Dukes Prefer Bluestockings Page 14

  “But I was asking you about your parents,” Hamish said, perhaps sensing her discomfort, and Georgiana’s reverie was broken. His voice seemed almost concerned, as if he might be aware he had upset her.

  “Most people think my parents are eccentric,” Georgiana said.

  “I’m quite sure that in this case most people are correct.”

  Georgiana smiled. “Perhaps. The thing is that they’re both intelligent. People don’t think they are, because neither of them taught me about the proper language of fans and similar nonsense before I debuted, but mother knows so much about flowers and plants. She could have been a witch in the old days.”

  “Some people might still consider her one,” Hamish observed.

  “Excuse me?”

  “The plants,” Hamish said quickly. “I meant the plants.”

  “Oh.” This time Georgiana giggled, and he soon joined her. “I thought you might have thought—”

  “I didn’t,” Hamish said.

  “Well,” Georgiana said. “She’s too fond of turbans to ever desire to switch to a pointed hat.”

  “That is quite sensible of her,” Hamish said with great force, and Georgiana remembered the atrocious hats all the men wore at Almack’s.

  “You probably thought my family was mad,” Georgiana said.

  “I did,” Hamish agreed at once, and Georgiana stiffened. He squeezed her hand, and she attempted to ignore the butterflies swirling inside her. “But I thought that was quite nice.”

  “Madness appeals to you? You should have visited Bedlam while in London.”

  He chuckled. The sound was deep and appealing, reminding her of warm amaretto.

  “I think it’s nice that your family is so lively.”

  “My mother is so lively.”

  He shrugged. “But your father was always present. That means something. Something nice.”

  Oh.

  She supposed it was nice.

  How odd that Hamish was the first to comment on it.

  “How old were you when your parents passed away?”

  “Four.”

  “Tell me about them. What were they like? Do you remember much?”

  His lips quirked into something resembling a smile, though Georgiana thought it closer to an expression of bravery.

  “I shouldn’t have asked,” Georgiana said. “Forgive me.”

  He shook his head. “It’s a good question. One I’ve asked myself many times. I remember other things from then. I remember my room, and how the light hit the curtains and the sound of the waves. I remember my third birthday and thinking time moved far too slowly. I remember some of the servants, and of course, I remember my brother.”

  She waited, and then her heart clenched when she realized that was the end of his memories.

  “I would have thought that my parents would have made more of an impression on me than my curtains. I’m not even interested in fabric, as my valet would be the first to attest to any servant.”

  “Perhaps you would have grown closer when you were older.”

  “Perhaps,” Hamish said. “I hope so.”

  She frowned. “But I don’t quite understand. Why do you worry so much about the estate? I thought you were maintaining it for the memory of your father, but he didn’t even…” She stopped abruptly. She didn’t want to tell him that his father had never made an impression on him as a child, a definite sign that he’d rarely visited Hamish as a child. There were some things that one should never utter out loud, but Hamish seemed to understand her all the same.

  Hamish, she realized, was always understanding everything. For a man with definite roguish tendencies, he was not a partygoer. He’d never once mentioned a gaming hall or told her of horse races in excruciating detail as had some other men in her acquaintance, even though he’d had far more time to devote to such tales.

  He cared for others. He looked out for others. He was admirable.

  She mused over last night’s agonies. She’d been so suspicious of him, but he hadn’t harmed her.

  “Why are you so eager for your brother to marry Lady Isla?”

  “Must we discuss it?” he asked.

  “I believe your schedule is free now. You do not even have to worry about driving. Or if perhaps walking requires your full concentration—”

  “We can talk,” he said abruptly. He raked his hand through his hair, obviously uncomfortable.

  “Why is my sister not suitable enough for him? Is it because of Father’s position? Or because we’re English? Because you don’t seem conceited all the time, but—”

  “Not all the time?” He turned his head toward her and grinned. “I suppose I should take that as a compliment.”

  She was silent, willing him to share more.

  “It’s because of the castle,” he said finally. “MacTavish Castle. My parents weren’t gifted at money management, and they did not seem eager to learn. Apparently they saw the fact that they lived in a castle as an excuse to spend all manner of money. I’m told they hosted the best balls on the isles. When they died, our guardian—”

  “Lord McIntyre?”

  He nodded. “The estate was never tied up with the title. When my parents died, Callum and I were still children, and so he bought the mortgage for us, with the understanding that we could live in the castle when we were older as long as Callum married Lady Isla.” He shrugged. “I suppose he wanted his daughter to be a duchess, but the offer was still kind.”

  “Not that kind.”

  He frowned. “I don’t understand the match. I’d never heard about your family before. I just don’t want him to regret his decision.”

  “You’re just trying to protect your brother.”

  “Of course.”

  She stared at him, as if she’d discovered something novel. “It’s not just about your ancestors.”

  “And future MacTavishes,” Hamish added, and she smiled.

  “It’s easy to marry in Scotland. They don’t even require posting banns. God in heaven, they don’t even require a minister. Everyone knows the blacksmith in Gretna Green has a nice side business, simply by virtue of his location over the Scottish border. But dissolving the marriage? That’s difficult. And it can cause pain.” He turned to her. “I don’t need to remind you about Henry VIII.”

  “Or Elizabeth the I and Mary, Queen of Scots? I’m aware.”

  “Good.”

  “I always did like history,” she mused.

  “Aye, then you do have some taste, lassie.”

  Chapter Twenty-one

  They arrived at a posting inn. He gave a quick check in the carriage lot to see if his brother’s carriage was there, but there was no sign. He shrugged. That didn’t necessarily mean they weren’t inside. Perhaps they had changed their transport, though none of the carts and wagons seemed likely methods of transportation for a duke.

  Likely the duke was simply ahead of them. They’d wasted time when the wheel broke and they had needed to repair it.

  He sighed. If he were on his own, he would simply hire a horse and gallop on ahead. Georgiana probably could handle the coach on her own—she was clever, but he didn’t want to abandon her to the whims of fate. What if another wheel broke? What if highwaymen attacked?

  Tall hedges loomed on either side of the coach, and Hamish scanned the area, just in case any highwaymen decided to waylay them.

  He shook his head. They would catch up with his brother at Gretna Green.

  The sun had not yet set, and the inn was swathed in pink and orange light.

  “The Old Goblet?” Georgiana asked, staring at the sign.

  “Likely an exaggeration,” Hamish said optimistically, as he opened a wooden door and ducked underneath a low beam.

  Patrons stared at them, and he was conscious of tension moving through Georgiana. Squeezing her hand seemed very appealing, though the action seemed in most cases of the tempting variety.

  Thoug
h of course…

  They would need to pretend to be married.

  The thought caused him to smile, and he walked up to the proprietor. “My wife and I were hoping to spend the night here.”

  The proprietor, a man with bushy white hair, nodded. “Very well.”

  The other patrons looked curiously at them.

  “And we’ll need dinner too,” Hamish said.

  “I can send it to your room.”

  Hamish glanced at Georgiana.

  They couldn’t share a room.

  They’d shared a coach last night, and he’d spent the time longing to claim her, even though he would have to deal with all the spatial challenges that the manufacturers had not accommodated for in their designs.

  He’d never survive the night were they to be in the same room.

  “We need two rooms,” Hamish announced.

  The innkeeper frowned. “But you are married.”

  He cast a doubtful look on Georgiana which Hamish despised.

  “Yes,” Hamish said. “It’s only—”

  The innkeeper continued to look disapprovingly at them. “This ’ere is a right fine establishment. No riffraff. Or—er—ladies of the night.”

  “He snores,” Georgiana said suddenly, and Hamish jerked his head in her direction. “Like a—”

  “Thunderstorm,” Hamish finished, smiling.

  She grinned back and something that was very much like magic flickered between them.

  “A really bad thunderstorm,” Georgiana said.

  “I know there are not such bad thunderstorms in England,” Hamish said. “You might not understand the significance of it.”

  “Think Scandinavia,” Georgiana said. “Imagine that Thor himself has decided to wage a bitter war from this man’s nostrils.”

  The innkeeper widened his eyes and stared at Hamish’s nose.

  “I-I wouldn’t have guessed it.”

  “It’s a hidden talent,” Georgiana said benevolently.

  “Perhaps—er—you would be most suited for the barn.”

  “I wouldn’t want to disturb your horses,” Hamish said. “They have to work in the morning to plow the ground.”

  “Oh.” The innkeeper nodded. “That’s very thoughtful of you.”

  “He has some good qualities,” Georgiana said.

  Hamish gave a modest shrug, even while feeling wilder than he had for years.

  He didn’t make up lies to tell people, even the kind that misrepresented his ability to sleep without disturbing people.

  “Two rooms then.”

  “Money is no hindrance,” Hamish said magnanimously.

  “Well then.” The innkeeper said a number, and Hamish handed him some coin.

  “Thank you.”

  “Perhaps one day you can improve,” the innkeeper said gravely. “It is sad to see someone who struggles so with sleep when he’s so young.”

  “Oh, I don’t struggle with sleep,” Hamish said.

  “I have to throw a pail of water on him each morning to wake him up,” Georgiana said in an explanatory tone.

  “I suppose I could get that for you,” the innkeeper said. He turned to his companion. “Can you—er—make sure this ’ere lady has a pail of water in the morning?”

  The man nodded solemnly.

  “That’s right unconventional,” the innkeeper said. “Perhaps I should try it on other guests.” He leaned forward. “Some of them sleep rather too well after a long night, if you catch my drift. It never occurred to me to douse them in water, though.”

  “Oh, my wife is quite creative.”

  “It might only work on my husband,” Georgiana said quickly, and the word “husband” sent a jolt through Hamish. “Most men might find the experience unpleasant.”

  The innkeeper gave a thoughtful nod.

  “I’ll—er—show you to your rooms.” The innkeeper grabbed two keys and then turned to Georgiana. “You don’t mind sleeping next to him?”

  Hamish had a sudden vision of one of the men sneaking into her room. “She doesn’t mind.”

  The innkeeper nodded. “Follow me.”

  They headed past stunned looking patrons. Perhaps it hadn’t been completely necessary of Georgiana to say that he needed to have a bucket of water thrown over his head to wake him up. It probably also wasn’t necessary to be quite so dramatic when referencing his snoring, especially since Hamish had always been proud that he was not prone to snoring to begin with.

  Still, despite all of that Hamish found himself smiling as he ascended the narrow wooden stairs into a guestroom.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Ever since they’d entered Yorkshire, the road had become more difficult. Steep, soaring hills surrounded them. Goats had turned into their main source of company. The rain had formed deep rivulets, and the horses had to proceed more slowly, since they were hindered both by the uncomfortable angles of the slopes and the unevenness of the roads.

  At the end of a day that had involved guiding the horses through perilous swerves and horse changes at each station, they arrived exhausted at a coaching inn. The stone walls, that looked as if they’d been there since the sixteenth century, seemed to portend good things, and Georgiana smiled when they stepped onto the stone flagged floors. A roaring fire crackled in a large hearth, and Hamish approached the innkeeper.

  “How can I help you,” the innkeeper said with a broad smile. “Dinner? Lodging?”

  “Aye,” Hamish said. “Both of them.”

  The woman’s cheery expression vanished, and Hamish stiffened.

  Georgiana frowned. The woman had been friendly until she’d heard Hamish’s Scottish accent.

  “I might have one room,” the innkeeper said, obviously reluctantly.

  Perhaps she regretted announcing she had lodging moments before.

  Hamish sent Georgiana a querying look, but Georgiana nodded. She was in no mood to make an excuse for why they couldn’t share a room now. It seemed disloyal to state that she needed her own room because she couldn’t abide to share one with Hamish, and of course she would hardly want to give this woman the impression that Hamish was traveling with an unwed woman.

  “Do you have any extra bedding?” Hamish asked.

  The innkeeper frowned. “I assure you, our bedding is sufficiently warm.”

  “I have confidence in the quality, but—”

  “This is England, after all,” the innkeeper interrupted. “You may be used to frigidness in the barren north, but I assure you in England we are quite comfortable.”

  Georgiana supposed the innkeeper might have a lax interpretation of the word comfort. The Moors seemed remote and hardly a holiday location for those seeking warmth coupled with their relaxation, and she supposed the potential for the latter was limited when one was surrounded with unfriendly hosts.

  “Is that so?” Hamish asked.

  Georgiana had grown accustomed to the musical drawl of his words. His emphasis on the letter “R” seemed charming, but it was evident that the man’s accent brought no similar favorable reaction from the innkeeper.

  “No doubt your bedding is tolerable,” Georgiana said, hoping to lessen the tension ricocheting about the tavern and drawing attention from the tankard-clutching patrons, but unwilling to use a more enthusiastic word than tolerable to describe anything in this establishment.

  “You’re English.” The innkeeper’s eyes widened. “What are you doing with this man?” The innkeeper leaned forward and lowered her voice to a whisper that still somehow managed to be far too loud. “Don’t you know ’e’s Scottish?”

  Georgiana shifted her feet over the wooden planks of the floor, horror-struck by the woman’s blatant prejudice and snobbery.

  “I can tell by ’is accent,” the woman continued, giving a proud smile.

  “I didn’t doubt your ability to tell,” Georgiana said.

  The woman beamed.

  “Though I did wonder at
the importance of that fact,” Georgiana added, which caused the innkeeper to flash a much more disgruntled expression at her.

  Hamish cleared his throat. “This is my—er—wife.”

  “And you require two sets of bedding?” The innkeeper asked again, and then she paused. “But of course. You must be having an argument.”

  Georgiana gave Hamish an uneasy smile.

  “I mean,” the innkeeper continued, “It must be only natural, what with your different backgrounds.”

  “I’m very troublesome,” Hamish said in a gentlemanly gesture.

  “But not as troublesome as I am,” Georgiana said quickly.

  “I call her shrew for short,” Hamish said.

  “I suppose that meets the requirements in length for a nickname,” the innkeeper said slowly.

  “Indeed it does,” Hamish said.

  “And you wouldn’t prefer two rooms?”

  “Oh, her heart would ache too much if she were in a different room,” Hamish said,

  “Only because I would worry too much about his proclivity to shout out my name in the middle of the night,” Georgiana replied quickly. “The man is prone to missing me. Rather like a new kitten.”

  “She calls me kitten for short,” Hamish said. “Even though it does not meet the requirements for shortness of length. She’s rather less clever in that regard.”

  “Despite your Scottishness,” the innkeeper said.

  “Some Scots are quite clever with language,” one of the patrons said. “Like that fellow.”

  “And Robert Burns,” said another.

  The innkeeper directed a sympathetic look at Georgiana. “You poor thing. But please do not worry, despite your husband’s derogatory comments, I do consider ‘kitten’ to be a perfectly reasonable nickname. I only question that it might not meet his personality.”

  “Oh, he does appear strong and brave,” Georgiana said.

  “In that case,” the innkeeper said firmly, “You will certainly get two sets of bedding. I’ll even move a bed into your room.”

  “How splendid,” Georgiana said, flashing a smile at Hamish who for some reason did not seem nearly as amused.

  “Did you need to give her that nickname?” Hamish whispered as they followed the innkeeper up the stairs.