"I was waiting for her to denounce me as a wanton unfit to bear the Douglas name."
"She’d never do that. She likes you. Anyway, when I called on her to say we were engaged, I explained that the scandal was all my fault."
"You were just being gallant."
"No, I was telling the truth." Then he paused, shocked, as he digested what she’d said. By gum, that was almost a compliment. "And she knows me well enough to believe me. Besides, she wanted me to get married. It was becoming something of a cause with her. My mother on a crusade is a terrifying sight."
"I can imagine."
"I suppose she told you all sorts of ways to handle me."
To his relief, he heard a faint huff of amusement. "There might have been a bit of that."
Or a lot.
Emily didn’t sound like she much cared. Why should she? After all, she and Hamish would lead separate lives, once they finished making this show designed to contradict what all London knew – that the Laird of Glen Lyon and his lady were together only to stifle a scandal.
When Hamish proposed, a separate life was the outcome he’d expected. Why now did that future seem so bleak?
Damn Fergus and Marina. Damn Diarmid and Fiona. Damn his sisters and their husbands. Damn every other blissfully happy couple at that dinner tonight.
The problem was that Hamish knew exactly what a successful union looked like. Which meant he was also wretchedly aware of how far his own fell short.
Was it worth trying to renegotiate his arrangement with Emily? He wasn’t naïve enough to imagine she’d allow him into her bed just for the asking. But if she let him woo her, it would be something. It would give him a tiny thread of hope to cling to.
Only a few days into becoming a husband, and already he verged close to despair. Despair that worsened after tonight’s reminder of what he missed out on.
As they turned into their street, for once he wasn’t thinking with his prick. He was thinking about every aspect of the life extending ahead of him. He didn’t want to be a stranger in his own house. He wanted friendship – love was too much to ask for – and companionship and trust. He wanted a home. He wanted…
"Something is wrong," Emily said sharply, leaning forward and staring out the window.
Her tone wrenched Hamish out of his fog of self-pity. In the Bloomsbury house, all the lights were on and people milled about on the doorstep.
"Don’t expect the worst," he said, even as he cursed the remark’s inanity. What else would she expect but the worst?
"It must be Papa," she said, opening the door and jumping from the carriage as it pulled up. "What is it, Roberts?"
"My lady, thank goodness you and Mr. Douglas are home. We just sent a groom to fetch you. Sir John has taken a very bad turn."
Hamish stepped down to the street and stood behind Emily. "What do you mean by a bad turn?"
"Miss McCorquodale knows more. She’s been with him."
"What happened?" Emily asked in a voice Hamish had never heard from her.
"It seems he got up from his bed, determined to go out, then collapsed. We’ve sent for Dr. Allard."
In a silent attempt to share his strength with her, Hamish settled a hand on Emily’s shoulder. She jerked away as if his touch offended her.
"I must go to him." She picked up her emerald skirts and dashed into the house without a backward glance.
Hamish, knowing he had no right to be hurt, but hurt anyway, followed her inside more slowly.
Chapter 15
Sir John Baylor’s funeral took place a week later. After the service, people called at the Bloomsbury house to pay their respects.
Hamish stood with Diarmid and Fiona beside the drawing room fire. He was grateful that Fergus and Diarmid and their wives had stayed in the south long enough to attend. The day was wet and freezing, typical December in London. With bleak surprise, he realized that it was only a couple of weeks until Christmas.