The gentleman grinned, showing even white teeth. “I’m Cameron Leslie,” he said. “Cousin of the bride.” Shifting the baby to one arm, he reached for Clarice’s hand. When he pressed his warm lips to the back, her breath caught and she thought she might swoon.
Clarice Bradford had never swooned.
“And you two must be the mother and daughter I’ve heard so much about, whose trials set Cainewood on the road to meet and woo my cousin Cait.” She released her breath when he dropped her hand. “Though to hear Lord Cainewood’s side of it,” Mr. Leslie added with a wink, “it was Caithren who did the wooing.”
Clarice couldn’t help but smile. His cousin Caithren sounded like just what serious Lord Cainewood needed. “I’m Clarice Bradford,” she said.
“It’s pleased I am to meet you.” He looked down when Mary tugged on one leg of his velvet breeches. “What is it, sweet?”
“Will you pick me up?”
“Mary!” Clarice frowned and set a hand on the girl’s shoulder.
But Mr. Leslie handed the baby to Clarice, then reached down and swung her daughter into his arms. “Of course I’ll hold you, princess.” His eyes danced. “She’s charming,” he told Clarice.
“I…” She cradled the sweet-smelling babe, at a loss for words. Mary was acting inappropriately forward, to the point of burrowing into Mr. Leslie’s neck. And Clarice…
Clarice was jealous.
It was absurd. The planes of his face were clean-shaven, his skin flawless and…young. He was quite young. Not even twenty, she’d guess. She could see it in his complexion, the straightness of his lanky form, the angle of his head. This was not someone who had yet suffered the slings and arrows of life.
And Clarice was nearly twenty-four years old. Old enough to know she had no business fancying an aristocratic gentleman, especially one several years younger than she.
She hadn’t fancied a man in…well, a long time. She’d forgotten what a heady emotion it was.
And her daughter was clearly just as smitten.
Clarice was startled out of her thoughts when the whine of bagpipes filled the quadrangle.
“That’s our signal,” Mr. Leslie said. “I expect I should fetch the bride.”
When he set Mary on her feet, the girl reached up and firmly took his hand. “May I come with you?”
“Of course you may, princess.”
“Princess,” Mary breathed as they walked away. Bemused, Clarice smiled down at the cooing infant in her arms, vaguely wondering how she’d ended up holding a marquess’s niece. And what she was supposed to do with her.
She glanced up to ask Mr. Leslie, but he was already too distant and Mary was happily chatting away. She wondered if perhaps she’d lost her daughter to this man.
Mary had always dreamed of being a princess.
CAMERON LESLIE was known to be a wee bit quiet. A young man of simple needs, he didn’t want for much. But when he did find something he wanted, he generally got it.
At the moment he was wanting Clarice Bradford. Or his body was, at least. His head told him he couldn’t come to that conclusion following a five-minute conversation.
Heavens, he mused as he led Mary up the steps to his cousin’s chamber, in all his nineteen years he’d never met a lass like Clarice. Nay, not a lass—a woman, with her quiet dignity, her wholesome beauty, the depth in her large gray eyes. She was vastly different from girls his age, though she couldn’t be more than a handful of years older. Vastly different and so much more.
Was it because she had a daughter? he wondered, squeezing the small hand he held. Mary giggled. She was a delight, and clearly adored by her mother.
Nay, Cam decided. He’d met plenty of young mothers—some even younger than Mary’s—and none of them were like Clarice. She was special.
A pity his time here in England was so short. He wanted to get to know Clarice, but he had less than a week before he needed to head home to Scotland.
Hoping he could persuade her to spend some time with him anyway, he knocked on his cousin’s door and called through the sturdy oak to ask if she was ready.
When the door opened, his jaw dropped. “Cait?” Dressed for her wedding, she looked different from the girl he’d known since her birth. Unbound from its customary plaits, her dark blond hair, so much like his, hung straight and loose past her shoulders. She wore cosmetics and a sky-blue gown trimmed in silver lace. An English gown.
“Good heavens,” he said. “Cait, you look lovely.”
“Thank you.” She smiled, her hazel eyes sparkling as she surveyed his own attire, a deep blue velvet suit that he’d borrowed from one of the groom’s brothers. He suspected Caithren thought he looked as English as she. She aimed a curious glance at the wee lassie who still held his fingers gripped tight. “And who is this?”
“Her name is Mary, and she and her mother are special guests. She, uh, attached herself to me.” Cam lifted his hand, and Mary’s hand came up with it. Though he gave a sheepish shrug, he felt warm and pleased. “She may be walking down the aisle with us.”
Caithren knelt, her silk skirts pooling around her. “Good day,” she said.
“Good day,” Mary returned in a small, polite voice. “I am pleased to meet you, my lady.”
“I’m not—” Cait started.
“You’ll be a lady within the hour,” Cam interrupted with a teasing smile. “You may as well get used to it.” He knew firsthand how difficult it was to adjust to a new station in life, having unexpectedly found himself to be a baronet after Caithren’s brother died last month. He blew out a breath. “I, on the other hand, will never get used to being a sir.”
“Aye, you will.” Cait stood and linked her arm though his. “Shall we go?”
Bagpipe music swelled when they reached the double front doors and stepped out into the sunshine. It was a glorious day to be wed,
