The Untamed Mackenzie

with those.”

Yes, Louisa was reminded of it every day. When everything had fallen apart, Lord Scranton had died of the shame. Louisa and her mother, on the other hand, had to continue to live with the shame.

“Water under the bridge,” Hargate said. “I assure you. I’d never hold it against you, Louisa. That is, I won’t, if you consent to be my wife.”

And if Louisa refused him, he would hold it against her? Louisa stared at him, not certain she comprehended. Was he trying to blackmail her into marriage? From Hargate’s smile and expression, Louisa thought he might be.

I can’t marry him.

As Louisa gazed at Hargate, trying desperately to think of a way out of this troubling conversation, another face swam into her mind. This one was hard rather than handsome, a man with unruly dark hair and hazel eyes that held a glint of gold.

A working-class man, an illegitimate son, his mother a tavern maid, everything an earl’s daughter was supposed to shun. And yet, Louisa remembered the power of his kiss, the strength of his hands. His rough whiskers had burned her lips, and she’d tasted his mouth.

That kiss had occurred at Christmas, and it had been Louisa’s idea, her impulse. Likewise had been the kiss at the wedding before that at Castle Kilmorgan. Louisa’s impulse had turned into a sort of madness, and now she could not forget Lloyd Fellows, no matter how hard she tried.

But she’d felt more alive pressed against the hard doorframe while he’d kissed her, the sounds of the Christmas party in the distance, than Louisa had any other day of her life, especially this one, in this tea tent at a perfect English garden party.

She wet her lips. “Your Grace, I—”

“You know it is for the best,” Hargate said. “No one else will marry the daughter of the gentleman who ruined him. Save your respect and accept my offer.”

Hargate’s eyes took on a hard light, giving Louisa a glimpse of a meanness she’d not seen in him before. “Your Grace, you are kind, but—”

“You have no dowry; your cousin, the new earl, is a frugal man who keeps you and your mother on a small allowance—all this is common knowledge. Your Mackenzie in-laws have sordid reputations few decent families wish to be connected with. Your name has been discussed at my club, and only my admonition has stopped gentlemen saying disparaging things about you. You have few champions, Louisa, and I am one of them. When you are my wife, I will stop all gossip about you.”

Gossip? Louisa blinked in shock. About what? A little panic fluttered in her heart—the kisses with Mr. Fellows rose in her memory again, not that they were ever far away. Had someone seen?

No, she’d been careful about that. Louisa had approached him only when she was certain they’d be alone, although once the kisses began, she couldn’t swear to anything else happening around them, not even an earthquake. Someone might have seen her, and in Louisa’s circle, with its rigid rules for unmarried misses, those kisses would ruin her.

Or perhaps Hargate simply meant the speculations about Louisa in light of her older sister’s scandalous elopement. Not only had Lady Isabella run off with a Mackenzie, she’d then left him, walking out of his house and obtaining a legal separation. But instead of retreating to quiet solitude, Isabella had gone on hostessing soirees and balls as though she saw nothing amiss. Most of society expected Louisa to follow in Isabella’s footsteps. Never mind that Isabella and Mac had been reconciled and now were blissfully happy—their outrageous behavior was what everyone remembered.

The bishop was offering to save Louisa from any sort of shame. All she had to do was marry him.

“And I will drop any pursuit of the money your father owed me,” Hargate said. “You can tell your cousin the estate would be released from that debt.”

“Your Grace . . .”

Hargate let go of Louisa’s hand to touch his fingers to her lips. “Say nothing until your answer is yes, dear Louisa. I’ll wait.” He took one step away and raised his teacup to his lips, as though he would stand there and sip tea until she capitulated.

Louisa, anger rising, stared down at her profiterole, looking for inspiration in the rather runny cream. Bloody cheek he had, cornering her and demanding she give in to him.

Why on earth did Hargate want to marry her? He could have his pick of unmarried ladies, many of whom were at this very garden party, who would gladly marry him for his standing, wealth, and when a seat came empty, his place in the House of Lords. Plenty of young ladies with respectable families and good dowries would have already started planning the wedding as soon as they walked into the tea tent. What was Hargate up to?

Louisa drew a breath, hardening her resolve. “Your Grace, I . . .”

The bishop looked up at her over his teacup, and as he did, Louisa noted that his face had lost most of its color. His cheeks had taken on a greenish tinge, and Hargate’s breath hitched.

“Are you all right, Your Grace? Perhaps we should adjourn to the open air.”

If Hargate had eaten something that disagreed with him, that would put paid to this awkward proposal. Louisa caught the bishop’s arm, ready to lead him out and give him over to the ministrations of their hostess.

“Loui—” Hargate had to stop to draw a breath. He coughed, staggered, and coughed again.

Louisa began to be truly alarmed. “Come outside with me, Your Grace. We’ll take you to the house, where you can rest out of the heat.”

Hargate tried to take another breath. His eyes widened as air eluded him, and he dropped his teacup, splashing tea across the grass. He sagged against Louisa, his eyes and mouth wide, his chest heaving, but no air moving inside.

“A few more steps is all,” Louisa said, trying to support him. “You’ll be all right once we get outside.”

Hargate took one more step before his legs buckled and he fell heavily against Louisa’s side. Down went Louisa’s plate, which she realized she was still clutching, the plate breaking, creamy profiteroles smearing on the dead grass.

“Your Grace.”

Louisa couldn’t hold him. Hargate landed on his back, Louisa on her knees next to him, her blue and brown striped skirt spreading over the tea-dampened grass. Hargate’s face had gone completely gray, and hoarse little gasps came from his mouth.

A doctor. She needed to fetch a doctor. One was here at Mrs. Leigh-Waters’ garden party, a very famous one called Sir Richard Cavanaugh.

Louisa scrambled to her feet. “I’ll find Sir Richard. Don’t worry. Help is coming.”

As she ran out, the heel of her high-heeled lace-up boot caught the teacup Hargate had dropped, smashing it to bits.

Louisa dashed into the open air, scanning the guests in desperate search of Sir Richard. There he was, speaking with Louisa’s sister, Isabella, and another old friend of Louisa’s, Gilbert Franklin. Both Isabella and Gil turned with welcoming smiles as Louisa panted up, but Isabella’s smile faded in concern.

“Darling, what is it?”

“Hargate . . . in the tea tent. Taken ill. He’s collapsed. Please, Sir Richard. He needs you.”

Sir Richard, a short and lean man with dark hair going to gray and an arrogant manner, seemed uneager to set aside his tea and rush across the lawn at Louisa’s request. “What seems to be the matter with him?” he asked.

Louisa resisted the urge to grab the man and shove him down the hill. “Please, you must hurry. I think he is having a fit. He can’t breathe.”

“Good Lord,” Gil said, managing to sound pleasant even with his worry. “We’d better see to him, Cavanaugh.”

Sir Richard frowned, then finally he sighed, passed his teacup to a footman, and gestured for Louisa to lead him to the tent.

He walked too slowly. Louisa had to wait for Sir Richard, she holding the tent flap open impatiently while he sauntered in. Isabella, Gil, and Mrs. Leigh-Waters followed, along with a smattering of curious guests.

Sir Richard at last showed concern when he saw Hargate, who hadn’t moved. Sir Richard went down on