Page 3 of I’ve Grown Accustomed to My Scot

Grace nodded. “I will be there presently,” she said. There was no point in refusing or saying she was busy. She had long ago learned that Ormsby did not respond well to even a hint of defiance.

Her sisters were watching her, their expressions full of dread. Grace had never told them how dire her present situation was, but they had guessed. Apart from being forced to marry a man she did not know, she would be leaving the two girls alone in this house, and she did not trust that Ormsby would care for them properly. They were his flesh and blood, true, but he was the sort of man who would not let that stop him from using them in one of his schemes to better his own situation. Just as he had used their mother.

“I must go and see what he wants,” she said calmly, and turned to look into the mirror.

She would have to change into her day dress, but she would not bother brushing her hair. Ormsby could parade her in front of a dozen prospective suitors, but she refused to make his job easy.

*

Ormsby was standing by the window in his study and turned to eye her with disfavor as Grace entered. Tall and thin, he was plainly dressed in elegant pantaloons and a grey jacket that matched his eyes. His neckcloth was neatly tied and his hair was slicked back with pomade. And she hated every inch of him.

“You wished to speak to me, sir?” she said politely.

He was angry, she knew that by the pinched lips and flaring nostrils. After the first spike of her heartbeat, she realized it wasn’t her he was angry with, although that did not mean his emotion would not spill over to scorch her too.

“Ramsgate has got himself into a duel and lost,” he bit out. “The fool is now too badly injured to marry you.”

“Oh.” She swallowed. “Poor man,” she added after a moment. “Will he pull through, do you think?”

“I don’t know and don’t care,” he snapped.

“Then . . . the wedding is off?” she managed, trying not to sound as pleased as she was. “I can hardly marry a man on his deathbed.”

Ormsby seemed to consider that option for a moment and then shook his head. “He might not last until the wedding day,” he said icily. “I think we must look elsewhere.”

We? Grace hastened into speech. “Could I not go to your estate? I could stay there, out of the way, and you need never see me. Surely that—”

He gave a dry laugh. “And have me pay for your upkeep and the bastard you are probably carrying? I think not. I want you married and someone else’s problem. I want to wash my hands of you, which is something I should have done years ago.”

Grace was twenty-one so she supposed she could have married years ago, but she had managed to stave off that fate until recently, when she had had the misfortune to choose a man who had seemed to love her until she discovered he did not. Abandoned, ruined, she had no choice but to agree to whatever Ormsby wanted. He would not listen to her when she’d tried to explain, and the look of disgust on his narrow features had caused her to stammer and beg.

After that, she refused to beg. Unless it was for her sisters.

“Who . . .?” Grace forced herself to ask, not really expecting an answer.

But Ormsby smiled the sort of smile that made her heart sink. “The man who fought Ramsgate in the duel,” he said. “He has upset my plans, and I think it is only fair that he step into Ramsgate’s shoes. I have sent for him this morning. I want you to show yourself, Grace. No hiding away. If you do, it will be the worst for you.”

Grace was sure it would be. “You can’t expect him to agree!” she burst out, her voice rising. “Why would he?”

Ormsby considered her. “I will find something to use to persuade him,” he said with his thin smile. “I’m sure there is something he does not want the world to know. You would be amazed how many men have such secrets, Grace, and I am very good at finding them.”

Grace knew he was right. “What is his name?” she asked dully.

“Rory MacKenzie,” Ormsby replied. “He is the second son of the Duke of Bonnyrigg so you should properly call him Lord Rory. Unfortunately he is a Scot, but we can’t be too fussy in the circumstances, can we? He has been in London some weeks now and seems to be hellbent on visiting every house of pleasure he can find. I wonder if his father knows? With luck, he will agree just to keep his behavior quiet.”

A wife was hardly a minor thing to agree to, Grace wanted to say, but she could see Ormsby would not listen. He had set his sights on Lord Rory MacKenzie.

“Go and make yourself presentable,” he said with distaste. “I will send for you when he arrives.”

If he arrives, she wanted to say, but it seemed pointless. Whatever happened next was up to Ormsby and Rory MacKenzie, and she would have no say in it.

Chapter Three

Rory had been right to suspect his Aunt Jennie, the Countess of Strathmore, would not be impressed. When he had admitted he had fought the duel, she had called him all sorts of foolish. She was even less impressed when an urgent message from the Earl of Ormsby arrived at her door later in the morning demanding her nephew attend him immediately.

“What have you got yourself into, Rory!” she wailed. “That man . . . He is loathed throughout the ton, but he is also feared. They call him ‘the snake in pantaloons’ although never to his face.”

Rory didn’t like the sound of that. “He can’t force me to marry his daughter,” he said quickly, in an attempt to pacify her. “I won’t let that happen, Aunt Jennie.” Rory had no intention of being forced into something he did not want to do.