As he wrestled with that thought, she stepped out of a hat shop halfway down the street.
She’d worn a pale-blue gown that he knew would deepen her eyes to the color of cornflowers. The plain lines and lack of decoration made her look pure and fresh, a golden-haired English Aphrodite. His feet started toward her before his brain could register that she wasn’t alone.
Jane joined her, a hat box in one hand, and behind the companion strolled a slender man with wavy golden hair, a well-fitted brown coat, yellow waistcoat, and black trousers in glinting Hessian boots. Hurst, no doubt. Niall could see why Eloise had described the marquis as soulful; Lionel looked like a poet’s fever dream of a young man about to be struck down because he was too beautiful, or some such nonsense.
Squaring his shoulders, Niall continued forward. He knew the exact second Amelia-Rose caught sight of him, because she dropped her reticule and froze. Whether it was good or bad, it was something. She wasn’t indifferent.
“Good afternoon,” he drawled, crouching to retrieve her bag. “Ye’ve dropped someaught, lass.”
She stared at him, her blue eyes bottomless and … stunned? Hopeful? Pleading? Niall refused to put a word to her expression, because it would only be the one he wanted to believe. Her soft mouth opened and closed, and then she visibly shook herself. “Niall. I’m … You’re here.”
“Aye, that I am, adae. Did ye wish me elsewhere?”
The soulful dead man stepped between them, reaching for Amelia-Rose’s reticule. “I’ll take that, my good man. Thank you for your attention.”
Niall shifted it backward. “I wasnae speaking to ye, ye soft piece of lambskin.”
“I beg your pardon?” Hurst glanced behind him at Amelia-Rose. “Do you know this man, Amelia-Rose?”
“I … do.” She blinked again. “My lord, this is Niall MacTaggert. Niall, the Marquis of Hurst.”
The marquis’s expression became a touch less soulful. “You’re that Scotsman. I must inform you that Amelia-Rose and I are engaged, sir, and your presence here is unwanted. Please begone.”
“That doesnae sound reasonable,” Niall returned, wondering if the man had any idea just how narrow the safe path before him lay. “I came upon ye while out shopping for a hat, and greeted this fair lass. Surely ye can spare me a word or two, Miss Baxter, in exchange for yer wee bag?”
“Certainly I c—”
“We’re quite busy at the moment, sir. Perhaps you could leave your card at Baxter House.” The marquis started forward. “Now, if you’ll excuse us, Mr. MacTagg—”
Niall didn’t move, didn’t step aside, and as Hurst bumped his shoulder the soft man came to an abrupt halt and took a half-step backward. “That wasnae very effective, was it?” Niall observed, looking down at him. The lad was nearly six feet, but most of his exercise looked to be from getting out of bed in the morning. Niall doubted Hurst could hoist a pitcher, much less a sheep.
Hurst lifted his cane, putting his free hand on the ivory dog’s head. No doubt he carried a rapier sheathed in there, just in case large Scotsmen refused to move from his path. They were wasting time here, when he needed to speak to Amelia-Rose. And yet, if she did bear this goose-down pillow some degree of affection, perhaps this was what she needed to see. He forced a grin.
“Dunnae make me break ye in half, ye pasty rag doll. I’m just after a word or two. We’ll stand right there, so ye can watch over us and keep her from harm.” He pointed at a spot directly in front of a shop window.
The marquis began to look rather like he’d swallowed something sour. “I warn you, I am surrounded by friends here. You may think to challenge me to fisticuffs, but you may find yourself taking on the entire aristocracy.”
Niall shrugged. He’d tried. No one could say he hadn’t. But he wanted to speak with Amelia-Rose now, at once, and hear from her what the devil had happened, and the need to hear her voice, to be close to her, drove everything else out of his mind. “I asked nicely.”
Coiling his fist, he took a half turn sideways so he could get his weight behind the punch—and Amelia-Rose put her own fist over his. “Please, Lionel,” she said, with a half smile that didn’t fool him for a minute, “I don’t wish a scene, for goodness’ sake. One minute, and we can continue with our afternoon.”
“I … One minute, then,” Hurst agreed. “But not alone. I insist on making certain this rogue doesn’t threaten or injure you.”
Niall was ready to stomp all over the pretty scarecrow’s demands, but she continued holding on to his hand. “Please,” she whispered.
He nodded. “Aye.” Not letting her out of his sight, he moved to one side of the walkway. When she and the marquis joined him, he faced her. “Were ye surprised?”
Her jaw clenched. “Yes, I was.”
“What surprised you?” Hurst asked, frowning.
“Ye keep yer shite to yerself,” Niall snapped. “Ye’re to listen; nae speak.”
“I didn’t agree to any s—”
“That’s it. I’m killing him.” Niall grabbed the pretty lad by the cravat and hoisted him off his feet.
Hurst yelped, punching at Niall’s arms and kicking out at him. “Unhand me, you—”
“Put him down, Niall,” Amelia-Rose ordered.
Unless he was mistaken, she found part of this amusing. Niall hoped it was the bits where Hurst nearly wet himself. Clenching his jaw, he set the man down on the ground again, but kept a hand wound into his cravat. “Have ye changed yer mind about anything?” he asked Amelia-Rose, otherwise ignoring the wriggling trout at the end of his arm.
“No, I haven’t. I didn’t…” She trailed off. “I don’t know what to say.”
Tears rose in her eyes, and he wanted to kiss them away. “He’ll give ye what ye wanted,” he made himself say anyway. Their words had to be careful, but he needed to know, for certain, what—who—she wanted. What sort of future she wanted, and whether he would be in it. He couldn’t rescue a damsel who’d pledged her troth to the dragon.
A single tear trailed down her cheek. Blinking, she swiftly wiped it away. She wouldn’t want any other passersby to notice. “How can…” Amelia-Rose looked down for a moment, then abruptly met his gaze. “Do you recall that Scottish dish you told me to try? Skellum? I did try it. I love it. Very much. I’d like to try it again.”
Niall’s heart stopped. Simply stopped. Sound, sight, everything seemed clear as a crystal, all around him. He could hear the gulls over the docks, he thought, as far away as they were. Abruptly everything centered again, with the concussion of cannon fire, and his heart started beating. Hard. Fast, and hopeful. Saint Andrew, she was brilliant. And she loved him. She loved him. “I’m partial to adae, myself,” he returned, keeping his voice calm. “It’s best with an open window, though. The smell, ye ken.”
“I’ll try it that way,” she said, then stuck out her hand. “That’s that then, I suppose. I’m afraid I am occupied tomorrow as well, as Lord Hurst will be taking me to luncheon at noon.”
He released the marquis to free a hand. When he took her fingers, they shook. He held on for a bit longer than he should have, then gave her back the reticule. “Aye. That’s that.”
“That is not that,” Hurst stated, trying to straighten his cravat. “I will see you banned from every club in London, you savage.”
“Aye. Ye do that, ye wilted lily.”
“You might at least wish us well,” the lily insisted.