. When he stepped down, she didn’t take his proffered hand. The ground might seem awfully far away, and a groom might usually assist her, but Mr. MacTavish needn’t think her so helpless that she couldn’t disembark on her own.

  The speed at which she descended the coach was perhaps more quick than normal, but after all, she hadn’t eaten anything today.

  Her feet crunched against the gravel, and she glanced warily at the wagons, carts and vans parked outside. More donkeys than horses were present, and some of the male guests had wandered outside, still clasping hold of their tin tankards.

  “Oooh!” Some of the men shouted and pointed in the direction of Mr. MacTavish and herself.

  Mr. MacTavish’s face paled, and he halted. “Please tell me there’s a blanket in the carriage.”

  “There is,” she said.

  “Follow me.” He dashed back to the coach, jerked open the door and removed the blanket. “Wrap this around you. You’ll look just like any other woman.”

  He spread the fabric over her shoulders. He smoothed his fingers along it, and warmth that could not be entirely attributed to the woolen material spread through her. Georgiana held its corners as if it were a cloak, simply missing its buttons.

  “You resembled a cake confection,” Mr. MacTavish explained. “Something some French patisserie concocted from sugar.”

  Georgiana flushed. “And the men don’t enjoy cake confections?”

  He looked puzzled for a moment, and then he shook his head. “I’m afraid these men might be overly fond of them.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  They were trouble.

  Hamish recognized their type at once.

  They were loud and drunk and there were too many of them. One of them might prefer to concentrate on his tankard, two of them might grumble to each other or set out to seduce one of the barmaids, but three of them were a force to egg one another on.

  Unfortunately there were more than three.

  He hurried Miss Butterworth along.

  He’d done his best to make Miss Butterworth look less radiant, less beautiful, less glamorous, even though he’d felt horrible covering up her dress. She shouldn’t change anything about herself for these wretched men, but when they neared them, the men started to call out names of such vulgarity that Miss Butterworth’s face paled.

  The only comfort was that the words possessed such vileness, that he doubted Miss Butterworth knew them.

  Part of him wanted to return to the coach at once, but the horses needed to be changed, and he hoped that waiting inside, in a place overseen by barmaids who might desire some modicum of order, might be more pleasant.

  They soon entered the inn. Despite the fact that the structure must be relatively new, it had taken a traditional view on measurements, and Hamish had to duck down.

  He turned to Miss Butterworth. “Any preference?”

  She shook her head.

  “Two hot meals,” he declared to the barmaid.

  The barmaid directed them to a rickety table near the bar, and Miss Butterworth and he sat down.

  The people in the pub were only slightly more proper than people lingering in the courtyard. Evidently the food was a suitable distraction to them.

  Still, Hamish was uneasy. Miss Butterworth didn’t belong in a location like this. Perhaps she’d not come from money, but she was a vicar’s daughter. He doubted her father would have wanted her to be here.

  “If anyone asks, you’re my sister,” Hamish whispered.

  “Then I was far better at learning the accent here.” Miss Butterworth’s dark eyes glimmered, and he mused again over
the realization brown eyes were decidedly not dull.

  His cheeks warmed, but he found himself smiling all the same. “Perhaps we had different fathers.”

  “How scandalous.” Miss Butterworth widened her eyes. “Did my mother decide to run off with a swarthy pirate?”

  “Red-headed pirate, it would seem, though I don’t think it would be good to spread about the idea that your mother had low standards in men.”

  “Pirates can be most under appreciated.”

  “Yes,” he said. “All that pillaging they do. Quite unfairly seen.”

  “At least they’re skilled at something,” Miss Butterworth said. “Sailing, swordmanship, shooting…”

  He stretched back, assessing her. “That’s an unusual sentiment for a young lady in London to have.”

  “I’m not in London,” she said, “though perhaps you would benefit from spending more time there. We’re really not as silly as everyone makes us out to be.”

  “Is that so?” He raised an eyebrow.

  “Yes. We have this dreadful reputation for frivolity, but we’re not permitted to do anything else. Why wouldn’t we become accomplished at the few things that are permitted us?”

  “Like garden design?”

  She nodded. “I’m lucky. Papa has always been most tolerant of my desires to tear up and reshape the world around me. He holds neither fresh air nor exercise with suspicion, even when it pertains to women.”

  “And what intrigues you about garden design?”

  “Everything. The task of enhancing a space, to make it the loveliest it can be, is delightful.” Her eyes glazed, as if envisioning her work, but then she smiled. “But it’s possible father simply favored a more quiet house. More conducive to sermon writing. Or simply reading.”

  Hamish chuckled. He could imagine that. He’d seen the number and variety of books in the London townhouse. No doubt their actual home contained much more.

  “And your sister?”

  “She’s less enthusiastic about shoveling mud about, though that could be a sign of her greater intellect. She prefers mathematical formulae.”

  “Indeed?” Hamish asked, conscious he may have sounded overly surprised. Just because he’d found mathematical formulae dull, at least in comparison with the wonders of geometry, did not mean that everyone did.

  The barmaid interrupted them with their food. The taste might be dull, but dullness would certainly not extend to the rest of the dinner.

  God in heaven.

  Miss Butterworth was like no woman he’d ever met. She was brave, intelligent and not the least bit selfish.

  “One of my dearest friends, Louisa Carmichael, is quite passionate about the ocean and everything in it,” Miss Butterworth remarked. “She’s created this most delightful contraption to allow one to spend longer underwater.”

  “How incredible.”

  “Yes,” Miss Butterworth murmured, her tone almost wistful. “Rather more wonderful than a garden.”

  He shook his head adamantly. “No. Garden design is most intriguing.”

  She tilted her head. “His Grace did regale us with tales of your architectural triumphs.”

  “He did?” Hamish had rather thought his brother hardly knew anything about the commissions he’d undertaken.

  “To think that you designed a practical castle for a viscount, with all its intricacies, all its romantic touches…” She smiled. “It must have taken so long.”

  “It’s still being built,” he said. “But I started designing buildings years ago. I’d shared my sketches with the viscount, and when he inherited…”

  “You gave him the designs for your dream home,” she finished.

  “Aye.” The fact seemed less pleasant than it normally did, and he considered his brother’s comment about using some of the considerable MacTavish wealth to build a home of his own. “Perhaps I don’t live there, but I can visit at times. But the main thing is to know that it exists, and it will exist longer than I will. Barring any earthquakes.”

  “I think Scotland should be safe.” Miss Butterworth smiled.

  “The house is of a most sturdy stone.” He smirked. “Not like your English chalk.”

  “We don’t actually build homes with it.”

  “You just pontificate a lot about its beauty.”

  “It is beautiful,” she insisted. “There is so much in the natural landscape to enjoy. And if it can be simply arranged in a manner most pleasing to the eye, with specific spaces to wonder most at the beauty of nature—”

  “I would like to see that.”

  The air seemed tenser, and she leaned back in her chair, more out of a sense of propriety than for an urge to suddenly relax. The distance between her shoulders appeared narrower, and her smile vanished. Perhaps she’d remembered that they were not actually friends, and that he was the man who was preventing her from returning to her family, risking her entire reputation.

  His stomach tightened.

  He felt much younger around her. Less suave, less sure of himself. Not that he was ever in the habit of feeling suave. Suavity usually demanded leaving one’s estate with greater frequency than he did.

  Harsh laughter sounded from outside. Those damned men were continuing to drink.

  “Perhaps it would be better to say that we’re married,” he mused, thinking of the men outside. “Should anyone ask.”

  She scrutinized him, but finally she nodded. He wondered whether she’d refrained from protesting because she agreed with him, or whether she simply was afraid of him. He certainly hadn’t given her any cause to feel safe.

  He sighed. Perhaps he should return her to her family after all. Perhaps he’d been wrong.

  But it was evening now, and he couldn’t very well deliver her in the middle of the night and expect everyone to think that she hadn’t been compromised.

  No.

  They may as well continue. The plan was good. Her sister would vouch for her.

  “I’ll—er—ask if this place has any rooms,” he said.

  She frowned, and her eyes flashed with something that was definitely not amusement. “It’s still light outside.”

  “It will get dark.”

  “The sun isn’t even setting.”

  “But it will happen.”

  She shook her head. “No. There must be a better option. Can’t we drive further?”

  “I’m not sure that we’ll be able to get to the next coaching inn quickly enough.”

  “Well, we have to try.” Miss Butterworth leaned closer to him, and an enticing floral scent wafted over him. “I heard what those men said about me.”

  Right.

  He had to think about her safety, and not just ponder potential sun patterns.

  He stood abruptly, and the chair scraped against the floor. “Then let’s go now.”

  She beamed, and he wondered how he could have desired to contradict her. Soon they were outside, and he glanced around to make certain the ruffians were not nearby and guided her quickly to the carriage.

  He nodded to the groom. “How far to the next posting inn?”

  “It’s just in the next village,” the groom said. “You can’t miss it.”

  Hamish smiled. He’d been foolish to worry.

  The air was chillier, and he sighed. “You should sit inside.”

  “But—”

  “I wouldn’t want you to catch cold. That dress is thin, and even with the blanket—”

  “I’ll sit inside,” she said, and even though he was well aware he’d won a debate, he’d felt as if he’d lost something more.

  The horses trotted merrily down the road, evidently happy for some exercise, even if it involved pulling the coach.

  He took in the scenery, conscious of missing Miss Butterworth. The sky had continued to resist the temptation to rain, even though it had seemed to do nothing but that all year. The color had turned a more somber gray, resembling the cinder from bui
ldings ceded to cannon fire in the last war.

  No matter.

  The sky could be gray. It only meant that there wouldn’t be many stars visible tonight, but Hamish could certainly do without them. They couldn’t drive in the night anyway, and he had no expectations of seeing celestial views from whatever room the next posting inn assigned him.

  Any moment now he would likely see signs of the upcoming village, and he waited. Would he see a mill? A hay wain, like in some Constable painting? Or perhaps a manor house perched on one of the few hills in the area?

  Hamish scanned the landscape for manor houses.

  There were none.

  Well, perhaps any manor homes were shielded by tall hedges. Not every manor house could come with a view. One could hardly expect it.

  It did seem odd, though, that he wasn’t seeing any signs of a village.

  Perhaps he would see the river first? Or a lake?

  He wondered what the source of water would be for the village. Some babbling brook?

  The one thing he knew was that he would see water. Villages had a tendency to consider them vital.

  Unfortunately trees shrouded his view of the landscape. He’d never associated England with trees. On the contrary men had seemed to take pleasure in chopping them down in order to create pastoral images, or more likely, fields for sheep to grass in and for crops to be grown in.

  He inhaled the woodsy scent. Some birds chirped merrily.

  The village, though, did not come.

  Normally this would be fine, but it was growing distinctly dark. The sky’s grayness had masked the normal sunset, and the sky hadn’t turned tangerine and pink and a cacophony of other colors, all bold and the sort for painters to enjoy. Instead the sky simply darkened, and he soon found his eyes straining.

  Chapter Seventeen

  The carriage stopped, and Georgiana smiled.

  Mr. MacTavish must have found an inn, and when his footsteps padded from the driver’s perch to the door, she pulled the blanket tightly about her and prepared to leave.