Once Upon a Tartan

father. “He is handsome. Mama wasn’t saying that just to be nice.”

Which suggested the girl suspected her mother had been diplomatic in some other regards. “I have two other pictures you might want to see.” He hadn’t planned to show these to her, but the moment seemed convenient.

“Is it a picture of you? I’d like a picture of you.” She kept her father’s portrait in her hand and came back to Tye’s side.

“These are your paternal aunts. That’s Dora, Mary Ellen, and Joan. Joan has red hair like you.”

“I like Joan. She looks like you.”

“She’s quite tall, too, and loves to be out-of-doors. She likes painting and designing dresses, of all things.”

She shot him a curious look. “Do you paint?”

“Not like she can. These are my parents, which makes them your grandparents.” It was the most flattering image Tye had of his father, either photographic or hand drawn. His lordship was standing with one hand on his seated wife’s shoulder. Their expressions showed a rare, congenial moment between them. Mama had insisted on being seated, lest her height be unnecessarily obvious, and his lordship had indulged her.

For once.

Fiona studied the image with the intensity she did everything else. “My grandda looks like you too. Grandmama is very pretty, but not as old as Aunt Ariadne.”

“Not nearly.” The older Tye got, the more aware he became that his mother was only eighteen years his senior.

He didn’t want to take the picture out of Fiona’s hand, but neither did he want her up half the night staring at it. “You may borrow the portrait of your father for the night. Do not put it under your pillow, or you’ll break the glass framing it.”

“I can keep it?”

“You may borrow it.”

She hunched up her shoulders and clutched the small picture to her skinny chest, her face suffused with joy. “I won’t break it, Uncle Tye. Not ever.”

He was about to point out to her that a loan until morning would afford no opportunities for “not ever,” but he became aware of movement by his open door.

“Fiona, are you keeping your uncle up past his bedtime?”

Miss Daniels stood in his doorway, clad in an elegantly embroidered green silk nightgown and wrapper. On her feet, incongruously, were a sturdy pair of gray wool socks, and her hair hung over her right shoulder in a single shiny plait.

“Aunt, I have seen the very best thing ever. Uncle Tye has a picture of my papa.” Fiona scampered over to her aunt and held out the miniature. She did not give it up to her aunt’s possession even temporarily.

“My, what a good-looking fellow he was.” Miss Daniels sank to her knees so she and the child could gaze at the good-looking fellow together. “I especially like the merriment in his eyes, as if he knew happy secrets he was just bursting to tell somebody.”

Tye closed his eyes, trying not to picture his brother’s expression of suppressed glee. Gordie had had charm, about that there was no dispute.

“I look like him,” Fiona announced. “Uncle Tye said.”

“Yes, I can see a resemblance. You must thank your uncle for showing you this. It was very considerate of him.”

“Uncle said I may have it until tomorrow morning.”

“I believe the term used was borrow, but as morning fast approaches, perhaps I’d better rethink my offer.”

Fiona turned her body half away from him, the portrait held out of his sight. “It’s hardly even nighttime, and the moon is still up. I’m going to bed now.”

She shot between the two adults, leaving her aunt kneeling on the floor and a silence where a child had stood a moment before. Tye crossed the room and extended a hand down to Miss Daniels.

“My apologies if we woke you.”

She came to her feet gracefully, her small, warm hand in his providing a curious blend of comfort and upset. To see her thus, ready for bed, her hair hanging in a gilded braid, those ugly socks on her feet… Tye’s heart sped up, and the blood began pooling in inconvenient, ungentlemanly locations.

Which would never do. “May I see you back to your door, Miss Daniels?”

And still, he did not release her hand.

* * *

Spathfoy looked tired and a little frazzled, probably from dealing with Fiona on a bad night. Unfortunately for Hester’s composure, the Earl of Spathfoy tired and a little frazzled had a particular appeal.

As did the Earl of Spathfoy holding forth at breakfast.

And the Earl of Spathfoy in a contemplative mood under the stars.

And the Earl of Spathfoy demonstrating casual equestrian mastery over his unruly young horse.

She went up on her toes and kissed him. He was tall enough that he might have evaded her sally, but instead he stood slightly bent toward her, though very still, as if he wasn’t sure if his brain had heard his mouth aright.

“I don’t especially like you sometimes,” she said. “Though other times, like when you’re being so kind to Fee, I more than like you. I am coming to realize that liking and attraction do not necessarily go hand in hand.”

Solemn green eyes blinked at her. “You are determined on more ill-advised behavior.”

“Not determined, perhaps spontaneously tempted.” She permitted herself to breathe in through her nose, to make an olfactory treat of his clean, floral fragrance. “I came over here to rescue you from Fiona, and now…”

“Who shall rescue me from you? Has it occurred to you, Miss Daniels, you might need rescuing from me?”

He was adorable when he tried to bluster. She added that to a growing list of things she had to admit she liked about him. “You would never force a woman.”

He wouldn’t have to.

“I might pick one up bodily and carry her back to her own room, then shut her door very firmly, return to my own chambers, and lock my door against her further invasions. My gentlemanly resolve goes only so far, Miss Daniels, and I’ve already told you that placing your trust in me is bound to end in disappointment.”

He thought disappointment was going to dissuade her?

“Duly noted, your lordship.” Was all this chatter on his part supposed to make her more determined? For that was the effect it had on her. She cupped his jaw, let the tension of it seep into her fingers. “I did not look for this attraction to you either, but ignoring it doesn’t make it go away. Wasting it seems unthinkable.”

“Nothing makes it go away.” He muttered this last a quarter inch from her mouth, so she could feel the way the words shaped his breath and taste the frustration in his voice.

“Nothing you’ve tried so far, in any case.” Hester put them both out of their respective miseries and pressed her mouth to his. She might have been content to explore him lazily, to let the kiss build as some of their previous kisses had built—slowly, wonderfully, terribly—but his arms came around her, mooring her tightly to his body. He widened his stance and growled as his mouth opened over hers.

And it was heaven, to be held and kissed by a man who knew exactly what he was about. A man sturdy enough in body and masculinity that Hester could let go of everything—propriety, thought, physical balance—and kiss him back.

“I love your hair.” She spoke against his neck, which tasted of soap and lavender. “I love your height.”

“Hush.” He loved her mouth on his, apparently, seeking his kisses and his tongue and every oral detail of him she could lap up. She arched into his embrace, reveling in his height, because it meant she had nearly to climb him to get closer.

“Miss—Hester, for God’s sake.” He trapped her hands behind her back and rested his forehead against hers. “Do you seek your own ruin?”

He was breathing heavily. So was she.

“I am ruined. Merriman has seen to this, but if I’m going to be ruined, I want to know.”