Page 76 of Hit Me With Your Best Scot
“Ye’re wondering if releasing Coll would convince him to turn his lass away,” Angus mused, sipping at his whisky. “Ye saw what I saw, Francesca. I reckon ye and I havenae ever agreed on the color of the sky, much less what’s best for us and our bairns, but he’s nae a bairn. And he’s seen what he wants.”
“You read my letter, yes?” she retorted. “Admittedly, Mrs. Jones is a highly regarded actress, but she is anactress. A commoner. No doubt you find it amusing that I’m nonplussed, but is she truly whoyouwant to see as the next Lady Aldriss?”
“I wanted a nice Scottish lass for each of the lads, if ye’ll recall.” He crossed his ankles, at home, as he’d always been wherever he went. If only he’d chosen to go where she wanted to be—they might still be living beneath the same roof. “Those lasses, though, they’re nae who I expected ye to choose.”
“You mean they’re not the fainting, delicate, hothouse flowers you warned our sons about? No, they aren’t. They’re women. Strong women, both of them.” She sighed. “I suppose the best we could hope for is that if I remove the obligation for Coll to marry, he and Mrs. Jones remain lovers until he eventually tires of London and goes back to the Highlands to find someone more appropriate. That, of course, depends on whether Mrs. Jones will remove her claws from a wedding band and a future earldom.”
“Or ye might consider exchanging more than a few barbs with her, open yer eyes, and realize she’s nae just a walking scandal.” Coll leaned into the doorway, his arms crossed over his chest.
Well. She would have preferred to have a plan in place before beginning an argument, but as the argument had come to them, she would make do. “What is it about her, then, that you find so irresistible?”
“She’s nae a child, for one thing,” he answered promptly. “She’s a woman grown, with a woman’s experience and a woman’s view on the world. She’s at least as clever as Aden, I reckon, and isnae shy about using her wits. And she’s damned funny.” He tilted his head. “She’s nae scared of me, when even my own brothers look for ways to keep my temper tethered. She’s a hundred women all in one,màthair, and I find her endlessly fascinating. Is that enough of an answer for ye?”
“Will she give up the theater for you?”
“I dunnae. I’ve nae asked her to.”
“So you would have a viscountess whom strangers pay money to see onstage every night?”
“There arenae plays except during the Season,” he countered, his tone still mild, but sheathed in steel. “Strangers can look at her if they wish, as long as she comes home to me.” To her surprise, he came forward, sinking into the chair beside his father. “I see it this way. Ye can force me to wed, and I’ll marry her. Ye can free me from having to wed, and I’ll still marry her. Or ye can forbid me to wed and threaten to hold all of Aldriss Park hostage if I do. Ye’d win that one, but I reckon I’d find a way to be with her anyway.”
Francesca looked at him. Shecouldattempt to force him to do as she wanted. That would give him the choice of either defying her and losing Aldriss Park—or, more likely, he would marry some weak-minded, milquetoast chit and keep Mrs. Jones as his mistress, which would keep him from having a happy life. And it would keep him out ofherlife.
“Coll,” Angus said, downing the rest of his whisky, “go fetch yer lass, will ye? Yer ma and I need a minute to converse.”
“Aye. I’ll give ye five minutes.”
Once he’d gone, Angus poured another glass of whisky and slid it toward her. “Drink.”
“I’ve already had one.”
He cracked a grin. “Another willnae harm ye. For God’s sake, woman, ye’re about to have to swallow yer pride and admit ye’ve been outmaneuvered by love.”
Scowling, she took the glass and drank it down. “This isn’t the first time I’ve been outmaneuvered by love, you know.”
His smile softened. “I am aware. I owe ye such apologies, Francesca, I hardly ken where to begin.”
She snorted. “One whisky’s clearly harmed you,Angus, if you’re ready to apologize. And two have clearly harmed me, if I’m even considering listening.”
“Are ye?”
“Perhaps.”
Damn him, anyway. She could be nearly seething with anger for seventeen years, and the moment he walked through the door, the moment she heard his voice, she could only remember the times he’d made her laugh, the moments he’d made her heart sing.
Francesca took a breath. “She’ll cause a scandal, you know. For your daughter, for your daughters-in-law, and for me.”
“Ye’re the thinker in this family; think of a way to prevent that.”
“That’s not very helpful.” In a sense, though, it was. She had more than her mind here; she had power and influence. With it, she could ruin Persephone Jones and make certain the woman had no further career here in London, if not the rest of the Kingdom. Her reaction to this match would say a great deal. People would watch, and they would listen.
She walked to the window and pushed it open. Aden had wanted Miranda to choose the day for their wedding; she’d picked a lovely one. Sun kissed the roses in the garden, and a light breeze ruffled the leaves of the grand old oak tree in its center. And she, Francesca, had attempted to begin a fight with a young woman waiting to hear if her house had burned down. That woman had not only stood her ground, but drawn blood.
“We’re here,” Coll said. “What’s it to be?”
Francesca turned around. Persephone Jones stood hand-in-hand with Viscount Glendarril, and she had removed her bonnet—and her bright red hair. Honey-colored curls hung halfway down her back and over her shoulders, improper and loose, but rather refreshingly so. Her lavenderand peach gown looked expensive in its simplicity, as if she’d worn her very best dress to attend the wedding. Had it been meant to impress Coll’s family, or was it a measure of her pride that she wanted to fit in with what had been, after all, an aristocratic ceremony?
“I’ve seen you onstage perhaps a dozen times,” she said, noting out of the corner of her eye that Angus had gotten to his feet. “You’ve been Rosalind, Juliet, Cordelia, the courtesan in that sillyA Mad World, My Masters,Recha fromNathan the Wise,and a half dozen others I can’t remember at the moment.” As she recited the list, another question caught at her attention, and she frowned. “Do you have any influence over the plays put on by the Saint Genesius, Mrs. Jones?”
