Flirting With Fortune

Chapter Twenty-five

The sight of the austere stone house rising above the leafless trees and barren winter gardens was a relief for more reasons than simply the promise of the blessed warmth within, though after four days of traveling north in a cramped and half-frozen mail coach, he’d kill for a hot bath and a good scotch.

But that had nothing to do with the emotions seeing the house elicited within him.

He was home.

Colin pressed close to the glass, eager for the hack to reach the manor house at last. He needed his family’s counsel. His success in convincing Beatrice of his true intentions would impact them every bit as much as it did him. It was why, within half an hour of her departure from his aunt’s house, Colin was packed and on his way to see them.

Which meant none of them had any idea he was coming.

He didn’t relax until the wheels crunched over the gravel drive, heralding his arrival. He had barely opened the door when a commotion at the house had him looking up, just in time to see Cora rushing toward the carriage, her dark wool skirts swishing around her booted feet.

“Colin! Whatever are you doing here?” Apparently she was in too great a rush to have thought to grab a hat or proper coat. Her dark hair was coiled in a neat braid atop her head, leaving her neck bare to the frigid wind. “We’re all set to come to London at the end of the month for the wedding. We dinna think we’d see you before then.”

He dropped to the ground, holding his hat in one hand and accepting her eager hug with the other. “I canna say I expected it either. Come. Let’s get us out of the freezing wind before you catch your death.”

“Oh pish. You’ve been gone from Scotland too long if you think this is freezing.” Her brown eyes danced with excitement, making him smile for the first time in days. He had been right to come home. Together they could come up with a proper plan; he felt sure of it.

“I believe you are correct, Cora-belle.”

“Colin! You mustn’t call me that. I’m not a wee lass anymore.”

Rhys appeared in the door then, a wide grin on his face. “Doona be daft, Cora—you’ve only just given up your dolls. You’ve years yet to be a proper woman.”

Colin’s smile grew larger, even as it felt oddly foreign on his lips. “Listen to your brothers, Cor—the pair of us are far from ready to see you grown.”

“Oh, stop with you both. Gran was already married by the time she was my age.”

The house was so warm as to be almost stifling after hours in the thin-walled coach. As his siblings continued to tease, he shed his outerwear, reveling in the familiar smell of the old house. It might not have been in their family long, but it had always smelled like home. Wood, beeswax, and lemon oil, he thought, plus something else entirely unique to the place. After hanging up his hat and coat, he herded his siblings into the main drawing room, where Gran always spent her afternoons.

As expected, she sat bundled in her favorite knitted blanket on the antique sofa that had come with the house, darning what looked to be a pair of Rhys’s socks. It didn’t matter that they still had a maid of all work—she’d keep her hands busy no matter how many servants attended to her. It was one of the things that made Gran, Gran.

She looked up at their noisy entry. “As I live and breathe, my dear Colin.” She started to set aside her work, but he put up a hand.

“No, no, doona get up.” He went to greet her, kissing both of her soft, papery cheeks. She smelled of wool and lavender, just as she always had. “I’m happy to see you looking so well.”

“Havers, boy.” She chuckled, her voice strong despite the rasp of age. “If ye believe that, perhaps ye should be getting yerself to the doctor’s for a check of those lying eyes of yers.”

“The God’s honest truth, Gran. You look hale enough to tackle any bear that should wander into the drawing room.”

She pursed her lips in mock severity, even as her blue eyes twinkled with delight. “Such cheek, lad.” She paused, taking him in from head to boot. “And where is the lass whit keep ye in line?”

Leave it to Gran to get straight to the heart of things without even trying. “Back in London, far away from this miserable weather. Speaking of which, Cora, can you see about ordering a tea service? I’m chilled straight through to the marrow, I swear.”

She nodded and set off to do his bidding, and Colin settled onto his father’s favorite chair, stretching his hands to the fire burning behind the decorative iron screen. The room was huge, extending from the front of the house straight through to the back, with windows at both ends. Despite its large size, the massive stone fireplace and the low ceiling helped keep the space warm and cozy, making it the primary gathering spot in the house. Of course, Gran’s knitting helped keep it homey as well, with throws and blankets draped across the comfortable, decades-old furnishings.

His brother plopped down next to Gran, linking an arm with hers. “So, if your lady love is in London, what the devil are you doing here?”

“Rhys,” Colin admonished, widening his eyes at his brother. “Watch your language, please.”

Gran clucked her tongue, shaking her head. “Och, I’m not going ta wither at the sound of a wee curse word. Answer the question, if ye please.”

Direct as always. Colin rubbed a hand over his eyes, which felt dry and gritty after days on the road. He’d come here for their help, hadn’t he? The sooner they tackled the problem, the sooner they could come up with a solution. “Let’s wait for Cora, at least. I’d rather not have to hash it out twice.”

“I’m here, I’m here—doona delay on my account,” Cora said, hurrying through the doorway and settling on Gran’s other side. His siblings towered over their adopted grandmother, but Colin had no doubt Gran could still ring a peal over their heads, if she should be so moved.

Rhys leaned over, addressing his sister. “Colin was just about to tell us what has those purple moons beneath his eyes. I think it’s safe to assume it has something to do with the absent Lady Beatrice.”

Cora turned her huge amber eyes on him. “Doona tell me you managed to make a muck o’things before you even walked down the aisle?”

Making a muck of things was putting it mildly. “That’s a fairly accurate summary, actually.”

“Cripes, man,” Rhys said, his adolescent voice cracking a bit. “I knew there had to be a reason for you coming all the way here so close to the wedding, but I wouldn’a have thought it could be as bad as all that.”

Gran patted his arm in disapproval. “Stop wit yer doomsayin’ before ye even know tit from tat. On wit yer story, Colin. Best ta have it out all at once. Then we can chew it over and spit out the fat.”

The expression almost brought a smile to Colin’s lips. “It’s simple enough, really. I never told Beatrice of the state of the estate before the betrothal, and her brother asked me not to do so after. I knew she disliked fortune hunters, but I had no idea she despised them quite so thoroughly.”

The look of utter disgust on her face when she confronted him was something he wouldn’t soon forget—if he ever did. One would have thought he was the lowliest of criminals. The lingering shame still dug beneath his skin, a dull but present sliver in his conscience. Unclenching his tightened jaw, he said, “Which may have never been a problem, if she hadn’a found out on her own. Suffice it to say, she would have just as soon seen me at the bottom of the Thames than at the front of the church.”

As he spoke, the humor on his family’s faces faded, each seeming to grasp the gravity of the situation. Colin could practically see his brother’s mind go straight to what this news could mean for the whole family and the estate they had called home for years. “But the banns have been read, no? She canna back out now.”

“The announcement has been made, the banns have been read once, and of course, the contract was signed. But all of that means nothing if she is determined to avoid marriage.”

“What have ye come to us for?” Gran asked, her voice stern. “Yer bride’s up in high doh, and yer in a swither as to what to do with the lass?”

“Give me some credit, Gran,” Colin said, leaning back against the firm cushions of his chair. “It is more than just the jitters. She thinks I’ve targeted her like some sort of military marksman, coldly lying about my every thought and emotion. She is convinced I don’t love her and I used her only to get to her money.”

Cora cocked her head to the side. “Dinna you?”

Oh, for the love of God. “Of course not! Dinna you read a word I wrote about her? I never once thought of her as some sort of walking dowry. As a matter of fact, I thought she was far too high above me to even consider marrying for her money.”

“You doona have to bite her head off,” Rhys grumbled, glaring at Colin. “We all know you went to London to marry for money.”

“Yes—an heiress who might have a care to be wife to a baronet. A logical, careful marriage arrangement where both parties would be benefitted. I never intended to fall in love with the daughter of a marquis, for heaven’s sake.”

“Still, it was rather convenient,” Cora persisted.

Colin bit the inside of his lip to keep from snapping at her. If his own family didn’t believe him, how could he ever convince Beatrice? “Yes, very convenient to have nothing to offer one’s bride but a paltry title and a house mired in debt. If it weren’t for her near worshipful adoration of Father, I’d have nothing to give her at all.”

Gran made a tsking sound, shaking her head in admonishment. “A man’s love is hardly nothing, Colin. Entire countries can be made or lost for love.”

He had to work not to roll his eyes. He should be lucky to make it out of this conversation without being told a fable or two. “A man’s love is nothing if it is not believed, Gran. Beatrice doesn’t believe there is a way to prove that my intentions were honorable and honest. I convinced her to give me a month to do just that, but short of forfeiting the dowry altogether—which I canna do—I haven’a a clue how to accomplish that.”

Cora’s eyes were narrowed, as if trying to work a riddle. “She wants you to prove you wanted to marry her only for her?”

“Aye.”

“I think I like this lady.”

“Cora,” Rhys exclaimed, glaring at her over the top of Gran’s head. “You’re not exactly helping. She’s set us about a fool’s errand.”

“I ken, but any woman who’d stand up for love must have a kind heart.”

“No’ if it means standing against your brother—or the lot of us, for that matter.”

Gran put a staying hand to each of her grandchildren’s arms. “Hush now, the both of ye. Colin, do ye have time to find another bride if she cries off?”

The thought was like a punch to the gut. “Not with the scandal such a thing would bring. And I doona know if I made myself clear: I love her. Regardless of anything else, I don’t want to lose her for that reason alone.”

His words seemed to echo in the room, and he realized he had raised his voice. Three pairs of widened eyes stared at him from the sofa, with varying levels of surprise. He had surprised himself, really, with the vehemence of his response. At that moment, the maid bustled into the room, carrying the tea service. With her eyes on the tray and the path to the table, she had no idea of the climate of the room. “Welcome home, Sir Colin,” she said, her voice light and cheery. “Congratulations on yer betrothal, such bonny good news.”

Setting down the tray on the long oval sofa table, she brushed off her hands and glanced up at him. Seeing Colin’s expression, her smile immediately dropped. “Beggin’ yer pardon, sir—I dinna mean to interrupt anything.”

Great—now he was scaring the servants. “Doona mind me, Abigail. I’m afraid the journey has exhausted me. Thank you for your sentiments, however.”

She didn’t look particularly convinced. Bobbing a curtsy, she retreated from the room like a bird in flight, pulling the door closed behind her.

Pinching the bridge of his nose in an effort to push back against the headache that had been plaguing him for days, he turned back to his family. “So, how does one go about proving the impossible?” He almost felt foolish for coming. What could they do for him that he hadn’t already done for himself? A fresh perspective could do only so much.

“No miracles to be had whit those bags beneath yer eyes.” Gran set aside her knitting and leaned forward to pour a cup of tea. Pulling a slender flask from her skirts, she splashed a healthy amount into the cup and handed it to him. “Drink up, laddie. Then ye should get a bit of a rest. Come supper, we’ll think of something to help ye and yer lass.”

He gave his grandmother a rueful smile. A bit of hard tea and a decent rest certainly weren’t going to solve his problem, but it was a starting point. “Thank you,” he murmured, taking a long sip of the brew. The hot burn as it went down had nothing to do with the temperature of the tea. It did little to unravel the hard knot in his stomach.

Pouring another cup for herself, she added a dollop of cream before settling back. “Do ye know the saying ‘Whit’s for ye will no’ go by ye’?”

“Aye.” For some reason, the moment he was with his family, the proper English yeses seemed to go right out the window. “If it’s meant to happen, it will happen.”

Not the most encouraging of sayings. He was a man of action, not of sitting around accepting what fate doled out. If that were the case, he sure as hell wouldn’t have ridden across the whole of the British Isles in the dead of winter.

Gran set down her cup with a decisive clink. “Utter nonsense. If there’s something ye want, boy, ye must strive for it. And we’ll help ye—doona ye doubt, we’ll think of something.”

The words, spoken by an old woman who’d never even met his bride or seen them together, filled the empty void in his chest. A ghost of a smile came to his lips. “Aye, Gran, I’m counting on it.”