Diarmid and Emily were yet to meet, although Hamish had an odd feeling they’d like each other when they did. Emily’s cleverness and lack of artifice would appeal to his cousin.
Last night, he and Diarmid had sat up late with a bottle of Bruce Mackenzie’s finest whisky as Hamish struggled to lend a favorable tone to the story of his engagement. He didn’t manage as well as he’d like. It didn’t take Diarmid long to winkle out most of the facts behind the scandal.
By God, it had been a treat to drink good whisky after months of French brandy, the tipple of choice in London. The conversation, however, hadn’t been nearly so agreeable.
Diarmid had been scathing in placing the blame for this shambles firmly upon Hamish’s shoulders. Hamish supposed that was what family was for – to tell a person the unpalatable truth when nobody else would. Although Emily was never slow to point out his failings. Dear God, he faced a lifetime of criticism, and he had nobody to blame but himself.
That was if the bride deigned to turn up at all.
"She doesn’t see me as any great prize."
"Given the trouble your temper has caused her, I cannae blame her," Diarmid said grimly.
"You haven’t told Fergus and Marina or Brody and Elspeth, have you?"
"Damn it, man, I sat up with ye until the wee small hours. After ye went home, all I did was tumble into bed at your mother’s house, grab a couple of hours’ sleep, and scramble into my clothes to be fit to stand up for an eleven o’clock wedding. I havenae had a chance to share your tale of woe with anyone."
"Well, don’t. I don’t want my idiocy broadcast all across the Highlands."
Actually Diarmid had scrubbed up well, given how little sleep he’d had. Not to mention that he and his family – Diarmid had a son called Richard now, along with his stepdaughter Christina – had just made the long journey down from the north of Scotland.
Nobody looking at the cousins would see any family resemblance, apart from a certain arrogance of bearing. Diarmid was as dark as a gypsy and built on long, lean, dangerous lines. While he was a tall man, Hamish topped him by several inches.
Diarmid’s dark blue coat fitted perfectly, outlining shoulders as straight as a ruler, and his linen was so white it dazzled. Hamish was similarly attired in Savile Row’s best. Now Hamish wondered if all this dressing up had been a waste of time.
By God, he hoped some of Bruce Mackenzie’s whisky was left. He might need it.
Another glance behind him. Another disappointed dip of his heart because Emily wasn’t here yet. Surely she wouldn’t let him down. She mightn’t like him, but she wasn’t spiteful, and this marriage was as much for her benefit as his.
He just hoped to hell she saw it that way.
"She’s no’ that late." Diarmid’s reasonable tone made Hamish want to clout him.
"Not yet," Hamish said gloomily, wondering how much of the murmuring behind him related to the scandal in Greenwich a month ago.
During the engagement, he’d done his best to give the impression that Emily and he were April and May, head over heels in love. He wasn’t convinced he’d succeeded. At least the delay between betrothal and wedding told the world that no baby would arrive less than nine months after the ceremony.
Given this devil’s bargain he’d made with Emily, there wouldn’t be a baby in nine months or nine years or ninety. More was the sodding pity.
The awful truth was that ever since she’d declared that she’d never sleep with him, Hamish had thought of little else but getting Emily Baylor into bed. He knew it was the lure of the forbidden, but somehow over the last four weeks, his mentor’s uppity daughter had become the most desirable woman in London. It was a character flaw with him that the minute someone told him no, he set out to make the answer yes.
His dilemma was made even more painful because as Emily’s chosen escort, he inevitably had to touch her. Often. None of the contact overstepped propriety – which only worsened his torment – but by God, he must have held her arm a thousand times, taken her hand in a hundred dances, brushed her skin when like a devoted fiancé, he placed a pelisse or a shawl over those slender shoulders.
He remained woefully aware that to her, he was nothing more than an annoyance. It was a joke that she’d told him he was too virile for her tastes. As far as he could see, she didn’t think of him as a man at all. Yet every time he touched her, his heart crashed to a standstill and the rush of blood to his ears muffled her polite thanks.
It was enough to drive a hot-blooded Scot to madness.
Even a hot-blooded Scot who sounded like a blasted Sassenach.
He’d never kiss that prim pink mouth. He’d never run his hand through that wealth of shiny hair. He’d never cup that lovely round bosom in his large hands. He’d never possess that slim, graceful body.
With a sigh, he glanced toward the vicar and caught the old man’s eyes. And had the grace to feel a qualm for his lascivious thoughts in this holy place.
He was in the process of yet again shifting from one large foot to the other when he heard a rustle from the congregation. The organ started to play Handel’s Largo.
Relief flooded him – he wasn’t a coward, but the prospect of fresh gossip made him quail – and he turned. His bride poised at the church door, her father beside her.
The breath jammed in his lungs, and his usually doughty knees wobbled. His heart began to race with an excitement that this wedding didn’t justify, not when a solitary night awaited.