swither as to what to do with the lass?”
“Give me some credit, Gran,” Colin said, leaning back against the firm cushions of his chair. “It is more than just the jitters. She thinks I’ve targeted her like some sort of military marksman, coldly lying about my every thought and emotion. She is convinced I don’t love her and I used her only to get to her money.”
Cora cocked her head to the side. “Dinna you?”
Oh, for the love of God. “Of course not! Dinna you read a word I wrote about her? I never once thought of her as some sort of walking dowry. As a matter of fact, I thought she was far too high above me to even consider marrying for her money.”
“You doona have to bite her head off,” Rhys grumbled, glaring at Colin. “We all know you went to London to marry for money.”
“Yes—an heiress who might have a care to be wife to a baronet. A logical, careful marriage arrangement where both parties would be benefitted. I never intended to fall in love with the daughter of a marquis, for heaven’s sake.”
“Still, it was rather convenient,” Cora persisted.
Colin bit the inside of his lip to keep from snapping at her. If his own family didn’t believe him, how could he ever convince Beatrice? “Yes, very convenient to have nothing to offer one’s bride but a paltry title and a house mired in debt. If it weren’t for her near worshipful adoration of Father, I’d have nothing to give her at all.”
Gran made a
He had to work not to roll his eyes. He should be lucky to make it out of this conversation without being told a fable or two. “A man’s love is nothing if it is not believed, Gran. Beatrice doesn’t believe there is a way to prove that my intentions were honorable and honest. I convinced her to give me a month to do just that, but short of forfeiting the dowry altogether—which I canna do—I haven’a a clue how to accomplish that.”
Cora’s eyes were narrowed, as if trying to work a riddle. “She wants you to prove you wanted to marry her only for her?”
“Aye.”
“I think I like this lady.”
“Cora,” Rhys exclaimed, glaring at her over the top of Gran’s head. “You’re not exactly helping. She’s set us about a fool’s errand.”
“I ken, but any woman who’d stand up for love must have a kind heart.”
“No’ if it means standing against your brother—or the lot of us, for that matter.”
Gran put a staying hand to each of her grandchildren’s arms. “Hush now, the both of ye. Colin, do ye have time to find another bride if she cries off?”
The thought was like a punch to the gut. “Not with the scandal such a thing would bring. And I doona know if I made myself clear: I love her. Regardless of anything else, I don’t want to lose her for that reason alone.”
His words seemed to echo in the room, and he realized he had raised his voice. Three pairs of widened eyes stared at him from the sofa, with varying levels of surprise. He had surprised himself, really, with the vehemence of his response. At that moment, the maid bustled into the room, carrying the tea service. With her eyes on the tray and the path to the table, she had no idea of the climate of the room. “Welcome home, Sir Colin,” she said, her voice light and cheery. “Congratulations on yer betrothal, such bonny good news.”
Setting down the tray on the long oval sofa table, she brushed off her hands and glanced up at him. Seeing Colin’s expression, her smile immediately dropped. “Beggin’ yer pardon, sir—I dinna mean to interrupt anything.”
Great—now he was scaring the servants. “Doona mind me, Abigail. I’m afraid the journey has exhausted me. Thank you for your sentiments, however.”
She didn’t look particularly convinced. Bobbing a curtsy, she retreated from the room like a bird in flight, pulling the door closed behind her.
Pinching the bridge of his nose in an effort to push back against the headache that had been plaguing him for days, he turned back to his family. “So, how does one go about proving the impossible?” He almost felt foolish for coming. What could they do for him that he hadn’t already done for himself? A fresh perspective could do only so much.
“No miracles to be had whit those bags beneath yer eyes.” Gran set aside her knitting and leaned forward to pour a cup of tea. Pulling a slender flask from her skirts, she splashed a healthy amount into the cup and handed it to him. “Drink up, laddie. Then ye should get a bit of a rest. Come supper, we’ll think of something to help ye and yer lass.”
He gave his grandmother a rueful smile. A bit of hard tea and a decent rest certainly weren’t going to solve his problem, but it was a starting point. “Thank you,” he murmured, taking a long sip of the brew. The hot burn as it went down had nothing to do with the temperature of the tea. It did little to unravel the hard knot in his stomach.
Pouring another cup for herself, she added a dollop of cream before settling back. “Do ye know the saying ‘Whit’s for ye will no’ go by ye’?”
“Aye.” For some reason, the moment he was with his family, the proper English yeses seemed to go right out the window. “If it’s meant to happen, it will happen.”
Not the most encouraging of sayings. He was a man of action, not of sitting around accepting what fate doled out. If that were the case, he sure as hell wouldn’t have ridden across the whole of the British Isles in the dead of winter.
Gran set down her cup with a decisive clink. “Utter nonsense. If there’s something ye want, boy, ye must strive for it. And we’ll help ye—doona ye doubt, we’ll think of something.”
The words, spoken by an old woman who’d never even met his bride or seen them together, filled the empty void in his chest. A ghost of a smile came to his lips. “Aye, Gran, I’m counting on it.”
“Bea, you aren’t paying even a lick of attention. This is your wedding, my dear, not mine.”
Drat—now what had she missed? Beatrice looked at the two swatches of silk taffeta Evie held, the color seeming somehow faded, as if left in the sun too long. It was how everything looked to Bea these days—washed out, dull, uninspiring in the extreme. “The green, of course.”
Evie’s left eyebrow went up, and her hand went to her hips, the swatches adding a splash of contrast against her dark blue skirts. “They are
“That one,” she said, pointing to the swatch in Evie’s right hand. “Cece should have no trouble matching the flowers to green, at least.”
They had heard word from their cousin just that morning that she was planning to come to the wedding and would be bringing flowers from her greenhouse for decoration. Though Beatrice loved the idea of seeing Cece, knowing that the wedding might not even happen had sapped all the excitement from the news.
Looking over to Madame Gisele, who hovered over the pattern books laid out all over the worktable, Evie smiled. “Madame, could you see if you have any other silks in the back?”
It was her cue to leave, and they all knew it. The older woman, who’d been eager to please them since the moment they had arrived almost an hour earlier, dipped her head. “As you wish. Pardon me,
Turning her attention back to Beatrice, Evie dropped the swatches on the table and sat down beside her. She started to speak, but Beatrice held up a hand, silently asking for quiet. She knew a spy at work when she encountered one. Slipping over to the curtain, she cleared her throat loudly. Aha—there were the receding footsteps she was waiting for. Returning to her chair, she sank back down. “You were saying?”
Sighing, Evie shook her head. “Honestly, Bea, what has gotten into you? You had more fun planning my wedding than you’ve had planning your own.”
A very accurate observation. Of course, Beatrice had known from the beginning that Benedict had been
