If Adair was lucky, the documents were originals and not summaries that Scott claimed possessed the same credibility. They were uniting their clans, which meant they would have each other’s backs in times of crisis, financial or not.
It was unlikely, but Adair still had to ensure they weren’t marrying into debt.
“Hand them here.”
After confirming the documents’ authenticity and downing two more glasses of brandy, he dismissed the solicitor. Laird Scott possessed the assets he claimed he did; it would be easy to draft up the marriage contract with this knowledge.
Adair felt relieved.
He looked out the window. The sun was noticeably dimmer. The women ought to be discussing fabrics at the moment, or getting measured. Whichever order of tasks they had chosen, it did not matter. They still had to be in the parlor.
Only one way to find out.
When he stepped into the parlor, the seamstress was just dismissing Elize.
“Me Laird,” she greeted once she saw him.
He wished she had taken longer to notice him. His gaze drifted to Emily, who was buried beneath a pile of prints and was holding magenta swatches to her cheeks, to Elize’s amusement. And his.
When she saw him, she paused and pushed the fabrics off her.
“Carry on,” he instructed the seamstress, then moved to sit beside Emily.
He found the swatches she had crumpled in her hand fetching. He leaned in, intending to whisper that in her ear, when the seamstress spoke again.
“Me Lady, come here and let me take yer measurements.”
Bullocks!
Emily rose, and the fabrics fell to her feet. She looked embarrassed for a moment. Elize set about stacking them, while Emily went to stand on the podium.
Adair almost laughed. His betrothed looked unsure. She did not have the temerity to endure any form of attention in the least bit. The podium was about three inches only, yet she stood petrified like a prized bull aware it was being offered for slaughter.
There was only one thing to be done when faced with such a predicament—implore the seamstress to work faster so she can recover sooner.
But where was the fun in that?
Adair chose the insidious second option. He reposed like a king, spreading apart his limbs on the cleared sofa, and asked his unwitting partner in crime to take special care of his bride-to-be.
Emily’s eyes narrowed on him, glaring so harshly that a lesser man would have cowered. But he merely studied her.
Her resolve faltered. She remembered how discomfiting she found being stared at. To her consternation, she was angled in a way that she could not avoid his gaze. His eyes glinted with mischief.
She could not turn away, but she could stare down at her feet. He followed her gaze before glancing back up, lingering on a sliver of skin near her clavicle.
She seemed so embarrassed that she was wheezing for breath.
“Breathe slowly and relax your shoulders, me Lady,” the seamstress said coolly.
She stepped aside in time for Adair to watch in carnal delight as her bosom strained against her bodice. He made a sound between a groan and a scoff. It caught her attention. Their eyes locked, and she understood that he was noticing her, like a boy noticed that his schoolmate had become a woman.
“Ye have such fine skin, me Lady.”
She does. Like polished ivory.
Emily did not look away despite the color rising in her cheeks. She stood tall, her lips slightly parted, proud and confident in her charm.
Shewascharming.
