Dukes Prefer Bluestockings Read online

  No.

  His unhappiness did not derive from concerns over his brother’s safety, but from the fact he did not want to spend the rest of his life without Georgiana.

  He sat on the immense four-poster bed piled high with feather mattresses. The room was more elegant than any of the other posting houses. The decor must have agreed with other guests, given the sounds of vigorous pleasure taking drifting through the walls.

  Hamish gritted his teeth, but his mind returned to Georgiana.

  Perhaps it always would.

  She’d been odd this morning

  Aloof.

  I shouldn’t have left her.

  He fingered the ring in his pocket. He’d thought it beneficial to make the proposal special to her. Perhaps most people didn’t propose with rings, and perhaps it was a continental tradition, and Britain had just battled the French—but Georgiana was special, and he wanted her to know.

  It had seemed appropriate to pop into the neighboring town to get a ring. He’d wanted to start their marriage correctly. He’d wanted her to know that he took her seriously. The Scottish borders was a wonderful place to procure such an item, given the influx of romantic minded people here with sufficient wealth to make the inconvenient journey and pay for the blacksmith’s hefty fees to save a few days inconvenience of waiting for the banns to be published.

  He’d been intimate with her, and she’d been a maiden.

  Perhaps she hadn’t realized he’d been attempting to propose to her.

  God in heaven.

  Georgiana needed to know he loved her. He needed to tell her.

  Even if she might say that she didn’t return his affection. Even if she said no to his proposal.

  Even if he might make a fool of himself.

  Perhaps she thought that he wouldn’t desire to marry her, but she was wrong.

  Hamish was not going to tarry a moment more.

  He needed to clutch her in his arms, and he needed to tell her that he adored her.

  That he loved her.

  That he’d thought her beautiful and fascinating when he first saw her, but that now he couldn’t imagine a life without her. If there was the slightest chance that she returned his affections—and he thought there might just be—well, he was going to do his best to let her know.

  He grabbed his cloak and swung it around his shoulders. She wasn’t staying in this inn—he’d watched from the window—there was only one other inn in which she might be. The family wouldn’t want to leave Gretna Green now, when there was a chance Callum and Charlotte would appear.

  Hamish rushed down the stairs, past the startled innkeeper and dashed into the street. His feet slid against this afternoon’s mud, splattering onto his Hessians. People directed their gazes at him, as if scrutinizing him was more interesting than telling their new spouse about the exact extent of their affection.

  It didn’t matter.

  All that mattered in this whole world was Georgiana.

  He loved her. He adored her. He wanted to marry her.

  And he wanted to spend a very long, very full life with her.

  She was the love of his life, and he needed her to know how much he cared. He didn’t want to put her through a night of misery, thinking that he’d let her go easily. He squared his shoulders. If she didn’t return his love, she could tell him.

  He arrived at the other posting house. Lights glowed from some of the windows, and he stood, trying to make out if she was inside. His boots sank into the mud, and horses and carriages rumbled by him.

  His heart thrummed in his chest. For a wild moment he considered bursting into song like the hero in some Italian opera who showed up late in the third act after having broken out of a prison from which he was falsely being held.

  Since disturbing the wedding nights of happy couples might cause him to be dragged away, he refrained from singing.

  Instead he waited, hoping he would see her at one of the windows. The minutes seemed long, but finally he saw her. He’d memorized her silhouette, and the exact manner in which she ran her fingers through her hair when she was nervous.

  Hamish inhaled and looked around for a helpful tree or balcony.

  Unfortunately this posting house did not seem to be in possession of either. They might, though, be in possession of a ladder, and Hamish walked around the perimeter. Unfortunately the inn was immaculately maintained, a fact that probably brought pleasure to the guests, but was not immediately helpful.

  The blacksmith’s shop.

  They would have a ladder.

  Hamish sprinted to it, pounding his feet over the dirt road. He shouted a greeting and quick explanation to the startled blacksmiths, grabbed the ladder, and then hauled it onto his shoulder. The exercise was more difficult than he’d assumed, and he felt a sudden burst of warmth for all the people who’d managed to construct buildings taller than a single story. He’d never quite comprehended the difficulty that it entailed.

  Once Hamish had secured the ladder on his shoulder he marched to the inn, ignoring the slight wobble from the unwieldy load. More people seemed to be scrutinizing him, this time pointing him to the others. Never mind. Shyness could be for another time.

  Hamish rested the ladder against the window. He looked around. Thankfully the innkeeper had not noticed him, and he scrambled up the rickety steps. He pushed against the window and—

  Nothing happened.

  Evidently Georgiana had thought to lock it.

  Despite Hamish’s appreciation for the increased interest she was taking in her safety, he would have preferred to enter the room. His plan had not involved standing on a ladder and trying to get her attention through a closed window. He tapped against the glass pane.

  And tapped again.

  And tapped again.

  “It’s a ghost!” A scream came from the room, and Hamish’s heart sank.

  It was not Georgiana’s voice—it was her mother’s.

  Had he gone to the wrong room? Murmurings sounded, and the window was pulled open. He stared straight into Georgiana’s angry, defiant eyes. Declarations of love were evidently not her primary instinct upon seeing him. Behind Georgiana was her mother, and behind her was Georgiana’s father.

  Hamish’s heart thudded in earnest.

  “It’s the duke’s blasted brother,” Mr. Butterworth growled, evidently viewing Hamish’s presence as sufficiently catastrophic so as to curse.

  “Naturally,” Mrs. Butterworth said. “I recognized him myself.”

  Hamish was glad his presence brought Georgiana’s mother some pride. He squared his shoulders and willed his voice not to quiver. “Aye.”

  “That lovely accent,” Mrs. Butterworth exclaimed “Every word sounds so musical. Tell me, Mr. MacTavish, are you musical?”

  “He’ll soon be without a larynx now,” Mr. Butterworth said, rushing toward him. Hamish clasped his fingers more tightly around the ladder.

  “Papa!” Georgiana said. “You mustn’t hurt him.”

  “You always do preach that murder is a sin,” Mrs. Butterworth added, and Hamish waited as Georgiana’s father considered this statement.

  “Is there a reason why you are here?” Mr. Butterworth asked, his voice still filled with suspicion, even if the rest of the man’s body no longer seemed intent on dismembering him.

  For now.

  “I would like to speak with Georgiana,” Hamish said.

  “Miss Butterworth to you,” her father said.

  “I would like to make her Mrs. MacTavish,” Hamish said.

  Georgiana’s eyes widened, and her face was inscrutable. Hamish cursed the dim light. But shouldn’t she be saying something, anything?

  “There will be a wedding,” Hamish continued. “That’s what I was trying to tell you. Before your ran off. Our wedding.”

  “We—”

  “Will marry,” he said. “If, of course, you’ll have me.”

  “But—” She paus
ed, as if she couldn’t be certain that she’d heard correctly. He hoped she’d not chosen to be silent because she was trying to think of a way to reject his proposal.

  Perhaps she’d understood him before when he’d started to propose. Perhaps she was flummoxed he hadn’t been able to discern her lack of interest in him when she’d run away.

  “Why?” she asked finally.

  It was not the squeal of pleasure he would have preferred, but at least she was listening.

  “Not because of duty,” he said, hoping to assure her.

  “Well, that’s no surprise,” Mr. Butterworth grumbled. “The man most blatantly lacks it.”

  “It’s because I adore you,” Hamish said quickly. “Because I love you. Because I can’t imagine a world where you are not part of it, and because I don’t want to try.”

  Mrs. Butterworth clasped her hands together. “How romantic!”

  “He’s not proposing to you,” Mr. Butterworth said.

  “But he is doing it in front of me,” Mrs. Butterworth said. “That is somewhat similar.”

  “Vaguely similar,” Mr. Butterworth conceded.

  Georgiana remained quiet.

  God in heaven. Hamish wanted to hear from her, no matter how helpful it was for his self-esteem to learn Mrs. Butterworth found the proposal contained some romantic appeal.

  “Georgiana?” Hamish’s voice sounded hoarse, as if he’d been waiting for her answer for so long that all the water in his mouth had dried, like some abandoned potted plant. “What do you say?”

  “I don’t know,” she said.

  “I want to marry you.”

  “But—”

  “I love you.” He smiled. “If you didn’t notice already.”

  “So it’s not to protect my reputation?” she asked. “Because it’s quite kind of you to be gentlemanly, but I wouldn’t want you to feel compelled to marry me because I hid in your coach.”

  “Georgiana!” her mother exclaimed. “Have you learned nothing during your three seasons?”

  Mr. Butterworth put a hand on his wife’s shoulder. “This is our daughter’s decision. Not yours.” He directed a glance at Georgiana. “And just say the word, my dear, and I will topple him off that ladder.”

  “You two are impossible.” Mrs. Butterworth huffed, and though Hamish could not tell in the dim light whether she was rolling her eyes, he rather thought she might be.

  “Georgiana,” Hamish said. “I am not proposing because I feel compelled to protect your reputation. Do you think that a man who climbed into your room would be so driven by society’s rules?”

  “Perhaps not.”

  “And if I had adopted a guilty conscience I could always set you up in a nice cottage just like I’d planned for your sister. The money is still there.”

  “You can’t be serious,” she said.

  “I am. Your happiness is the only thing of importance. Though I rather hope you will want to find happiness with me.”

  His chest tightened. She seemed contemplative, and worry ricocheted through him. He clasped onto her hands, clutching her slender fingers, and hoping he would never have to let go. “Do you care for me?”

  He sucked in the cold night air, but the action could not keep his heartbeat from continuing to quicken, because the prospect of her not desiring to marry him was terrible. “Because I love you. I adore you. You’re brave and smart and kind and lovely.”

  She was silent.

  God in heaven.

  This was not going well. “I know we haven’t known each other that long, and if you prefer to return to London, I would be happy to court you, should you give me permission.”

  She remained silent, though her night rail rustled, and she seemed to have narrowed the distance between them.

  Did she not even want him to court her? His heart pounded fiercely, as if it had turned into some wild animal, captured and forced away from his mate, who would never be able to return.

  “I don’t think seeing you during afternoon calls will be suitable for me,” Georgiana said, and Hamish’s heart broke.

  “I don’t think I would be able to go through with it,” she continued, still clutching his hands.

  “Are you certain, Georgiana dear?” her mother asked.

  Mr. Butterworth stepped forward. “I think you should descend that ladder immediately, Mr. MacTavish.”

  Georgiana held up her hand to stop her father, and Hamish wondered whether she would proceed to catalogue all the ways he’d harmed her.

  He deserved them.

  He deserved anything she would say.

  “I cannot accept your offer to court me,” Georgiana said, “Because I would like to accept your offer to marry you.”

  This time Hamish was silent.

  Had she just said that?

  Had he conjured up the most delicious words in the world?

  “I accept your offer,” Georgiana said, and her voice sounded warm. “I’ll marry you.”

  Hamish’s heart sang. It crescendoed. It soared. If there had been indeed a wild animal trapped in his chest, it was now safely returned to its beloved.

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Hamish was standing before her and saying the most wonderful things.

  Jubilation filled the room.

  Her mother squealed and clapped her hands.

  “I want you,” Georgiana breathed. “I want you forever and always.”

  His eyes sparkled, and a thrill shot through Georgiana that she had given him such pleasure.

  “Then marry me. Now.”

  Hamish grabbed Georgiana’s hand and pulled her toward the blacksmith’s shop. They strode through Gretna Green, and if Hamish had pointed out that they were floating, she wouldn’t have been surprised.

  The other couples were gone, evidently they’d already been married, and Hamish and Georgiana entered the blacksmith’s shop.

  “What is it now?” He looked up. “I told you I haven’t seen them. I would recall another Scotsman with a blonde Englishwoman.”

  “There’s going to be a wedding,” Hamish announced.

  The blacksmith raised his eyebrows. “There is always going to be a wedding. People are always getting married. They’ve no idea of how thoroughly pedestrian they are being.”

  “But this is different,” Hamish declared. “This time I am getting married.”

  “Oh.” The blacksmith set aside his tools and brushed sooty hands over his apron. “I suppose you’ll be wanting to marry immediately.”

  Hamish nodded. “I don’t want to tarry a second.”

  “Isn’t it romantic?” Mrs. Butterworth’s voice soared through the blacksmith’s shop, as if she were testing whether she might break the iron with the same efficiency a soprano might shatter glass.

  The iron pieces the blacksmith had made remained resolutely in place, unfazed by Mrs. Butterworth’s exuberance. The latter had moved from hollering to balancing a covered basket on a table filled with all manner of iron objects.

  The blacksmith’s face managed to pale, and he moved quickly toward the basket and placed it on the ground.

  “There will be a wedding,” the blacksmith, in a tone that indicated that he’d long stopped seeing weddings as anything except an interlude for when his irons needed to cool.

  “Indeed! And we must prepare!” Mrs. Butterworth bent down and fiddled with the basket. In the next moment she was scattering flowers and herbs about the establishment. “This is for happiness, this is for health, and this is for wealth.

  “I’m sorry,” Georgiana mouthed, but Hamish only smiled.

  *

  His mother had died, and Mrs. Butterworth seemed to have the energy for two mothers. There just might be something nice about becoming part of a noisy, close-knit family.

  The blacksmith’s face furrowed. “Those are flowers.”

  “And dried herbs,” Mr. Butterworth said. “Herbs have quite a good many purposes.”


  “And none of them belong in my blacksmith’s shop,” the blacksmith said. His teeth were definitely clenched now, and Hamish wondered whether that was because he suspected Mrs. Butterworth’s eccentricity could only be the result of a privileged background, the sort that might involve generous tips.

  “Why don’t we do the weddings outside?” the blacksmith suggested.

  “Oh.” Mrs. Butterworth appeared puzzled.

  “That will be romantic as well,” Georgiana assured her. “Now let’s go.”

  They stepped outside into the cool Scottish wind. The breeze rustled the flowers on the trees and a crowd of people outside gathered around them perhaps seeing it as a good practice session for their own wedding services.

  “MacTavish,” the assistant blacksmith said. “I have a letter for you.”

  Hamish halted his embrace. “A letter?”

  The man nodded and shuffled through some papers, then held it up triumphantly. “It just arrived.”

  Hamish took the letter, recognizing his brother’s handwriting. His hands trembled, unsure what he would find. Where is Callum? And what has he done with Georgiana’s sister?

  Though he’d longed for his brother to break off the engagement to secure MacTavish Castle, it now seemed every bit as vital that he marry her. Hamish was part of the Butterworth family now and he did not want anything to harm it.

  He tore the letter open, noting that it didn’t have the normal Vernon ducal seal. Callum must have written it hastily.

  “Read it aloud,” Georgiana said.

  He nodded.

  Whatever the contents were, Charlotte’s parents deserved to know.

  “My dear brother,

  If you are reading this, then you must be in Gretna Green. Enjoy your beloved Scotland and don’t become too bored, because I will not be there to entertain you.”

  “He’s not marrying her,” Mr. Butterworth said, and Hamish despised the man’s mournful tone.

  “You mustn’t be so melodramatic,” Mrs. Butterworth said, chiding her husband. “Do continue, dear.”