He stepped closer. "Emily, let’s just admit that in an ideal world, neither of us would contemplate this marriage. Yes, I’d always hoped to marry a Scotswoman and raise my children as good little Highlanders. That isn’t going to happen, just as if you marry me, you won’t have the love match you wanted. But right now, we need to work out the best way to proceed in the world we live in. The world we live in will punish both of us for breaking its rules."
"Perhaps this marriage is our punishment," she said in a low voice, burying shaking hands in her dark blue skirts and staring blindly down into the flames.
"Perhaps it is." His voice held no trace of humor. "Do you want more time to think?"
If she thought any longer, she’d go mad. Hamish was right. He’d always been right. They were trapped.
"No. I’ve made up my mind." She raised her chin until she met his eyes, and she tried very hard to keep her voice steady. "I’ll marry you, Hamish."
"That’s a bonny decision." He didn’t smile. Why would he? He was as much a victim of a malicious fate as she was. "Thank you. I swear I won’t let you down."
His promise, while patently sincere, offered no reassurance. Feeling as if she was drowning, she made a despairing gesture. "What happens now?"
"I’ll go ahead and make the arrangements. You’ve got enough on your plate looking after your father." His tone hardened. "But there’s one thing I want to make clear, Emily."
She braced for some added proviso, something unbearable that she couldn’t refuse because she’d already given him her consent. So far, he’d placed no conditions on their nuptials at all.
"What’s that?"
His jaw firmed, and that muscle danced in his cheek. His answer emerged sharp as the flick of a whip. "We won’t be putting any of these private arrangements in writing."
Chapter 8
"What a lovely day for a wedding," Emily’s father said. He sat opposite her in the luxurious closed carriage that Hamish had bought last week.
"Yes, Papa," Emily said, because what was the point of saying that while the sun might shine with a brightness exceptional for November, in her heart it rained fit to flood the Midlands?
Wearing his best coat, her father looked well and happy. One might almost imagine he was still the brilliant, self-assured man who had dazzled London’s intellectual elite. He’d get tired later, she knew. She’d made arrangements for him to leave the wedding breakfast in the care of Miss McCorquodale, the nurse who now ran the sickroom like a well-oiled machine. And somehow did it with such tact that Emily didn’t hate her.
Miss McCorquodale worked at the house, courtesy of Hamish’s generosity, too. These days Emily began to feel that every breath she took was courtesy of Hamish’s generosity.
Which wasn’t fair, when life was so much easier since he’d opened his coffers to help her and her father.
It was doubly unfair when she thought how much better Papa had been since his protégé, the young Laird of Glen Lyon, had called to request permission to marry his daughter. The daughter who now sat ten minutes away from St George’s in Hanover Square and wished herself on the dark side of the moon.
As she’d expected, her father had been in alt about the engagement. When Emily saw how the news lifted his spirits, she verged as close to being glad about the marriage as she’d come before or since. Only at that moment did she realize that her father had also fretted about what was to become of her. Now she was to marry a rich man with close connections to the scientific community among whom she’d grown up, an oppressive weight had lifted from Papa’s spirit.
That was one of the most upsetting things about her father’s decline. She was never sure how much of a grip he kept on what happened around him.
True to his word, Hamish had carried off this betrothal in high style. He’d placed a notice in the Morning Post. He hadn’t rushed to get a special license. Instead, he’d had the banns called on three successive Sundays.
He’d escorted Emily around town as gallantly as if he really wanted to marry her. They’d been to the theatre and the opera, four lectures, and two balls. What a pity that she missed the one event she’d have liked to attend, Hamish’s presentation about his comet, this time with correct calculations. But women were barred from the Royal Society’s meetings.
Now instead of a hole-in-the-corner affair cobbled together to hush up a scandal, she and Hamish were marrying under the full glare of society’s gaze.
Up to a point, his bravado had succeeded. She wasn’t fool enough to think her fall from grace forgotten. But nobody at their outings had snubbed her, and the neighbors were back talking to her.
Emily supposed she should be grateful that she was too busy feeling scared to have room left for other emotions. For most of her life, she’d been in control of her life – too much so, according to her father’s more conservative colleagues. But after today, she stopped being Emily Baylor and became Emily Douglas, Lady Glen Lyon. She had no idea what that would mean. She had a horrid feeling that she’d stop being Emily Baylor in more ways than just her name.
"You and Hamish make an excellent pairing. Stop stewing, kitten."
Surprised out of her miasma of doubt and despair, Emily stared at her father. She’d clearly underestimated quite how much he did notice. He looked more alert than she’d seen him in months. "Yes, Papa."
The love in her father’s smile had her blinking away tears. Because while restoring her reputation was an important consideration, it was a recent one. Her fears for her father’s health had dogged her for nearly two years.
"Don’t say ‘yes, Papa,’ to keep me quiet. I know you’re frightened and uncertain, but you and Hamish will both find your way."
"Because he’s plump in the pocket." She couldn’t conceal a hint of bitterness. The carriage turned a corner, and she looked out the window at tall rows of pristine white houses as they proceeded through Mayfair.