Dukes Prefer Bluestockings Read online

  Before Georgiana.

  Georgiana was happy for her sister. Truly she was. Still, Georgiana had the impression that Charlotte was refraining from sharing everything with her, and she did not exactly delight in the raised eyebrows by some in the ton. They thought it odd that Georgiana, who was on her third season, had managed to be bested by someone who was in her first season. Since Georgiana was supposed to have all the advantages of health, they seemed to delight in pondering what disadvantages in personality she possessed.

  She sighed.

  In two days, her sister would be married and whisked off to some castle in Scotland, and Georgiana would remain in London.

  Georgiana busied herself with some crocheting. The task was hampered by visions of broad shoulders and large green eyes. The man’s Scottish brogue seemed to continue to whisper into her ear.

  Voices sounded from the entry, but this time Georgiana was less confident than normal, despite knowing the identity of the visitors. She smoothed her dress, though it would hardly be an unbecoming wrinkle in her fabric that was likely to mar the visit.

  The duke’s younger brother had attempted to bribe her in an effort to prevent the wedding from occurring and then had insulted her morals by kissing her. She seethed.

  There was still time to confess everything to her family. She could leap to her feet and lock the door or at least drag one of the heavier chairs to block the entrance, since she’d never actually seen a key for the door before.

  Papa might chase Mr. MacTavish from the house, as was entirely appropriate. But would he chase the duke away as well, believing the lack of character in the man’s younger brother indicated a lack of character in the duke? Georgiana wasn’t certain, and she had the dreadful idea Mama might be happy to shout “compromised” if she learned her daughter had been alone with a man who was under the age of thirty-five and resided in a castle. And dear Charlotte, what if she put an end to the wedding, after feeling herself unwelcome in the MacTavish family?

  No, it was better for Georgiana to remain silent and to only discuss weather if asked to converse. She gave a quick glance to the window. The sky was gray, and it appeared to be drizzling outside.

  Good.

  She could work with that. She could say, “When will the rain ever stop?” and “I much prefer sunshine to drizzle.” She smiled and raised her chin.

  “My son!” Mama called out, leaping from her seat in a manner not precisely advocated by etiquette books. “He is here. With his dearest brother.”

  “Are you certain?” Georgiana asked, aware too late that her voice had somehow managed to become hoarse. She coughed.

  Her mother turned her head toward her. “Please tell me you’re not becoming ill.”

  “N-no.” Georgiana shook her head with vigor, but the increased rapidity did not lessen the narrowing of Mama’s eyes.

  “Are you quite all right, dear?” Mama placed her right palm over Georgiana’s forehead.

  Evidently Georgiana was not quite as successful at feigning confidence as she’d hoped.

  Fiddle-faddle.

  “I’m perfectly well, Mama.” Georgiana forced herself to smile, but even though lip moving was a skill she was certain she’d mastered, her attempt must have contained a wobble, for her mother continued to scrutinize her.

  Footsteps struck against the corridor, evidently unhampered by the carpets. The noise was the sort that could only be achieved by muscular men wearing Hessians.

  It will be fine. It will be fine. It will be fine.

  At least Mr. MacTavish had decided to make a more conventional entrance this time.

  It would be quite nice to slink up to her room and avoid Mr. MacTavish, but who knew what the man might say to Charlotte? No, she would remain here. At least she could glower at him if he approached her sister. Her lips twitched. And perhaps he would stay away from them both if he thought she did have some contagious disease from a faraway land that would flummox any doctor or surgeon here.

  “Your health is vital,” Mama said. “What if you were to make the duke ill? What if he could never marry dear Charlotte? Why, you could have typhoid. Malaria.”

  “I don’t have typhoid or malaria,” Georgiana said, managing to step away from her mother’s enthusiastic attempts at giving medical administrations. “How could I have gotten them here?”

  “This isn’t Norfolk,” her mother said. “The number of ships from all sorts of foreign places sitting in the Thames. Why they could be filled with all sorts of deadly diseases.” Her mother leaned closer. “Some not even identified. You could be the first case on English soil.”

  “I feel much better,” Georgiana said hastily.

  For some reason her mother looked almost disappointed, as if the prospect of being the mother to the first Englishwoman to succumb to a newly discovered tropical illness was beginning to appeal to her imagination.

  “Are you well, Miss Butterworth?” The faint Scottish brogue of her sister’s fiancé sounded. It was concerned and proper, but Georgiana’s heartrate still quickened.

  For if the duke was there, then his brother was likely also present.

  And even though Georgiana had decided she despised the man from the moment he’d invaded her chamber, the memory of his lips on hers still managed to be pleasant.

  Would he announce that he knew her already?

  Naturally not.

  He wasn’t a fool. If he didn’t want his brother to marry dear sweet lovely Charlotte, who had all the advantages of temperament, he wouldn’t want to go about announcing that he’d compromised her sister.

  Slowly she glided her gaze to the entrance. The duke managed to look as handsome as ever, but beside him was his arrogant brother.

  How odd that two men who resembled each other in appearance could be so drastically different in temperament. Though Mr. MacTavish’s hair was darker than his brother’s, their shoulders were of similar widths, and their legs were of similar lengths. Their noses did not differ in the steepness of their slopes, and their chins were both of the wide variety.

  “I’m quite fine.” Georgiana drew back, unsure what precisely Mr. MacTavish might say, and not caring to inspire him to action.

  “It looked like you were ill,” the duke’s brother said, his voice cool.

  “Er—no.” She flushed. She should be prepared for the man’s lilting, sonorous voice, but it only reminded her of last night’s kiss.

  “I thought the same thing. But now I do believe she was only overwhelmed at the prospect of meeting you,” Mama said, utterly unhelpfully. “Such excitement for my poor child. You must be the dear duke’s brother.”

  “Yes.”

  “It is a pleasure to meet you.” Her mother dipped into a low curtsy. “Your brother has told us so much about you. An architect!”

  “My specialty is in the Scots baronial style.”

  “How interesting.” Mama fixed a bland smile on her face, the kind she wore when she was utterly bemused, but thought a smile appropriate. “History is important.”

  “Indeed. I think it vital that people not forget the cruelty of the English in past interactions with the Scottish.”

  An awkward silence followed, and then her mother laughed.

  “You are really too charming.”

  The duke’s brother’s face did not change. “History is no comedy.”

  “Er—quite right,” Papa said. “Would you like some tea?”

  Georgiana smiled. Papa had never been an enthusiastic tea drinker before, but he seemed eager to have something with which to distract himself. He soon launched into a soliloquy on the types of tea, one which did not seem to intrigue Mr. MacTavish, no doubt because of it did not involve trespassing.

  “It is a pleasure to finally meet my brother’s betrothed.” Mr. MacTavish directed his gaze in Georgiana’s direction.

  Georgiana shifted on the sofa. The pillows were soft, but not soft enough to ease the tension in her body.r />
  This was when she was going to be discovered.

  This was when he would discover she was not in fact her sister, and that she had had no business speaking with authority on the engagement.

  “Dear child, you look so pale,” Mama said abruptly.

  “Perhaps you require more tea,” Mr. MacTavish said. “Apparently it has a great many restorative powers.”

  Papa clapped his hands together. “Oh, indeed. We could even bring out the green variety.”

  “I’m quite fine,” she said weakly.

  Tea was expensive. It was the sort of delicacy appropriate to serve to a duke and his brother, but she could hardly have two cups of it.

  Her parents had intended that the family would leave London earlier, when it was evident that Georgiana had yet again not acquired a fiancé, but her sister’s unexpected betrothal had changed all of that.

  Georgiana would be glad when her sister married, and they could return to Norfolk and its pleasant countryside, away from the grime of the capital.

  Chapter Nine

  The drawing room was small and covered with books and flowers.

  They were all there together: Callum, Miss Butterworth, her two parents and a sister.

  Not that Miss Butterworth seemed particularly lively now. She seemed to be doing her best to imitate a shrinking wallflower.

  He smirked. She could never disappear into the scenery. Her eyes were far too expressive, and that hair was far too red.

  Her sister was more successful at being nondescript, and he noted pale hair, a willowy figure and a bottle green dress that did not benefit her complexion. Still…her gaze felt intelligent, and from time to time he felt her eyes on him.

  His lips twitched. In truth there was no need for either sibling to speak. Their mother seemed determined to hold a conversation for everyone. She spoke rapidly, her eyes glimmering and her lips turning into such a large smile, that Hamish almost felt guilty.

  No matter.

  His brother had given only the most cursory greeting to Miss Butterworth, and the woman did appear most nervous.

  Hamish might never have contemplated marriage, much less a love match, but he knew that it should consist of more than cursory greetings. He smirked and turned to Miss Butterworth. “My brother has not told me much about you.”

  She stiffened.

  “But why would he?” Mrs. Butterworth asked, inexplicably rising to Callum’s defense.

  A pink flush spread over Miss Butterworth’s cheeks, and she smoothed her dress. She needn’t. It looked fine, if a trifle shabby.

  He glanced at his brother, who was occupied in sipping tea and staring out the room’s one window. Though Hamish was fond of views as well, this one seemed underwhelming when compared to protecting one’s betrothed’s sensibilities. God in heaven. Perhaps Callum was preoccupied, but he’d gotten himself into this mess. The man had seemed melancholic all day, and his brother always exuded sanguinity.

  Perhaps Callum did not want to irritate his future mother-in-law. It was not as if they had another mother, and even Lady McIntyre had now passed away.

  Hamish’s chest squeezed. No need to mull over that now. He turned to Mrs. Butterworth. “I would have thought you would have imagined he’d told me something about her.”

  “Nonsense.” Mrs. Butterworth shook her head with such vigor that the lace trimmings on her cap whipped about, while keeping an entirely inappropriate smile on her face. “You’ve just reunited with your brother again. I expect you have other things to speak about.”

  “Well,” Hamish said, recognizing some logic in her words. “That is true.”

  “Of course it is.” Mrs. Butterworth beamed. “I would much rather hear about the castle. The dear duke said you actually live in it.”

  Hamish adjusted the positioning of his pillow. The armchair seemed suddenly devoid of any comfort, though for some reason, the pillows did not provide any alleviation.

  He scowled. He was used to much worse. What should it matter if Miss Butterworth was not spoken about with great enthusiasm?

  “I do live in a castle.” Hamish glanced at his brother, but Callum was feigning great enthusiasm at a leather tome. “For now.”

  “How very delightful. It’s too delightful for words.”

  “And yet you’ve been able to add many words,” Mr. Butterworth remarked.

  Mrs. Butterworth blushed. “Perhaps. Oh, but I am thrilled about this whole marriage.”

  Her eyes glimmered again, and Hamish turned away, conscious of that strange feeling of guilt again. Now was not the time for his tutors’ pontifications on ethics to finally affect him. Besides, who knew how many generations of future MacHamishes he was assisting?

  “Tell me about your first meeting with my brother,” he asked Miss Butterworth.

  “Oh, but I can tell the story!” Mrs. Butterworth cried out.

  Miss Butterworth swallowed hard. This was a woman who’d comfortable brandished a candlestick before him. Why was she unsettled now?.

  “It’s really not necessary, Mama,” Miss Butterworth said.

  “I’m happy to tell it.” Mrs. Butterworth leaned forward, and some pillows toppled from their perch behind her. “I witnessed the whole thing.”

  “Indeed,” Hamish said.

  “From this very chair!” Mrs. Butterworth exclaimed, and Hamish scrunched his eyebrows together.

  “You mean my brother just called on this household?”

  Mrs. Butterworth nodded eagerly. “Yes. That’s how he met my dear daughter. Just like that.”

  “That is most unusual,” Hamish said.

  “You think so?” Mrs. Butterworth widened her eyes. “I thought it was actually pedestrian.”

  “You see? None of your stories are pedestrian, my dear.” Mr. Butterworth’s face glowed, despite the sideburns that valiantly covered a large portion of it. “I’ve been trying to tell her that for years.”

  Mrs. Butterworth laughed. “He just wants to stay in Norfolk.”

  Hamish’s brows remained furrowed, and he set his now empty teacup on the table, wedging it between two stacks of books. “But how did my brother know to call at precisely this household?”

  It felt incredibly wrong.

  Except… He could believe that the Butterworths and his brother were not in the same circles. Mr. Butterworth was a vicar, and Callum—well, Callum was a duke who apparently devoted his time to a gaming club.

  Mrs. Butterworth stretched and refilled Hamish’s teacup with the casual expertise of a woman accustomed to being surrounded by books and undaunted by the fear of tipping a tower over or submerging a tome in hot liquid. “I suppose he must have asked my other daughter. I never actually inquired.”

  “I find that a most intriguing question.” Hamish tapped his fingers over his armrest, vaguely noting that for some reason Miss Butterworth seemed to be slinking into the sofa, as if she thought it possible she could blend into it.

  Mrs. Butterworth clapped her hands, and her curls bounced, unhampered by her white cap, generously laden with ribbons. “Do you know? I think you just might have a point.”

  “And then when did they become engaged?”

  “Oh, by the end of the afternoon, I believe.”

  “How very expedient.” Hamish glanced at his brother, who seemed to be taking an interest in the floral bouquets now and did not meet his eyes.

  On another occasion Hamish may have laughed. Callum had never found flower arrangements of much interest before.

  “My daughter is very beautiful,” Mrs. Butterworth said, taking another sip of tea. “Most angelic.”

  Hamish’s lips twitched. Angelic was not the word he would select to describe Miss Butterworth. He doubted Mrs. Butterworth would appreciate his opinion on that particular matter and he turned to his brother. “But how could you have possibly proposed so quickly?”

  “It—er—” Callum seemed for once at a loss for words.


  Hamish frowned. The man’s behavior was most unconventional, but the mild-mannered Mr. Butterworth did not seem to be a blackmailer.

  “Obviously it was love at first sight. Or nearly first sight.” Mrs. Butterworth’s voice wobbled somewhat. No doubt she’d also been surprised by Miss Butterworth’s hasty engagement to the duke.

  “More tea?” the other Miss Butterworth asked.

  It was the first thing she’d said.

  “Splendid idea.” Callum smiled, helping her.

  Hamish scrunched his eyebrows together, struggling to recollect if Callum had ever helped with tea before.

  “When will the rain ever stop?” Miss Butterworth asked abruptly.

  Everyone appeared puzzled. The conversation halted, and Callum reclined in his seat. Hamish was again struck by the room’s small size. He heard breathing and feet sliding over the floorboards as people readjusted their positions, but not the patter of raindrops.

  “Well, it’s hardly affecting us indoors,” Mrs. Butterworth said finally.

  “I merely wondered—”

  “I believe it’s stopped now,” Hamish said.

  Miss Butterworth looked to the window, no doubt discovering that the sky did seem of the clear variety. Her cheeks pinkened.

  The room was silent, more awkward than before.

  “I much prefer sunshine to drizzle,” Miss Butterworth said.

  “For the sake of the flowers?” Callum smiled. “My dear brother. Did you know that Miss Butterworth is quite interested in garden design? I believe you might find you have some things in common. My brother is of course an architect.”

  “I was unaware,” Hamish said, assessing Miss Butterworth.

  Garden design. That was intriguing. Not of course as intriguing as architecture, but what else was?

  “She redesigned our garden at home three times,” Mr. Butterworth said, his voice brimming with fatherly pride. “Every summer a new design. I think she wants me to become a deacon just so she has a larger garden to work with.”

  Some expression changed in Mrs. Butterworth, and she gestured toward her daughter. “Do you not find her pretty as well, Mr. MacTavish?”

  “Er—quite pretty,” Hamish said, conscious his voice felt hoarse, and not daring to look in Callum’s direction. Well. He could hardly say that his brother’s betrothed was not pretty.