Once Upon a Tartan

Three

Not two years into public school, Tye had understood why Duty and Honor must be elevated so high in the esteem of the budding flowers of English manhood: Duty and Honor were required to fill a boy’s vision so he might lose sight—if not entirely then at least substantially—of his Resentments.

The result of this insight was for Tye to focus intently on those resentments, until he could list them, recite them to himself like a litany of souls to be prayed for. He resented his younger brother, whose scrapes and pranks were forever earning Tye a birching or, worse, protracted lectures about setting a worthy example. He resented his younger sisters when they came along, for they appropriated attention from a formerly devoted mother and very indulgent staff.

He probably resented his mother too, though even in his lowest adolescent lows—and those were melodramatically low, indeed—he did not quite manage to add her to his list.

And he still had not, though in the privacy of his thoughts it was a near thing.

He resented his father. There were sublists and footnotes and nigh an entire bibliography appended to the resentment he bore his father. He suspected other fellows in expectation of a title carried similar lists in their heads, but by tacit understanding, each honorable, dutiful boy nurtured his resentments in private, if he acknowledged them at all.

And now, Tye could resurrect the list that had died a quiet death in his university years—resentment was an indulgence, after all—and add several more items to it.

He resented Scotland. This struck him as a solid, English sort of addition to the list, and if it meant he resented half his own heritage, well, he’d borne that burden for his entire life.

He resented nieces who charmed and provoked protective instincts at variance with the demands of Duty and Honor.

He resented, bitterly, fathers who made a son choose between duty and conscience, particularly when both options were rife with negative consequences to people not even involved in the choice.

He resented Scottish earls, Balfour in particular, who could exude such bonhomie and graciousness that Tye nearly believed Balfour shouldered the burdens of his title without suffering any resentments at all.

Tye mentally polished his list while changing into dry morning clothes, dragging a brush through his hair, and returning to the family parlor from whence he’d come. He figuratively left his resentments at the door, fixed a smile on his countenance, and prepared to match Balfour’s pleasant good humor with every semblance of credibility.

“Uncle!” This time, Fiona bolted toward him, which was a fleeting triumph until Tye realized he was supposed to sweep her into his embrace, though they’d parted not ten minutes earlier.

“Niece.” He set her on her feet. “I see you left a scone or two on the tray.”

“I didn’t, but Uncle Ian did. He said he’s going to reave Deal back to Balfour, because she makes the best.”

She escorted him across the parlor to the sofa and indicated he should take the seat to the left of Miss Daniels. Tye did, only to find his niece wiggling herself between him and the end of the sofa, which forwardness necessitated that he shift closer to Miss Daniels.

“Uncle told me about the coronation coach. He said the wheels are almost as tall as he is.”

“That is your last scone, Fiona MacGregor. You’ll spoil your luncheon.” Miss Daniels spoke pleasantly while she passed Tye a cup of tea.

“And I’ll not be stealing Deal until your aunt Augusta weans the little shoat, particularly not when Deal can be cooking for an English earl here.” The dainty teacup in Balfour’s hand looked like doll china, though the man’s fingernails were clean and his turnout every bit as well made and spotless as Tye’s own.

Balfour snitched a bite of his niece’s scone and went on speaking. “I have petitioned the Sovereign to pass a law that the offspring of titled men should be weaned at birth. The succession of many a title will be more easily assured. The Prince Consort has told me privately he endorses my scheme, but I’ve yet to prevail.”

This was humor. Tye understood it as such, but there were females present, and it was humor relating to, of all things, weaning.

“I haven’t an opinion on the matter.”

“You will, laddie.” Balfour winked at him, reminding Tye strongly of their mutual niece. “Give it time, a countess of your own, and a few assaults on your beleaguered paternal ears, and you will, particularly when the ruddy little blighter must invade your very bed. That’s mine, Fee.”

He used two fingers to slap his niece’s wrist, but she crammed a piece of his scone into her maw and drew back against Tye, giggling all the while.

“Would you like a scone, Lord Spathfoy?” Miss Daniels wasn’t oblivious to the misbehavior of her family members, but she didn’t appear bothered by it either.

“None for me, thanks.” Because though he was hungry, how on earth was he to react when some niece or earl or other pilfered the food from his very plate?

“We’ll have none of that.” Balfour passed him a plate with two scones on it. “You’ll hurt Deal’s feelings if you turn up your nose at her scones. The vindication of English diplomacy lies in your grasp, Spathfoy, and, Fee, I’ll not take you up before me for a week if you try to raid a guest’s plate.”

Well. Tye bit into a scone.

And while he consumed both scones—he’d forgotten the pleasure of a fresh, warm, flaky scone full of raisins—Balfour proceeded to quiz his niece on her sums and her Latin, her French and her history. This was a version of an earl executing the duties of Head of the Family that Tye had not previously seen, and one he had to approve of.

Grudgingly, of course.

Still, Fiona was given a chance to show off a bit before her elders, and while she conversed in basic French with her uncle, some of her little-girl mannerisms fell away.

She sat more quietly beside Tye. She set her plate aside and folded her hands in her lap, her expression convincingly demure.

“But, Uncle Ian? What is the French word for guddle?”

Tye spoke without thinking. “Voler.”

“Nay.” Balfour’s expression lost a measure of its geniality. “You are mistaken, Spathfoy. To guddle is not to poach or steal, it is more in the nature of chatouiller, to tickle or tease.”

“My mistake.”

Balfour’s smile changed in some way, becoming edged not with threat, exactly, but with… challenge. “You’ll walk me to the stables, Spathfoy? Good manners and my continued good health require that you accept an invitation from my countess to dine with us while you’re visiting. I will try to have his little bellowing lordship taken up by the watch between now and then.”

While Tye looked on, Balfour hugged and kissed both his niece and her aunt. The girl went willingly into his embrace, as did Miss Daniels, to whom the man had only the remotest family connection.

“My regards to Aunt Ree,” Balfour said, releasing Miss Daniels. “She’s been naughty, I know it. She’d face me like a proper auntie if she weren’t trying to hide some misdeed. Fiona, you behave for your aunts or I’ll make you change your cousin’s dirty nappy when next you visit.”

The young lady disappeared into the little girl amid giggles and expressions of disgust as well as more hugs. Tye undertook the walk to the stables with more relief than foreboding.

“So, Spathfoy, to what do we owe the honor of a visit?”

Balfour’s tone was not accusing, but it wasn’t genial either. This interrogation, too, was a part of being the head of a family, and Tye respected it as such.

“My father sent me along to ascertain whether the child was thriving, and to investigate her circumstances generally.”

Balfour ambled along beside him, when Tye wanted to stop, stand still, and admire the way sunlight had a sharper edge this far north, even in high summer.

“Why?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Why,” Balfour said, “after leaving Fiona in my care since birth, has Quinworth chosen now—when Mary Fran and her husband are off on an extended journey—to finally make inquiry regarding the child?”

“You had the care of her?”

“For God’s sake, man.” Balfour stopped walking, and in his voice Tye heard a trace more of the Gaelic, the mountains, and the laird of old. “I’m Fee’s uncle, Mary Fran’s older brother, and head of my branch of the clan, such as it exists in these enlightened, damned times. Of course I provided for my niece. I also wrote to your father regularly regarding the girl’s progress and health, and I never once received a reply.”

“You never once received money, you mean?”

To put it like that was rude, but goading Balfour would expose how much opposition Tye was likely to face.

“You’re trying to convince me you’re stupid,” Balfour said mildly. “Brave, but stupid. I suppose it’s the most one can hope for from an Englishman. That, and pretty manners.” He resumed walking. Tye fell in beside him while trying to determine if he’d heard pity, humor, or resignation in Balfour’s insult.

“If my father was asked for funds and refused your request, perhaps he intends to make amends. Fiona is arguably his responsibility.”

“Morally, yes. Legally, I doubt it. But he has failed spectacularly in this responsibility, and now he sends you around to charm the ladies and whisper in Fee’s little ear about gold coaches.”

Tye remained silent, resenting Balfour’s astuteness.

And the trickle of shame it dripped into Tye’s conscience.

“I want what is best for Fiona,” Tye said. It was the truth—despite the marquess’s machinations, Tye could be honest about this much.

Balfour sighed mightily as they approached the stables. “That’s what I’m afraid of. The English have ever wanted what is best for Scotland, and the Scottish have wanted only to be left the hell alone. Give Quinworth my respects when next you report to him, and warn him he’ll have a fight on his hands if his intentions toward Fee are less than honorable. We’ll expect you at Balfour House tomorrow night for dinner. Be prepared for an assault on your ears.”

He walked off without a bow or a backward glance, and Tye was reminded that for now, Balfour outranked him and had the advantage of fighting on home turf.

For, apparently, a fight it would be.

Sitting next to Spathfoy at morning tea, Hester had noted a resemblance between him and the Earl of Balfour. They were both tall, dark-haired, and green-eyed, true, but the resemblance went deeper, to a force of personality that had little to do with brawn or wit per se. Ian was relentless when committed to a goal; Hester had the sense Spathfoy would be no different.

When the opportunity to best him came along later in the morning, she could not resist.

“If I give you a few lengths head start, my lord, will you race me to that cow byre?” She pointed across the valley to a small stone building set half into the earth of the hillside.

Spathfoy drew his horse up. “A few lengths head start? Should I be insulted, Miss Daniels?”

“I know the terrain, my horse hasn’t recently been ridden half the breadth of Scotland, and I’m the one challenging you.”

He looked thoughtful, while his horse capered and curvetted beneath him. “No head start, and not to the cow byre, but to the wall just beyond it.”

“To the last jump then.”

“The lady gives the start.”

She brought her mare alongside his gelding at the walk, collected her horse with a few simple cues, snugged her knee to the horn, and gave the signal quietly. “Go.”

The valley was a good mile across, and Dolly was fresh and eager to show the fidgety gelding her heels. Hester bent low and let the mare have her head.

They flew effortlessly across the ground; the wind sang in Hester’s ears; and the rhythm of the horse thundering beneath her beat away every worry, woe, and anxiety she had ever claimed. She urged the horse faster, aware that Spathfoy’s gelding was keeping pace half a length back.

Of course he was. The beast was a good hand taller than the mare, giving Spathfoy an advantage of height, even mounted. And the damned gelding jumped so smoothly in stride, Spathfoy barely had to get up in his stirrups, whereas Dolly chipped at the first wall and overjumped the second.

Hester ran a gloved hand down the mare’s crest even as she whispered to the horse for a hair more speed.

They cleared a burn that Spathfoy and his gelding weren’t prepared for, and it put Dolly a full length in the lead. As the last wall loomed closer, Hester could feel Spathfoy gaining, pushing his horse hard to close the distance. She knew better than to look over her shoulder.

“Don’t let them catch us, girl.” With a touch of her heel, she urged the mare into a flat, flowing gallop that sent them sailing neatly over the wall.

Like a perfect lady, Dolly came down to the walk on cue, her sides heaving, her neck wet with sweat.

“Well done, my lady.” Spathfoy’s horse was winded as well and blowing hard, but still dancing with nervous energy beneath its rider.

Hester gave Dolly a solid pat on the shoulder. “Did you let us beat you?”

“I did not. Rowan has tremendous stamina, but your lighter mount has more native speed, particularly for a short distance. Then too, Rowan is young and wastes energy fretting. Shall we walk for a bit?”

They turned back through the meadow, the race having eased something inside Hester’s body and mind. That Spathfoy would honestly pit his horse against hers was a compliment; that she’d beat him was a lovely boon.

“You ride quite well, Miss Daniels.”

“You’re being gentlemanly again. You needn’t bother.”

Some of her pleasure in the ride dimmed at the exchange, but Spathfoy remained quiet on his horse beside her until they came to the burn.

“Shall we let the horses rest? We’re a good way from the manor.”

“Rest and have a drink.”

Too late she realized this would require that he assist her off her horse. When Ian or his brothers offered the same courtesy, it meant nothing. Gilgallon was inclined to flirt, Connor to handle her like a sack of grain, and Ian to turn it into such a gallantry as to be a jest. To a man, they had to comment on her diminutive size each and every time.

Spathfoy turned it into… something else entirely.

Hester unhooked her knee from the horn, shifted sideways in the saddle, and put a hand on each of Spathfoy’s shoulders—surpassingly broad shoulders when measured thus. His hands went to her waist, which was standard protocol for such a courtesy.

When she boosted herself from the saddle, she expected his hands to merely ride along her sides until her feet met the ground, but no. His strength was such that he could control her descent, so she did not jump to the ground but was borne there by his hold, until she stood quite close to him.

Dolly swished her tail and took one step to the side with a hind foot, nudging Hester such that she was pitched into the solid expanse of Spathfoy’s chest.

“Steady there.” Not quite at her waist, but lower, almost on her hips, his hands held her for a moment. He didn’t presume, didn’t take untoward liberties, and yet…

It was the closest thing to a true embrace Hester had enjoyed in too long to recall. Yes, her brother hugged her, fleeting, brusque, mostly one-armed gestures of affection entirely foreign to their interaction until he’d married Mary Frances.

And Ian, Connor, and Gil were affectionate men, but always with Hester, there was a carefulness to their affection. It drove her mad, that carefulness.

“I won’t break, you know.”

She didn’t slide away, didn’t elbow the horse to make room for a backward step.

“I do believe you are one of the shortest women it has ever been my pleasure to assist from a horse.” He sounded curious, and before Hester could shake her riding crop at him for his rudeness, his hand settled on the top of her bare head and then measured her height against his breastbone.

She went still, staring at the shirt and cravat covering that breastbone while he did it again, only this time, his hand did not pass from her crown to his sternum. It slid down over the back of her head in what felt heartrendingly like a caress, and then settled at her nape.

“Your hair is an absolute fright. Come here.”

He steered her by the shoulders to stand before him, but facing away. Behind her, he was taking off his gloves with his teeth, admonishing her through a clenched jaw.

“You’ve no doubt lost half your pins, for which, somehow, you will blame me. This is the recompense I’m to be served for allowing you to win.”

“You did not let me win.” She half turned to remonstrate with him, but his fingers loosening the braid at her nape prevented an adequate range of motion. “Your horse was still fatigued from riding the length of the River Dee, you did not know the terrain, and it is not your fault if I lost a few of my pins.”

“Hold these.” He passed a dozen pins over her shoulder, and Hester felt her braid hanging down her back.

“Is there a reason why your hair must be so long?”

If he was examining its length, then he was noting the tail of her braid swinging against her fundament. This notion was enough to provoke a blush, and that was enough to spark Hester’s temper.

“A woman’s hair is her crowning glory, my lord. Surely even you have been sufficiently exposed to Scripture to understand this?”

“Hold still, I tell you, and yes, I’ve had as much Scripture drummed into me as any English schoolboy, though my grandfather explained to me that the reason for this is because the print in the damned Bible is so small, one can read it only with the eyes of youth. In old age, memorized passages are the only comfort Scripture affords. There. You will soon be marginally presentable. Give me the rest of those pins.”

A few minutes later, she patted the bun he’d secured at her nape and turned to regard him.

“The damned Bible, my lord?”

“Yes, the damned Bible. I will explain once I’ve loosened the horses’ girths.”

He dealt with the horses and passed Hester the mare’s reins so they could offer their mounts a drink from the stream. The gelding had to snort and dodge and caper around while Dolly slaked her thirst. When the mare raised a placid eye to the other horse, he condescended to take a few dainty sips beside her.

“He lacks confidence,” Spathfoy said, “but this makes him work hard to please, and I have hopes for him.”

“I noticed you did not pet him after his exertions.”

Spathfoy peered over at her from the other side of the horses. “An oversight on my part. Horse, pay attention: my thanks for your efforts. Next time, I will not allow the ladies to win. Is that better?”

She could not help the smile that emerged from some dark corner of her soul. “You are diverting, my lord, and not just because we beat you and your flighty beast.”

For a few minutes, they did not speak. Spathfoy unrolled a tartan blanket from behind his saddle and spread it on the ground. The stream gurgled along, the horses soon took to cropping what grass there was, and a kind of peace seeped into Hester’s soul she would not have expected the moment to yield.

“Shall we sit, Miss Daniels? The day is pretty, and I’m enjoying the outing. I think you are too.”

He gestured to the blanket and began shrugging out of his jacket. To be alone like this was arguably improper, except they had a niece in common and they were in plain sight, and what had being proper ever earned Hester, except a fiancé bent on the worst of improprieties? She unbuttoned the jacket of her habit and spread it on the blanket as well.

When she had settled beside their coats, Spathfoy came down beside her. “Care for a nip?” He waggled a silver flask, unscrewed the cap, and held the flask out to her.

“Please.” She reached for it, expecting cider, lemonade, or water, and got… fire. Whisky scorched its way down her gullet into her entrails, leaving her lungs seizing, her eyes watering, and heat blooming through her limbs.

“Oh, Merciful Powers, Heaven and Earth, Mother of God.” She tried to breathe evenly, but this provoked a coughing spell that inspired Spathfoy to sit directly at her hip while he thumped her soundly in the middle of her back.

“For God’s sake, take shallow breaths. I should have warned you. I do beg your… what did you think I’d have in a flask if not spirits?”

“You drink that on purpose? Stop beating me.”

“I’m not beating you, for God’s sake.” His hand went still, but he switched to rubbing her back, causing a warmth of a different sort where he touched her. “I drink it on purpose and in quantity on occasion.” His hand fell away, but he did not move from her side. “I suspect Balfour does likewise.”

“Of course, but a lady does not drink strong spirits. I can understand why now. Augusta said it’s an acquired taste.”

He took a pull from the flask before tucking it away, then hiked his knees and started shredding a sprig of heather plucked from a nearby bush. “Augusta would be Balfour’s countess?”

“And my cousin. What were you going to explain to me about the damned Bible, my lord?”

He turned up his substantial nose. “My lord this, my lord that. I have a name, and since we’re drinking companions, you might consider its use.” He did not look comfortable to be making this offer. He snatched up another sprig of heather and set to destroying it as well.

“What is your name?” She did not add my lord for fear of agitating him further.

“Tiberius Lamartine Flynn. My sisters call me Tye.”

His friends—if any he had—would call him Spathfoy, though. Hester wasn’t sure being lumped in with his sisters was a good thing.

“You may call me Hester. We are practically family, and if I call you Tye, then Fiona will have an alternative to Uncle Spathfoy.”

He tossed away the bits of heather. “Fiona, my one and only niece. Balfour asked me what I was doing, skulking about the child after my father had neglected her for years.”

So Ian’s visit hadn’t been about tea, crumpets, and fish stories. “What did you tell him?”

Spathfoy—Tye—looked away, and Hester sensed he was choosing words, choosing the more attractive versions of the more attractive truths to share with her.

“I told him my father was likely seeking to redress his previous neglect of the child, and that I wanted what was best for my niece.”

He snatched up a third little branch of heather, but Hester put her hand over his before he could wreak more destruction. His hands were warm and much larger than hers. “You were prevaricating, weren’t you?”

He kept his gaze on their joined hands. “I do not know what my father’s motives are, but you should not trust me, Hester Daniels. Not when it comes to that child.”

She withdrew her hand and regarded him. Sitting this close, she could feel the heat of exertion coming off of him, catch a hint of the flowery shaving soap he used, along with the pungent scent of heather, and could almost count the long, dark lashes framing his eyes. She could also sense that Tiberius Lamartine Flynn, the Earl of Spathfoy, was troubled by these half confidences he reposed in her.

“You represent no threat to me, sir. It’s the men crooning their trustworthiness behind closed doors who must be avoided at all costs. If you want what’s best for Fiona, you are no threat to her either.”

His lips thinned, but he remained silent.

“Tell me,” Hester urged.

“She runs wild, barefoot even.”

“I have seen no less personage than the Earl of Spathfoy himself unshod. This is no great crime.”

“So you have.” His lips turned down, when Hester had wanted the opposite reaction. “She climbs trees, she sings to them, reads to them.”

“You were denied these pleasures as a child, but I’ve no doubt you sneaked into a few trees anyway.”

“A few.”

“So solemn, and over a child’s summer pastimes?”

He looked away, toward the horses, but this was more than prevarication. Predictably, he changed the topic. “I’m to dine at Balfour House tomorrow.”

“Then you’ll want to work up an appetite. Ian believes in feeding his countess, for she sustains his heir.”

“I cannot believe he said as much in mixed company.” He was back to plucking at heather.

“Are you fascinated at his forthrightness or appalled?”

“Impressed, I suppose, and intrigued to know what sort of woman would take on such a barbarian.”

Hester leaned back on her hands. “Ian MacGregor is more a gentleman than ninety-nine percent of the men I stood up with in London. He loves his wife.”

Spathfoy’s fingertips were turning gray with all the heather he was shredding. “Was that Merriburg’s shortcoming, he did not love you?”

This was no business of his, but it kept them off the topics of Fiona’s behaviors and Augusta nursing her own child. “Jasper loved none but himself, but no, that was not the reason I tossed aside my reputation, my future, my hopes for a family of my own, and my welcome in my own mother’s house. Shall we be going, my lord? I think the horses are quite rested enough.”

She struggled to her feet when a dignified exit stage left was called for. A riding habit was an odd garment though, not symmetric, and shown to best advantage only when a lady was mounted. Hester managed to tramp on her hem twice while she tried to gain her balance, until only Spathfoy’s grip on her forearms kept her from landing in a heap at his feet.

He glowered down at her with particular intensity. “Merriman was an idiot, and Hester Daniels, you should not trust me.”

She was so close to him she could see the verdigris gradations in his pupils—green, gold, agate, amber, black, brown, an entire palette of colors—and she could feel the warmth and strength of his grip through the thin cotton of her sleeves. The urge to comfort him—to soothe him—was strange, unwelcome, and irresistible. She smoothed the fingers of one hand down his chest, marveling at the heat he gave off.

This simple caress was a mistake, or possibly the smartest thing she’d ever done.

He bent over her, firmed his grip on her forearms, and pressed his mouth carefully but relentlessly to hers.

Hester had been kissed before and hadn’t found it at all appealing. Men who’d had too much wine with dinner, chased by a few cigars and port, did not have much to recommend them when they were bent on mashing their teeth into Hester’s lips or slobbering on her neck.

On Spathfoy, the wee dram of whisky tasted lovely—all dark, smoky apples, and spice. He didn’t mash, he caressed with his mouth. His hands shifted to Hester’s back and held her close; his strength and heat enveloped her. She moaned with the pleasure of his nearness, and then the damned man took his mouth away.

She grabbed a fistful of his cravat. “Don’t you…”

“Hush.” He ran his open mouth along her throat, leaving heat and wanting to trickle down through her vitals. When he brought his mouth back to hers, Hester sank a hand into his hair and opened her mouth beneath his.

He groaned, a soft, sighing breath into her mouth—so intimate, Hester felt as if she’d downed the whole flask of whisky. She burrowed closer, until he took his mouth away again, and she wanted to howl at the unfairness of the loss.

His hand cradled the back of her head while she stood in his embrace, her forehead resting on his chest. “This will not serve, Hester Daniels. I owe you a sincere apology for taking liberties no gentleman would think of appropriating. I offer you my most—”

She reached up without lifting her face from his chest and put her hand over his mouth, more to feel the shape of his words than to stop him from speaking. His apology didn’t matter, but the sound of his voice was something she wanted to take into her senses through every possible means.

“Tell me about the damned Bible.”

He expelled a bark of humorless laughter, which she felt against his chest. “The damned anything. I have a theory that a good bout of swearing helps settle the nerves. Foul language re-establishes a sense of equilibrium and diverts uncouth feelings into their natural expression.”

She did pull back then, far enough to peer into the bleak depths of his eyes. “So this is a damned kiss?”

“A bloody awful, misguided, bedamned, miserable excuse for a bleeding kiss. I told you not to trust me, Hester.”

He looked as unhappy as Hester had seen him. This was a small comfort. She went up on her toes, kissed his cheek, and offered him a small comfort in return. “I do not now, nor do I have any intention in the future, of trusting you.”

He caught her to him for one more brief, fierce hug, then let her go. When he helped her into the saddle, he managed it while barely touching her, and not looking at her at all.

He did not shake the blanket out, but simply rolled it up and stashed it behind his saddle, then vaulted onto Flying Rowan’s back. They went directly home, trotting and cantering through the heather without a single word of conversation.

In her head, Hester was testing his theory, using every naughty, off-color, and outright bad word she knew to describe his advances. It didn’t work. When they ambled into the stable yard to hand the horses off to a groom, Hester was still hoping Spathfoy would offer her another bloody awful, misguided, bedamned, miserable excuse for a bleeding kiss—rather damned sooner than later.

“Is all in order with our visiting earl?”

Augusta kissed Ian before he could get out a reply, and then he had to kiss her back, and then he had to hold her and pet her while he tried to recall what her question had been—even as she was stroking her hand over his arse in the most proprietary fashion.

His adorable arse.

“Spathfoy is a great big lout, speaking the Queen’s English with such precision it nigh left my ears bleeding. He’s cozening Fiona with tales of the golden city to the south, and likely bedazzling Aunt Ree with his university-boy manners.”

He patted her bottom then recalled they were standing in the rose gardens where any servant peering out of any window might see them. “I’ve invited his lordship to dinner tomorrow, but I think he’s afraid you’ll start nursing The Terror right at the table.”

“You were naughty.” She rested against him more heavily. “Ian MacGregor, must I remind you of the requirements of proper behavior?”

“Yes, Wife, I fear you must. At great length and in considerable detail. The privacy of our bedchamber would be an ideal location for this reminder.” He growled this command into her ear, which caused her to cuddle against him, her shoulders shaking with suppressed mirth. She was such a dignified woman generally that he loved to make her laugh. “I would have reported earlier for my lesson in proper deportment, except I cut into Ballater to arrange for a few wires to be sent.”

He turned her under his arm so they could start walking toward the house before Ian’s interest in his wife’s scolding reached embarrassing proportions. “Wires are expensive, Husband.”

“But expedient. Matthew and Mary Fran need to know there’s an English lordling slithering about in their garden.”

“Is he slithering?”

“The poor bastard is here as the old man’s emissary. I think Spathfoy has orders to reave little Fee right out from under our noses, and the guilt of it is nigh killing the man.”

“Do you mean reave in the legal sense, or in the Scottish sense?”

“That’s what one of the wires was about, to see if there are any custody suits recently brought regarding our niece, and to see where Quinworth is lurking while his son is on holiday in our backyard.”

“You didn’t send one to Mary Fran and Matthew?”

“I sent three. Now about that lecture you promised me, Countess? I have been exceedingly remiss, I am planning on being naughtier still, and my only hope of proper guidance rests with you.”

He scooped his wife into his arms and carried her up two flights of stairs, only to hear a certain Terror waken from his nap in a predictable state of loud and hungry indignation just as Augusta was on the point of unfastening her husband’s breeches.

A list of known aphrodisiacs had circulated among Tye’s confreres at university, but lemon verbena had assuredly not been among the foods, fragrances, and substances named.

Nor had fresh air, or the scent of heather, or the sound of a burbling Scottish stream, or proximity to tartan wool, but something or someone had so unbalanced the relationship between Tye’s self-restraint and his base urges as to violate every tenet of common sense.

One did not accost decent young women, no matter how much in need of kissing they might seem.

One did not kiss young ladies who had given no overt indication they were receptive to such advances.

One did not allow oneself into compromising situations where any wandering neighbor might come upon one.

But one was also having great difficulty forgetting the kiss, and the compromising situation, and the decent young lady from whom the kiss had been stolen.

Behind his closed door, Tye wrote a letter—not a report—to his father, who was rusticating at the family seat in Northumbria. To his sisters, he dashed off notes full of drivel about the fresh Scottish air and beautiful Scottish skies. He wrote to the steward of his estates in Kent and outside Alnwick, and in sheer desperation, he even wrote to his mother in Edinburgh.

And still, when he sanded the last epistle, he had not in the least changed the fact that he’d kissed Hester Daniels.

Thoroughly, but somehow, not thoroughly enough.

And worse yet—far worse—she had kissed him back.

He tossed his pen down and leaned back in his chair, his gaze going to the view of the gardens, stables, and grounds stretching between the manor and the surrounding hills.

Maybe the fresh Scottish air was to blame.

He enjoyed sex enthusiastically when it came his way, and it came his way frequently. Friendly widows were thick on the ground in the social Season, and if they were ever in short supply, Tye had been accosted by any number of wives intent on straying. Then too, there were women on the fringes of Polite Society with whom arrangements involving coin and exclusive sexual access could be discreetly made.

Those women were available once terms were struck. Hester Daniels—jilt, tease, spinster, or whatever inaccurate label she wanted to put on herself—was unavailable to him.

And always would be.

A quiet triple tap on his door interrupted another round of self-castigation.

“Come in.”

“Uncle!” Fiona literally skipped into the room, leaving the door open behind her. “I read to Aunt Ree, and we spoke French, and she said I could write to Mama in French tomorrow if I look up five very big words tonight. Are you writing letters?”

“I was.” He shifted the stack of missives to the side while the infernal child scrambled up onto his knees.

“May I see?”

“No, you may not. Shouldn’t you be at your lessons?”

“I did my reading lesson. Tell me some big words in French. You have to spell them.”

“Here.” He passed her a pencil. “Spell this: p-e-s-t-i-l-e-n-t-i-e-l.”

“What does it mean?”

“It’s French for niece.”

She squirmed around to scowl at him. “Niece is the same word with an accent like this over the e.” She drew her finger down in imitation of an accent grave. “Are you in a bad mood?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

For God’s sake… He set the child aside and rose. “Because I came up here for privacy, and you have intruded.”

Her brows drew down in an expression that put Tye in mind of her step-aunt, though Miss Daniels was unrelated to the girl except insofar as both females bothered him. “Then, Uncle, you should not have let me come in.”

“That would have been rude.”

“You’re being rude now.”

He wanted to bellow at the little imp, wanted to transport her bodily to the corridor, but she was regarding him with such an air of mischief he felt his lips quirking up. “My apologies.”

“You could tell me what’s bothering you.” She skipped to the bed, hopped up the three steps on one foot, then hiked herself onto the mattress. “Aunt Hester was in a bad mood when she came here a few weeks ago, but she explained to me that she’d had her heart broken. She came here for it to get better. Is your heart broken?”

“It is not. Please remove your person from that bed.”

She hopped down, again on one foot. “Aunt said her beau took unseemly liberties, and she should have coshed him on the head.” Fiona swung her fist in a fierce downward arc through the air while Tye smoothed the wrinkles from the counterpane of his bed. “I told Aunt Hester there are no beaus here in Scotland, we only have braw, bonny lads. Aunt Augusta said we had braw, bonny earls too, but she meant Uncle Ian. He winked at me when she said it.”

“Is that where you acquired such a lamentable habit, from your uncle Ian?”

She winked at him. “It’s a secret. I’ll see you at tea.” As quickly as she’d invaded his privacy, she skipped right back out to the corridor.

The ensuing silence had a peculiar, relieved quality. Tye had just sat back down at his desk when Fiona poked her head around the doorjamb. “May I call you Uncle Tye? Aunt Hester said your real name is Tiberius, which would be a grand name for a bear, I think.”

“It’s a perfectly adequate name for an earl, but yes, you may call me Uncle Tye.”

She grinned at him, a huge, toothy expression of great good spirits, winked once more, and disappeared.

Tye stared at his stack of letters. He had not mentioned any kisses in those letters, just as Hester Daniels hadn’t mentioned her worthless excuse for a fiancé taking unseemly liberties or needing his head coshed.

Which left Tye pondering why his own head had not been coshed by that fair lady when he’d taken unseemly liberties. Why she’d kissed him on the cheek without any provocation on his part at all.

He picked up the pencil and started making a list.

“I have been foolish.” Dear Hester made this pronouncement in tones indicative of an impending bout of martyrdom, so Ariadne set aside her third husband’s journal and resigned herself to patience.

“I hope you at least had a grand time being foolish.”

The girl dropped into the rocking chair by the hearth—a feat Ariadne hadn’t attempted without assistance or planning for more than a decade. “I am not jesting, Aunt. I was very rag-mannered to Lord Spathfoy.”

Ariadne gave the kind of snort an old woman was permitted even in public. “That one. He could do with some rudeness. He’s handsome as sin, in expectation of a title, and wealthy to boot. I hope you took him down several pegs.”

“I kissed him.” A furious blush accompanied this confession.

“I’m envious. Did he kiss you back?”

“You’re envious?” Hester shot to her feet and started pacing the small confines of Ariadne’s sitting room—small rooms were easier to keep warm—leaving the rocking chair to bob gently, as if inhabited by a ghost. “I toss propriety to the wind when I know the fate of my good name is hanging by a thread, and you are envious? Spathfoy isn’t some younger son trying to cadge a dowry so he can keep up with his gambling cronies. He’s going to be Quinworth, and I’ve disgraced myself utterly, again.”

The girl was overdue for some dramatics. She’d been pale and composed for weeks, only rousing from her brown study when Fiona dragged her out-of-doors or Ian got her onto a horse.

“You are not to blame for Merriman’s mischief, Hester Daniels. He was a bad apple, as my fourth husband would have said. Spoiled rotten and contaminating all in his ambit. Do you know how many men I’ve kissed?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Such pretty manners. Do have a seat. You’re making my neck ache with all your stomping about.”

Hester popped back into the rocker. She was nothing if not considerate of her elders.

“I asked if you knew how many men I’d kissed.”

She looked guardedly intrigued. “Of course, I can’t know such a thing.”

“I’ve lost count as well, but I’ll tell you, Hester Daniels, from where I’m sitting now, waiting to shuffle off this mortal coil, it wasn’t nearly enough.”

“Aunt, perhaps in a former era, when society was less—”

Ariadne waved a hand. “Bah. Society has always delighted in catching the unwary in their missteps, and there have always been missteps. Old George ran a proper court, I can tell you. To bed at a reasonable hour, up early to ride for hours, and yet, look at his get. A crop of fifteen children. Even his princesses were not entirely chaste, and old King William had more Fitz-bastards than some people have fingers. Do you think you’re the first woman ever to steal a kiss? Merciful sakes, child, men are so blockheaded one must sometimes draw them a map.”

Hester’s brows drew down, suggesting Ariadne’s outlook wasn’t one shared by whatever tutors and governesses had raised the girl.

“But, Aunt, I enjoyed kissing him.”

“I kissed his grandfather once, the one he’s named for. The man knew a thing or two about comforting a widow—all in good fun, of course.”

“He’s named for a grandfather?”

Bless the girl; she didn’t hide her interest in even such a crumb of information as this. “He’s named for his maternal grandfather, a Lowland Scottish earl who knew how to turn a coin practically out of thin air. Quinworth’s wealth today owes much to the dowry and financial abilities Spathfoy’s mother brought to the match.”

“He’s never mentioned his parents.”

“They are cordially distant, as happens in the later years of many a dynastic match. Was Spathfoy flirting with you when you kissed him?”

“Yes.” An unequivocal answer, which suggested his strapping, handsome lordship had been engaged in more than pretty compliments.

“Then kiss him some more, for pity’s sake. You’re both at loose ends, he’s handsome, and who knows, you might form an attachment.”

“Aunt, one is supposed to form the attachment before one appropriates any kisses.”

She was so certain of this progression, Ariadne felt sorry for her. “And were you attached to young Merriman?”

Hester stared at her hands, which rested in her lap. Her expression was wiped clean of all intentional emotion, but Ariadne had buried four husbands, and the misgivings and griefs of women were familiar to her.

“This is your real worry, isn’t it? The man you gave your hand to, however temporarily, did not charm you with his kisses, and yet this arrogant intruder has you sighing and glancing on only a few days’ acquaintance.”

Hester sprang onto her feet again and went to the window. The girl spent a lot of time considering the views from various windows. “What if I am unnatural? What if I can only have feelings for things and people forbidden to me?”

Ariadne considered Hester’s poker-straight posture and the tension in her fists.

“What if you are completely natural, healthy, and attracted to one of the finest specimens of manhood I’ve seen in decades? What if he’s attracted to you, and what if you’re both sensible enough to explore the attraction—within reason?”

Hester turned to face Ariadne and crossed her arms over her chest. “Are you encouraging this foolishness?”

“Yes. Yes, I certainly am. I am encouraging you to put the unfortunate situation with Merriman behind you. The man was a cad and an idiot. I suspect he rushed his fences with you and showed you the low cards in his hand far too plainly. Get back on the horse, my girl. Toy with Spathfoy’s affections all you like. He can manage for himself, and you might find you suit.”

“But what if he toys with mine?”

The question was bewildered, anxious, and sincere. Ariadne did not permit herself to smile.

“Then you enjoy it. And when he trots back to England in a week or two, you thank him for a few kisses and remember him fondly. All need not be drama and high dudgeon, Hester, and if you didn’t want to kiss a man like Spathfoy, I would be worried about you indeed. Now, we’ve missed our Gaelic since Spathfoy has joined us. Shall we practice?”

Hester rang for tea, and with the determined mispronunciation of the young and serious, started her daily session mangling the language of her own maternal ancestors—while being very clear about where her current interests lay.

“If you please, Aunt Ariadne, what else can you tell me about Lord Spathfoy’s family?”

The shame had caught Hester quite by surprise, as if she’d risen from a chair to stride across the room, only to find her hem caught under some malefactor’s boot.

She’d ridden over several miles of countryside with Spathfoy in silence, pondering his kiss—and her kiss—and feeling for the first time as if ending her engagement might have been among the better decisions she’d made.

Feeling a stirring of that most irksome of emotions: hope; but it was a hope so amorphous as to leave her wondering if Spathfoy himself had anything to do with it, or if a kiss from any handsome gentleman might have served.

No matter what she’d said to Ian, it wasn’t as if she liked Spathfoy, after all.

But then they’d trotted into the stable yard, and Spathfoy had swung off his horse and turned to assist Hester to dismount. His expression had been so severe she’d nearly scrambled off the far side of her horse. He’d deposited her on the ground as if touching her had burned his hands, bowed shortly, and stalked off toward the house without a word.

Leaving Hester to doubt herself so badly, she was making confessions to Aunt Ree and butchering a language normally more pleasing to the ear than French.

“But are there rules, Aunt? If a gentleman kisses a lady, is it still forbidden for the lady to kiss the gentleman?”

“Oh, my heavens, child. If a gentleman kisses a lady, he is unquestionably opening the negotiations. He’s hoping she’ll kiss him back.”

Spathfoy had not looked the least bit hopeful.

Hester was saved from explaining as much by Fiona’s arrival. The child skipped into the parlor and plopped down beside Aunt Ree on the sofa.

“Uncle Tye is writing letters. He wouldn’t give me any big words in French, though he was happy enough to give me some in English.”

Aunt Ree smoothed a hand down the remains of one of Fiona’s braids. “We’re practicing our Gaelic, Fiona. We can look up the big English words in the French translation dictionary if that would help.”

Inspiration struck, and Hester didn’t pause to question it. “Maybe Uncle Tye will help you think up some big French words over dinner.”

Fiona sat bolt upright. “I can come to table with Uncle and Aunt and you? I can stay up late and have dessert?”

“If you take a bath and change your pinny, yes, just this once.”

Fiona bounced to her feet. “I must put this in my letter. I’m to dine with company. Mama and Papa will be very proud of me.” She skipped off to the door, stopped, and frowned. “Will Uncle mind if I join you for dinner?”

Aunt Ariadne answered. “Of course, he won’t. What gentleman wouldn’t want to have three lovely ladies all to himself at dinner?”

Tye had friends who’d served in the Crimea, men who’d gone off to war in great patriotic good spirits only to come home quiet, hollowed-eyed, and often missing body parts. The Russians had developed a type of weapon referred to as a fougasse, though various forms of fougasse had been around for centuries.

A man walking through deep grass would inadvertently step on one of these things and find himself blown to bits without warning.

Dinner loomed before Tye like a field salted with many hidden weapons, each intended to relieve him of some significant asset: his dignity, his composure, his manners, or—in Fiona’s case—his patience.

“I’ve made you a list,” he said. “Not less than ten of the largest words I know in French, and you shall have it after we dine. Now, might we converse about the weather?”

Lady Ariadne presided over the meal with benevolent vagueness. Miss Daniels—he could hardly call her Hester now—limited her contributions to gentle admonitions regarding the child’s deportment, leaving Tye to converse with… his niece.

“Why do people talk about the weather?” Fiona queried. She aimed her question at a piece of braised lamb gracing the end of her fork.

“Eat your food, Fee dear, don’t lecture it.”

The girl popped the meat into her mouth and chewed vigorously.

“I’m just asking,” she said a moment later. “The weather is always there, and we can’t do anything about it, so why bring it up all the time as if it had manners to correct or ideas we could listen to?”

Tye topped off his wine and did the same for the ladies. “I will admit, Fiona, that weather would make a less interesting dinner companion than you, who have both manners to correct and all kinds of unorthodox ideas.”

“What is the French word for un-ortho-ducks, and what does it mean?”

He took another sip of his wine. He was beginning to feel that slight distance between his mind, his emotions, and his bodily awareness, that suggested he’d had rather too many sips of wine.

Lady Ariadne murmured something in Gaelic that Tye did not catch—the child had addled his wits that greatly—and a servant brought Fiona a small glass of wine.

“For your digestion, my dear, but take small sips only, or it could have the opposite of its intended effect.”

The girl took a dainty taste of her libation, showing no ill effects, which was the outside of too much.

Properly reared children did not dine at table with adults.

They did not run roughshod over the dinner conversation.

On this sceptered isle, they did not sip passably good table wine as if it were served to them nightly.

And a proper gentleman did not sit across from a decent young woman and mentally revisit the feel of her unbound hair sliding over his hands like blond silk. He did not watch her mouth when she drank her wine. He did not wonder if she would cosh him on his head if he attempted to kiss her again.

The longest meal of Tye’s life ended when Lady Ariadne pushed to her feet. “If you young people will excuse me, I’ll retire to my rooms and leave you to turn Fee loose for a gambol in the garden. Fiona, I am very proud of you, my dear. Your manners are impressive, and we will work on your conversation. Fetch me my cane and wish me sweet dreams.”

Fiona scrambled out of her chair to retrieve her great-aunt’s cane from where it was propped near the door. “Thank you, Aunt. Good night, sweet dreams, sleep well, I love you.”

Tye rose, thinking this reply had the sound of an oft-repeated litany, one that put a damper on the irritation he’d been nursing through the meal. He frowned down at Lady Ariadne.

“Shall I escort you, my lady? I’m sure Miss Daniels can see the child to the gardens.”

“No, thank you, my lord. Until breakfast, my dears.”

She tottered off, leaving an odd silence in her wake.

“Aunt is very old,” Fiona said. “It’s easy to love old people, because they’re so nice.”

“It’s easy to love you,” Miss Daniels said, “because you’re very kind as well, and you made such an effort to be agreeable at table tonight. My lord, please don’t feel compelled to accompany us. Fiona and I are accustomed to rambling in our own gardens without escort.”

Except they weren’t her gardens. If she’d taken his arm quietly, without comment, he might have let her excuse him at the main staircase, but she had to intimate he was not welcome.

“I would be delighted to join you for a stroll among the roses, and I have to agree. Fiona acquitted herself admirably, considering her tender years.”

He winged his arm at Miss Daniels, half expecting—half wishing for—an argument.

She placed her bare hand on his sleeve. “Come along, Fiona, the light won’t last much longer, and you’ve stayed up quite late as it is.”

They made a slow progress through the house and out onto the back terrace. With the scent of lemon verbena wafting through his nose, Tye came to two realizations, neither of which helped settle his meal.

First, when he kissed a woman, it was usually a pleasant moment, and possibly a prelude to some copulatory pleasant moments, but the kiss itself did not linger in his awareness. Kissing was a means to an end, a means he was happy enough to bypass if the lady perceived and shared a willingness to proceed to the end.

With Hester Daniels, the kiss itself had been his goal. He’d wanted to get his mouth on hers, and yes, he’d wanted more than that from her too. What had irritated him over dinner was not the child’s chattering, or her forwardness. It was not the paucity of adult conversation or the unpretentious quality of the place settings or the simplicity of the food itself.

What irritated him was the memory of that kiss, lingering in his awareness like some upset or shining moment—he wasn’t sure which. He’d enjoyed that kiss tremendously.

The second realization was no more comforting: he should not kiss Hester Daniels again, no matter how much he might want to.

And he did want to. Very much.

“Aunt Ariadne insists I owe you no apology, but I’m proffering one nonetheless.”

Hester watched as Fiona went from rose to rose, sniffing each one. The end of her nose would be dusted with pollen at the rate she was making her olfactory inventory.

“An apology?” Sitting beside Hester, Spathfoy stretched out long legs and crossed them at the ankles. He’d been his usual self at dinner, both mannerly and somehow unapproachable, patient with Fiona, solicitous of Aunt Ree, and toward Hester—unreadable.

“I kissed you, my lord. This is forward behavior, and regardless of Aunt’s interpretation of the rules of Polite Society, I am offering you my apologies for having taken liberties with your lordship’s person.”

He was quiet for a moment in a considering, strategizing sort of way. This was rotten of him in the extreme, when he might have simply accepted Hester’s apology and remarked on the stars winking into view on the eastern horizon.

“Correct me if I err, Miss Daniels, but I don’t believe yours was the only kiss shared between us.”

“That is of no moment.”

Another silence, one Hester did not enjoy.

“My kiss was of no moment, but yours—a chaste peck on my right cheek, I do believe—requires that you apologize to me?”

Hester could not tell if he was amused or affronted, but she was mortified. The damned man could probably detect her blush even in the fading light.

“Young ladies are expected to uphold certain standards, my lord. Gentlemen are expected to have lapses.”

Fiona sank down in the grass some yards off and started making catapults out of grass flowers. She shot little seed heads in all directions, then lay on her back and tried launching them right into the evening sky, though they fell to earth, usually landing on or near Fee’s face.

“Miss Daniels, you would not allow me to apologize for my lapse, if my recollection serves, but if you insist on apologizing to me, then I insist on apologizing to you.”

A little torpedo of grass seeds landed at Hester’s feet. “You have nothing to apologize for.” Except this ridiculous conversation. She wondered if the son of a marquess was somehow exempt from the manners every other gentleman—almost every other gentleman—had drilled into him before he was out of short coats.

“I have nothing to apologize for. I am fascinated to hear this.” He sounded utterly bored, or perhaps appalled.

“I was getting back on the horse.” She would explain this to him, lest he be mistaken about her motives. Aunt’s version of events, upon reflection, had been helpful after all.

“You were mounting your horse? Before or after I kissed you, using my tongue, in your mouth, and my bare hands on various locations a gentleman does not presume to touch?”

Wretched man. “I wasn’t getting back on the horse in the literal sense. By kissing you, I was demonstrating to myself that my failed engagement was not permanently wounding.”

His arm settled along the back of their bench. To appearances, he was a man completely at ease after a simple, satisfying meal, while Hester was a lady who wished she’d not had so much wine. Again.

“What did Merriman do to make you wish you’d coshed him on his head?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Your esteemed former fiancé. You were tempted to resort to violence with him, which makes me suspect he attempted more than a mere kiss.”

Mere kiss? Mother of God. But how to answer?

He did not harry her for a reply, so Hester sat silently beside him, aware of him to a painful degree, staring at his hand where it rested on his thigh. His arm was at her back, his length along her side, his attention focused on her intently despite the lazy inflection of his voice and the apparent ease of his body.

It became difficult to breathe normally.

“Do I conclude from your silence, Miss Daniels, that your former fiancé attempted to anticipate the conjugal vows, and you were not impressed with his behavior?”

His voice held no more inflection than if he’d been complimenting Mary Fran’s roses, though Hester’s heart began to thump against her ribs.

“You may conclude something of that nature.”

His silences were torturing her even as she dreaded the next question.

“In that case, I accept your apology, madam. I would regard it as a kindness if you would accept mine as well. The Bourbons are without equal when it comes to scent, whereas the Damasks lack subtlety, don’t you agree?”

She managed a nod, becoming aware of the fragrance perfuming the evening around them only when he’d pointed it out to her. She became aware of something else too: Spathfoy’s arm lightly encircling her shoulders, a solid, warm weight, perhaps intended as a comfort, more likely intended to mean nothing at all.