Dukes Prefer Bluestockings Page 21

  “Charlotte and I will marry in Guernsey,” Hamish read.

  Georgiana clapped her hands. “The Channel Islands! I feel so foolish. I never imagined she would go anywhere else except Gretna Green.”

  He kissed her head. “I am very glad that you though they were going here.”

  She smiled, and for a moment it seemed impossible to do anything else except stare at her.

  He forced his gaze away. “And there’s a note from your sister.”

  “Read it,” Mr. Butterworth said.

  “I am happy and well,” Charlotte said.

  “Well of course, she’s happy and well,” Mrs. Butterworth said. “She’s marrying a duke.”

  “But eloping…Going on a ship…” Georgiana shook her head. “She’s never been on the water before.”

  “Then perhaps it is time,” Mrs. Butterworth said. “They’re happy. That’s what is important.”

  Georgiana beamed and squeezed Hamish’s hand. “They’re happy.”

  He gazed at her, wondering again at her bravery, wondering at how fortunate it was that she’d climbed into his coach, and not imagining a world without her.

  He gazed down at the ring on her hand and realized he did not have to.

  Hamish inhaled the air.

  He should feel cold, but warmth coursed through his body. Soon he would be married. To Georgiana, the most wonderful woman in the world.

  Epilogue

  The trees had turned golden and garnet, as if dipped into paint by some particularly enthusiastic child, and Hamish lay on a blanket in the meadow. The grass was a dark deep green, the result of months of rain, but now the vibrant shade was exquisite, richer than even the finest emerald.

  Hamish dipped his quill into ink and wrote a few more phrases.

  Footsteps padded toward him, and the hem of a navy dress met his eyes.

  He smiled. He knew that hem. He’d done pleasant things underneath its flounces, and he tilted up his head, recognizing the delightful curves of his wife’s form, her wide smile, and ever sparkling eyes.

  “Darling.” Georgiana leaned down and kissed him, and he was shrouded in her delightful auburn locks and lost in her impossibly sweet scent. “How is the novel coming along?”

  “Splendid,” Hamish murmured, and he scribbled a further sentence.

  He’d abandoned his histories of Scotland for fiction set in historical Scotland. There was no need to linger on the misdeeds of the English and the failed opportunities of the Scottish. Life shouldn’t be devoted to solely lamenting the tragedies of the past. Hamish had devoted sufficient time to that.

  “Sit beside me,” he said, and his wife settled onto the blanket.

  The sunlight was in full force today, and she shaded her eyes with her hand. He followed her gaze to their manor home.

  It wasn’t the same place he had once shared with Callum. It was his very own home. It wasn’t a castle, and had never been used in a defensive manner, but he adored it.

  Tourelles perched on rounded towers, and stepped gables adorned the roof in a manner suited for the German fairytales his daughters had taken to reading. The rose-hued sandstone differed from the somber gray stone he’d been accustomed to that had seemed to desire to meld into the oft-stormy clouds.

  Georgiana had insisted on a home that was not set on a craggy clifftop, no matter how many romantic painters from Germanic lands might come to paint it. Though he’d teased her that she was recreating Norfolk, they had found the perfect property, and it was reassuring to know that his daughters were less likely to be tossed into the sea if the North Wind decided to send out strong gales.

  “I love you,” he said.

  “I love you too.” Georgiana squeezed his hand. “And to think, none of this would have happened if we hadn’t gone to Gretna Green.”

  Hamish pulled her closer to him, no matter how scandalous they might appear to servants. Musing about a world which may not have contained Georgiana brought him no joy.

  “I’m glad we gave the blacksmith some work to do,” Hamish said.

  “Mama did scatter a lot of flowers.”

  “I know now why flower girls are always under the age of five. Smaller arms.”

  Georgiana laughed. “I did actually come to fetch you.”

  “Not to muse about our wedding?”

  She shook her head. “The ball is in a few hours, and I want you to see the decorations.”

  “I’m sure they’re perfect.”

  “Well, that is a given.”

  Hamish stood up and picked up his papers, thrusting them against his chest while he grabbed the blanket with his other hand.

  “I can help—” Georgiana started to say, but Hamish shook his head and headed to the estate. Georgiana strode beside him.

  Music wafted from an open window. The music was jovial and did not resemble the somber gentleness present at Almack’s that had rendered every country music song staid.

  They entered the manor house.

  “See that these go in the library.” Hamish handed the butler his materials.

  “Certainly.” The butler tilted his torso in a downward direction while tightening the cap of the ink. He soon disappeared around the corner.

  Hamish took Georgiana’s hand in his, not minding the rough feel of her lace gloves in the slightest. Perhaps people of their class refrained from showing open affection, though Hamish suspected this restraint stemmed more from unhappy marriages than virtue, but Hamish was not most men. Blast it, Georgiana was his wife and the presence of two delightful daughters in the manor house should prepare the servants for the realization that their relationship involved touching.

  Hamish and Georgiana strode up the wooden steps to the ballroom. Paintings of the Highlands and Isle of Skye adorned the walls. The sober portraits of past ancestors could remain at MacTavish Castle: Hamish refused to feel driven by duty to solely serve them any longer.

  He suspected they would likely be more proud of him now, than when he carefully checked each line in the MacTavish estate books and meticulously detailed each misfortune that had befallen the Scottish in the past fifteen hundred years.

  The music was stronger on this floor, and he opened the door of the ballroom.

  “Papa!” Footsteps rushed toward him, and first one daughter and then the other appeared. Hamish knelt, and they catapulted toward him, as if in training to be cricket balls in the hands of an expert player.

  “I couldn’t keep them from dancing,” their nursemaid said.

  “Dancing is good.” He grinned. “Can you show me?”

  The girls squealed and clapped their hands.

  “You should join them,” Georgiana said.

  “As should you, my dear.”

  They danced together, leaping to the sounds of a Scottish reel.

  In the summer, when the roads were at their smoothest, they would make the journey to Norfolk to visit Georgiana’s relatives. Isolation was no longer something he believed in, and perhaps when Marianne and Lily were older, they might venture across the channel. His daughters would grow up to be curious.

  “Don’t forget to admire the banquet table,” Georgiana said.

  “I hope admiring involves tasting.” He sauntered toward the long table. Scotch eggs and haggis perched on blue and white china as if they were French delicacies, and he inhaled the rich scent of wild game beside them. Vibrant-colored punch lay in crystal tumblers, and fruit floated inside.

  “It’s perfect,” he said. “As are you.”

  Georgiana’s cheeks pinkened, but she smiled. “Your valet will want you to change into your evening clothes now.”

  “I can be tardy. Let’s ask the musicians to play a waltz.”

  “But it’s not Scottish.”

  “I don’t care.”

  He led Georgiana back to the dance section of the ballroom and murmured instructions to the musicians.

  Soon the joyful strains of a waltz pl
ayed, and he twirled and swirled his wife about the dancefloor as happiness jolted through him.