Page 11 of Hit Me With Your Best Scot
“I’m trying to be one even when the mood doesnae strike me. If ye see Francesca, tell her I’m doing as I said, and finding my own wife.”
“I’m nae telling our mother anything. I dunnae mean to be the first one to see her at all.” Aden gave a lopsided grin. “She’s fearsome, Coll, but I reckon she didnae reckon on ye.”
“Or mayhap she’s forgotten that I remember her time in Scotland.”
Aden tilted his head. “Have a care, Coll. We’ve all changed in seventeen years. Except ye, of course. Now dunnae go galloping through the park and trample any of the lasses or their wee dogs. They’d nae wed ye after that.”
“I couldnae survive without yer advice, Aden,” Coll said dryly, and headed down the stairs.
He paused on the landing to pat Rory the stuffed deer on the rump. Back at Aldriss Park, Rory had stood proud and dignified in a corner of the library, with a suit of armor on either side of him. Now, after being loaded into a pair of wagons with most of their belongings and every other damned thing they could think of to bring to London that might annoy their mother, Rory was adorned with a skirt around his hind quarters, a bonnet with holes cut for his ears, a man’s cravat around his neck, earbobs and necklaces hung from the tines of his antlers, and a dancing slipper bound to his one raised hoof.
“Lad, ye arenae as dignified as ye once were,” Coll told the stag, “but ye look as though ye’ve been having more fun than I am.”
Breakfast was only partly set out, since the rest of the household wouldn’t be awake for hours yet. Coll requested his horse be saddled, then helped himself to a sizeable stack of ham and some fresh, warm biscuits and butter. Together with two cups of strong coffee, the meal left him feeling fortified enough to brave a morning prancing about in Hyde Park.
Of course, he would rather have been riding off to the Saint Genesius for another conversation with Persephone Jones, but with only four weeks remaining to save Aldriss Park, he couldn’t risk missing any opportunity to find a bride. He’d already put off marriage for longer than he should have, but with two capable younger brothers, hisown duty to provide an heir hadn’t seemed as pressing. Lady Aldriss’s proclamation, though, hadn’t left him any choice.
Outside the Oswell House stables and being given a wide berth by the rest of the servants, Gavin stood holding Nuckelavee’s reins in one hand and a handful of carrots in the other. “Yer devil’s in a bit of a froth today, m’laird,” Gavin said, holding up the carrots for the giant to munch on. “Wouldnae let the Sassenach lads near him, even with a bucket of oats as an offering.”
“That’s why we brought ye south with us, Gavin,” he told the groom. “Ye’re the only man that our lad can tolerate, aside from me.” Stepping up, Coll rubbed a hand along the stallion’s arched neck and received a snort and head toss in return.
Nuckelavee was a giant of a black Friesian, descended from a long line of war horses. He had a fancy black frill of fur about his hooves, a great, curling mane and tail, and a bearing that said the lad knew he’d been bred to carry iron-clad knights into battle. He was, after all, named after a horse-shaped sea demon.
Swinging into the saddle, Coll reached down and relieved the groom of a trio of carrots, which he stuffed into a pocket. Nuckelavee hadn’t run off without him yet, but neither of them was particularly fond of London. Having a bribe to hand couldn’t hurt.
“Do ye want company this morning?” Gavin asked, stepping back from the front end of the black.
“Nae. If the countess asks after me, ye can tell her I went to Hyde Park to look over some lasses.”
The groom snorted, clearly doubting that he meant to do as he said. “Aye.”
“You may find some difficulty conversing with any young ladies while you’re riding that monster,” his mother’s cultured voice sounded from behind him.
Damnation. He turned around to see her walking toward him from the direction of the front door of Oswell House. If he rode off now, Francesca Oswell-MacTaggert could rightly call him a coward, but he would be spared the forthcoming verbal brawl. “Lady Aldriss,” he said, nodding.
“My friends are going to stop inviting me to luncheon if you keep insulting their daughters,” she commented, stopping in front of him.
Lord, she was a wee thing, barely reaching his shoulders, even if she should lift up on her toes, which he doubted she would ever do. Tiptoes were no doubt undignified or some other nonsense. “I’d stop insulting their daughters if ye’d stop flinging them at me,” he retorted, circling the restless black about the yard. “I’ve a good pair of eyes. Show ’em to me from a distance and we’d all be happier.”
“Four weeks, Coll,” his mother returned. “You have four weeks to find an English lady, woo her, ask for her hand, and marry her.”
“Do ye truly expect me to wed one of the hothouse flowers from last night, woman? Violet Hampstead? She’s so wee and fragile I’d be afraid I’d break her if I held her hand, much less lay atop her in bed.”
The fair skin of his mother’s cheeks darkened. “Coll. For—”
“Or the other one, Rebecca Sharpe? I actually danced with her at some soiree or other. Did ye know that? And she spent a good twenty minutes chatting about the weather. Ye ken how many words it takes me to describe London weather? One damned word: mild.”
The countess drew in a breath through her nose. “Then perhaps you could give me some indication of what sort of woman interests you, my son. I am only trying to he—”
“Dunnae ye dare say ye’rehelpingme,” he cut in,scowling. “I’d nae be here if not for ye getting our da to sign that bloody agreement.”
She shut her eyes for just a moment. “All the same, my dear,” she went on, opening them again, “seventeen years ago your father and I both signed an agreement that you three boys would wed English ladies before your sister married, or you would lose all of my monetary support of Aldriss. Your brothers have found ladies. And love, I might add. You—”
“First of all, ye didnae say ‘ladies’ in yer paper.”
“I most certainly did.”
“Nae. Ye didnae. I’ve read it a hundred times,màthair, and it says, ‘Englishwomen.’” As he spoke, he hit on it: the way to confound this confounding woman, at least for long enough for him to find a suitable wife on his own. “And if ye must know, I’ve found myself an Englishwoman.”
