She curtsied, dipping her head to give herself a moment. Yes, he was quite handsome, if in a harder, colder way than his youngest brother. His looks, even his size, weren’t the problem. Everything else about him was the problem.
Oddly, she’d expected to be a bundle of nerves, worried over how the viscount would react to her this time. Instead, and despite how important she knew this moment to be, she simply wished this to be over with, whatever ended up happening.
“Baxters,” the viscount intoned, inclining his head. He hadn’t worn a kilt, thank goodness, though he was sporting a black eye that made him look even less civilized. Objectively she could admit that he wasn’t some stooped-over, ancient baron—which she’d begun to fear her mother would send in her direction after none of her three proposals this Season had been from a titled gentleman. Victoria Baxter had made it quite clear that this would be her daughter’s last Season as an unmarried lady.
Oh, dear. If and when she did turn Glendarril away, would the old, gamy vultures receive her parents’ permission to move in, to circle her until she gave in and pointed her finger at one of them? Would it be either this Highlander or an unmarried acquaintance of her grandparents’ era? Lord Oglivy, for example?
In the midst of this alarming realization, it dawned on her that her mother was looking from her to Glendarril and clearly expected one or the other of them to say something. And since the viscount continued to stand there looking handsome and slightly annoyed, it fell to her. “Coll, thank you for the flowers you had Niall deliver to me yesterday. They were lovely.”
“Ah. Ye’re welcome. I’m sorry I couldnae bring them myself.”
So far, so good. “It’s more important that you recover yourself. Are you feeling well today? I can’t imagine what you ate; I do hope it wasn’t something at Lady Margaret’s picnic.”
His eyes narrowed, and for a bare second she thought she’d said something wrong. This was the only narrative she had to hand, though, and Niall hadn’t indicated they would be doing anything more than substituting his brother’s presence for his. A handful of hard heartbeats later, though, he nodded. “I purchased a pasty from a cart on the way home. That must’ve done it. Doubled me right over, it did.”
“I’ve a potion that might cure you,” her father said, indicating the liquor tantalus. “What’s your poison, Glendarril?”
With a smile that looked more pained than grateful, the viscount shook his shaggy, brown-haired head. “I’ve some prancing about to do tonight. Best not pour good liquor after a bad dinner.”
“Will your mother and the rest of your family be attending this evening?” her mother asked.
“Aye. I’m told it’s quite the spectacle.”
“That it is.” Victoria clapped her hands together. “Shall we depart, then? Once most of the carriages have arrived, it’s nearly impossible to navigate the filth in the street.”
“Well, we dunnae want horse shite on those pretty shoes ye and yer daughter are wearing,” Coll agreed, and motioned them toward the doorway and the foyer beyond.
“Don’t say ‘horse shite,’” Amelia-Rose whispered, drawing even with him.
“What should I call it, then, digested equine grass lumps?”
“That would do,” she agreed, relieved to hear some humor from him. Perhaps he and Niall weren’t so different. It seemed she meant to cling to every tiny ounce of hope he put into the air.
“Glad to see ye’ve caught yer tongue in yer teeth,” he returned. “I’m to be yer laird; I’ll nae have ye snapping at me.”
And there it was. The tiny ounce of hope evaporated as she swallowed back her retort. If and when she made a decision, though, it would be one she’d thought through, one that made the most sense for her. She wouldn’t throw it away because he’d decided to be arrogant. “Of course not, my lord.”
An eyebrow lifted. “So ye do mean to behave. That’s a good beginning, then.”
“I suppose we’re about to find out. But do be aware that if you embarrass or offend me or my mother, you’ll become a pariah here in London, and you won’t be able to find any other Sassenach bride for yourself.” With that she flounced out the front door ahead of him and climbed into the large, black Oswell-MacTaggert coach.
That might have been risky, but for heaven’s sake. He didn’t even know her, and he’d already decided—again, and without conferring with her—that his was the only way that mattered. Barbarian.
He climbed into the coach after her parents, and sat on the padded seat beside her. One muscular thigh bumped against hers. She could edge away, but her parents would notice. Not for the first time she wished someone would be on her side, looking to see if this large man made her happy or if they were the least bit compatible. Thus far she’d seen nothing to encourage her to walk down the street beside him, much less marry him. But it was only Niall who’d suggested, to her great surprise, that this was a match she perhaps didn’t want to make. And then he’d said that he found her charming, which had kept her awake all night.
“After the wedding, will you continue to live at Aldriss Park?” her mother asked, and Amelia-Rose hid a flinch.
“I reckon so. It’s grand enough to fit two dozen MacTaggerts. The abbey at Glendarril was burned down in the lead-up to Culloden. There’s nae on that land but broken stones and skeletons. Nae a fit place for an English bride. I may have her stay in London while I have a house built.”
Glendarril didn’t sound like much of a place for any bride, but Amelia-Rose didn’t say that aloud. She did like the idea of remaining in London, but that was not in any way how she’d imagined her life as a married woman—separated by hundreds of miles and living as a widow in everything but name. Would that be better or worse than making a life with a bully?
“So this soiree is stuffed to the rafters with men, aye?”
She shook herself. At the least she needed to get to know him—if only because she’d supposedly done so days ago. “Yes. No ladies who wish to dance are supposed to be without a partner.”
“How does this Spenfield mama manage to lure all these men beneath her roof?”
“With very good desserts and a drawing for a saddle horse,” her father supplied.
The viscount sat forward. “They auction off a horse? Seems they could draw in a lad or two with that same blunt and auction off their daughters, then.”
“Penelope Spenfield has four daughters of marriageable age. A horse a year for the past four years is what they can manage,” Amelia-Rose explained. “A dowry for each of them is, unfortunately, out of the question.”
“I reckon if they’ve been giving away horses for four years, they need a different strategy. Am I to be scared of these lasses?”
Amelia-Rose ground her teeth together. As much as she wanted to bellow at him that he need only be frightened of the girls if poverty and an unfortunate tendency to simper terrified him, she kept those thoughts to herself. One either had empathy, or one didn’t. On the other hand, he did seem determined to make this about himself. “How many women do you think would be pursuing you if not for your mother’s wealth?”
“Amelia-Rose,” her mother snapped. “That is enough of that.”
She lowered her head, working on not clenching her fingers into fists. When she looked up again, he was gazing at her. “I’ve a title and lands, lass,” he said in an even tone. “But I do get yer point. I’m a lucky man, I reckon.”
He sounded mild enough, but she could practically feel his annoyance. He continued to bring out the worst in her. Being incompatible was one thing; him regarding her as uninteresting and unworthy of a moment’s conversation was quite another. Especially if that was what he preferred in a wife. Why in the world would he want such a woman? Though honestly, a great many men did.