If she said nothing, though, or better yet allowed them to believe that she and Coll MacTaggert were slowly becoming acquainted, she would have something she’d never had a chance to experience before—a measure of freedom. Even if she and Coll were ostensibly courting, she could see her friends, go on outings, dance through the London Season she so adored.
It would all work better without Coll being present, of course. Heavens, as a nearly engaged woman she could dance with nearly anyone. Perhaps with all the weight lifted from her shoulders she might find a man whose company she actually enjoyed, one who didn’t insult her, one who didn’t warrant her disdain or indifference, and one of whom her parents might even approve. All she would need was a plausible escort.
“Ye’ve a sly look about ye, lass,” Niall noted, bringing her thoughts back to the ground.
“I am going to find you a decent map of London,” she said.
“That’s thoughtful of ye.”
Amelia-Rose nodded. “Yes. And this afternoon your brother is going to escort me to Lady Margaret Hathaway’s alfresco luncheon. I’ve been wanting to attend, but my mother wouldn’t let me accept without knowing what plans Lord Glendarril might have for us.”
His brows dipped into a scowl. “I—”
“Your brother isn’t here. That makes you his second, does it not?”
“He’s only a bit late, as I s—”
“Then one or the other of you will arrive at my home at two o’clock, in a proper carriage. And one or the other of you will drive Jane and myself to the luncheon, for which I will provide directions, and he or you will spend the afternoon being charming so that I don’t look like a fool for being involved in this marriage of convenience, which everyone wants to pretend is anything but.”
Niall MacTaggert set a half-eaten biscuit on the wooden table. “So ye reckon I’m yer lapdog now?” he said, a slight cooling in his voice that nearly made her shudder. Easy-tempered as he seemed to be, she abruptly realized that it may well merely have been the face he chose to show her. Well, she had other faces, too.
“Not at all,” she replied, with more confidence than she felt. “If you don’t wish to participate, I will simply return home and tell my parents the truth—that Lord Glendarril isn’t interested in me. Because how can I assume otherwise?”
He took a breath. She couldn’t read his thoughts, of course, but she imagined he was weighing spending a few hours with her against facing his mother and informing her that Coll MacTaggert had been thus far utterly unimpressive and utterly absent as a beau. That was in no way his fault, but he’d been the one to step in both last night and this morning. Whether he’d done so to save her or to keep his brother from embarrassment she didn’t know, but it would seem to be in his best interest to continue to do so. Or so she hoped, because once she did tell her parents that Lord Glendarril wanted nothing to do with her, this nonsense would begin all over again—and she was running out of men she hadn’t driven away or insulted or who were otherwise unacceptable.
“Seems ye’ve got me roasting on a spit,” he commented, more mildly than she expected.
“I do. For this afternoon, at least. Perhaps you can tell me about more of your brother’s heroics, and I’ll fall for him before we even meet again.”
A muscle along his jaw jumped. “Aye. That could happen. Very well. Coll or I will escort ye in a proper carriage to yer picnic.” He sat a breath closer. “What I’d truly like to know about this party is if they’ll be serving food. Or will it be frilly snacks that couldnae fill a bee’s stomach?”
She laughed, her absurd degree of relief telling her just how much all of this had gotten to her already. Oh, thank goodness. No arguments with her parents, no sending her to stand beside friends who happened to be speaking to earls and marquises. Not today, at least. “As soon as I return home I will personally send a note to Lady Margaret to clarify that you are not a measly bee and that you wish to be fed. If I’m not satisfied with her response, I will pack you a basket luncheon myself.”
“I’ll hold ye to that.”
“Very well. For your information, a coach or a phaeton would be an acceptable conveyance, but I do prefer a barouche.”
He lifted an eyebrow. “A barouche. Aye. Anything else, Miss Baxter?”
“No, that should suffice. But as you are standing in for my nearly betrothed, you may call me Amelia-Rose,” she decided, despite the sharp look that earned her from Jane. Her shy second cousin had become exceedingly proper as she aged, and while Jane did serve to remind Amelia-Rose to behave, she also represented what happened when one was too reserved. Amelia-Rose was nineteen, and she had no intention of becoming a thirty-three-year-old spinster.
Niall downed another biscuit. “Nae,” he said, his tone amused. “Amelia-Rose is a damned mouthful for a barbarian Highlander. I reckon I’ll call ye adae.”
“Why? What does that mean?” she countered, deeply suspicious even though it sounded quite pretty in his deep brogue. “I won’t agree until you promise me you aren’t calling me a turnip or something embarrassing.”
When he grinned, her heart gave a stutter. No man should be that handsome. Especially not the brother of the man supposedly courting her. “I’d nae call ye a turnip, lass. It means ‘rose,’ like yer name. Only less twisty on my tongue.”
Rose. Well, it was half her name, which people generally tried to shorten anyway, but in Scots Gaelic it felt … prettier than the “Amy” her mother disliked so much. Adae. It was very nearly poetical. “Very well,” she said, with an exaggerated sigh. “But if I find out it does mean something else, I shall wallop you.”
He laughed, the sound deep and musical and enticing. The pair of women seated behind him both turned their heads to look. One of them fanned herself, and they leaned together, whispered something, and both blushed. Amelia-Rose took another sip of her sweet coffee and pretended not to notice, but of course she did. She knew both of them. And even if Niall was just her beau’s brother, the reaction of other ladies to his presence was mollifying. She’d spent the last two years trying to be just like everyone else and falling short. Let someone envy her for once.
Especially considering last night, when the viscount had vanished five minutes into Romeo and Juliet, a bit of envy was nice. If she didn’t wish to become a laughingstock, though, she would have to encourage the displays of manliness and charm from whichever MacTaggert appeared to escort her, and she would have to discourage the barbarian Highlander behavior.
What a tangle this was becoming, and only after one day. Jane looked like she’d been forced to swallow an insect, Niall sat eating biscuits as if he’d been starved for a month, and she had an absent almost-fiancé. She should have been embarrassed and even more troubled, she supposed, as a proper lady would be when the man she was supposed to pretend was falling for her didn’t bother to make an appearance. But at this moment she wasn’t troubled. She was having a blasted good time.
At the table directly beneath the side window a trio of men argued over whether a pheasant was a more noble creature than a swan. One of them had even brought drawings to support his claim for the swan, and loudly recounted the law that allowed only the aristocracy to eat them—a sure sign of their high standing.
“Do we request more coffee?” Niall asked, setting his cup aside. “Or do I get ye home so I can fetch Coll and a carriage before two o’clock?”
“We should go,” Amelia-Rose replied. She still had to write Lady Margaret and ask to be re-included in the luncheon even though she’d canceled just yesterday. And she had to make certain there would be enough food to satisfy the tall, lean man seated opposite her. She had no doubt that Coll MacTaggert wouldn’t be her escort, and that was fine with her. More than fine.
“Aye.” He stood and moved around to hold her chair out for her.
“You cannot be serious, Francis,” one of the bird men exclaimed. “The entire world acknowledges the nobility of the swan. A pheasant must be hung for three days before it’s even edible.”