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“No,” Quinworth said, kissing her knuckles again. “It does not. Drinking, shouting, and galloping hell-bent across the countryside don’t either.”
Her ladyship withdrew her hand. “Tiberius says you are a man in love and must be forgiven much, and he recognizes the symptoms because they’ve befallen him.”
“Spathfoy has a certain pragmatic wisdom about him. He’ll make a fine marquess.”
She smiled at him faintly, a wifely curving of the lips that had something to do with forbearance. “He makes a fine son, and I have made a very sorry wife. This is what I want to say to you, Hale Fly
Her shoulders jerked, and Quinworth’s throat closed up to see her so tormented.
“Dee Dee, please don’t.” He shifted to tuck an arm around her shoulders, willing her to silence. She took a steadying breath, and he felt her gathering her great reserves of courage.
“When… Gordie… died, I failed you.” She pitched into him, lashing her arms around him and sobbing quietly against his shoulder. “Forgive me, Hale, for I failed you terribly.”
While the summer breeze wafted the scent of roses around him, Hale Fly
Ian MacGregor kept his voice down, because His Wee Bairnship had for once taken his nap at a time convenient to his parents’ plans—some of those plans, in any case.
“All they need is a nudge, Ian.” Augusta smoothed a hand over the child’s sleeping form, which had Ian nigh twitching with the need to stop her. Anything, anything at all, was sufficient provocation for the baby to waken and start bellowing, and God knew how Ian was supposed to handle matters without his countess to direct him.
“Spathfoy is cooling his heels in the library with a dram of the laird’s cache, Wife. Come away with me.” Ian escorted his wife into the corridor and closed the nursery door very, very softly. “Is Hester lingering over her tea?”
“She’s tarrying in the garden, last I checked. I thought I’d steal a peek at the baby before I wish her on her way.”
“You thought you’d dodge out on me.” Ian took her by the hand and led her to the steps. “There’s a sound and lengthy scold in it for you if you desert the cause at this point, woman.”
“A lengthy scold?” She stopped and bestowed a wicked smile on him. “Marriage to you is growing on me, Ian.”
He could not help glancing at her flat middle, where he suspected another aspect of her fondness for marriage was having repercussions. “We’ll see how matters unfold with our guests. Spathfoy will not appreciate our meddling.”
“Yes, he will. So will Hester.”
She kissed him, which was no reassurance, none whatsoever. Ian parted company with her on the first floor and went to do business with an errant earl whose wanderings had once again taken him into the Scottish Highlands.
“Spathfoy, I do beg your pardon. The lad will fret, and then the wife will fret, and then a man needs a tot lest he fret as well.”
Ian’s guest shot him a curious look. “You take quite an interest in what transpires in your nursery, Balfour.”
“A wise man usually does.” Ian topped off Spathfoy’s drink, poured one for himself, and faced Spathfoy. “Hester tells me your brother’s will did indeed state that Fiona is to be in the care of her paternal family, but Gordie specified that you, and not Quinworth, were to be her guardian. I asked you to come here so we might settle the business like gentlemen—unless you’d rather take it up in the courts?”
Spathfoy had apparently given up declaiming the eternal verities in Her Majesty’s English in favor of awkward silences.
When Ian made no effort to leap into the conversational breach, Spathfoy eventually deigned to speak. “And how does Miss Daniels fare?”
As the closest thing Hester had to a head of her family, Ian allowed Spathfoy’s question was the right one to ask. Fee’s situation was not urgent. Ian had concluded that much when, two weeks after the child had returned home, no lawsuits had been filed, and no demands for settlement or surrender of the child had been received.
“Hester is coping.”
Spathfoy peered at the best damned whisky Ian would ever be privileged to serve, but took not a taste. “What the bloody hell does that mean?”
“Hester’s in the garden, Spathfoy. I was supposed to use all ma
Spathfoy set his drink aside. “It’s that obvious?”
“For God’s sake, man. You’re pathetic. You can barely hold a conversation, you’re moony-eyed in the broad light of day, and you’ve not been keeping in good pasture, from the looks of you. You’re an affront to single manhood, a disgrace to the gender, and worse than all of that, you’re wasting some of the best potation ever brewed in Scotland.”
“Suppose I am.” He tossed the drink back in a single swallow. “Fiona stays here, unless she wants to come terrorize the bachelors of Edinburgh when she’s older. Assuming my parents have found their common sense, my mother will be happy to sponsor her.”
“As will my countess.”
“We understand each other.”
“We do.” Ian stuck out a hand and clapped Spathfoy on the shoulder. “Now quit prevaricating, laddie. Faint heart never won fair maid, and my son is likely to wake up at any minute.”
“You’ll be watching, I take it?”
“Somebody might have to drag you off the field if you bugger this up as badly as the English bugger up most of what counts in life.”
Spathfoy smiled the smile of a hopelessly smitten man. “Half English, but also half Scottish.”
“Then we’ve a wee glimmer of hope.” Ian spun him by the shoulders and shoved him toward the door.
A rose garden past its peak was a sad place to spend a summer afternoon, but Hester hadn’t wanted to accompany Augusta up to the nursery, and the stables had to at least throw a saddle on a horse before a lady could safely ride home.
Tea had been awful, full of knowing silences on Augusta’s part, and sidelong glances that alternated between sympathetic and speculative, while Hester stared at the carpet or out the window and tried to make conversation. If Aunt Ree hadn’t forced her to accept Augusta’s invitation—her summons—Hester would still be sitting by the burn, losing games of matches to Fee.
In a few short weeks, Hester had learned the difference between a bad judgment—such as allowing Jasper Merriman liberties—and a terrible judgment, such as flinging Tiberius Fly
“I wasn’t sure you’d still be here.”
The pleasurable shock of hearing Tiberius Fly
“Tiberius.” She wanted to rise, to go to him, but dared not. She wanted to speak but couldn’t find the words.
“May I sit?”
She twitched her skirts aside in answer. “You’re here.” A stupid thing to say—an imbecilic thing to say.
“Your cousin and her earl have co
What was he asking? She did not meet his gaze but hunched forward, the better to hide her blush. “I am in good health. You?” He looked thi