Page 7 of I’ve Grown Accustomed to My Scot

For a moment Rory could not think of anything to say. The poor lass was so desperate she was willing to offer to subjugate her own wishes to his.

Then she leaned forward and he could see the swell of her bosom above her neckline, the flesh plump and enticing. Did she do it on purpose? Perhaps she was not so helpless as he had thought.

“I need a safe haven,” she said. “Somewhere I will not be under the power of my father. Once we marry, you can send me away, if you like. A cottage will do; I am not fussy. I will be no bother to you, I promise.”

“You do not even know me!” he said, standing up suddenly. He had startled her because she jerked back, staring up at him with wide dark eyes in her pale, tear-streaked face. “You do not even know me,” he said more quietly.

“I think I do,” she whispered. “You are not afraid of my father and that alone makes me think you are perfect for me. I cannot marry a man who takes his orders from Ormsby.”

Her gaze slid sideways to Fitt and she shuddered.

Rory found himself at a crossroads. This woman needed his help, and the thought of what might happen if he didn’t offer it . . . But if he helped her, if he married her, then what? Take her home to Bonnyrigg and his father’s ire? Leg shackle himself to a woman he did not know and who was obviously carrying a great many personal demons.

You can be as free as a bird and I will never scold you or ask for more.

And yet it sounded like the perfect marriage for the confirmed ladies’ man and bachelor Rory considered himself to be. If he wanted a marriage at all then this would surely be the one.

He looked down and found her watching him, as if she could barely allow herself to hope.

“I must be insane,” he said.

Then, for the first time, he saw her face light up in a truly beautiful smile.

Chapter Four

Hope swooped wildly in Grace’s chest. Did he really mean what she thought he meant? Was he truly considering agreeing to her proposal? It was true, he did not know her and she did not know him. When she had seen him at first, she had thought he was yet another of the men her father bullied into doing as he wanted. But she soon realized he wasn’t afraid of the earl, and there were not many people who weren’t afraid of her father.

But did that mean she could trust him?

There had been intelligence in his blue eyes as he spoke to her, a quiet confidence that made her think he was well able to hold his own in most situations. He was handsome too, his auburn hair tied back with a black ribbon rather than cropped in the latest fashion, and despite his outlandish costume, he stood in the middle of the room as if he expected to be listened to.

Grace had heard about his brother Callum, the Marquess of Morvern—the gossip had been rife. How he had married the woman hired to teach him the rules and manners of polite society despite her unsuitability. But as for Rory MacKenzie . . . she wasn’t sure he would need lessons in manners. And even if he did, she suspected he simply did not care a jot what other people thought of him.

Which made him perfect for her purposes.

When Grace had confessed her whole sorry tale to him, he had not seemed worried in the least. Although it had not been the whole story, she had left some of it out, but she had told him enough so that if he had felt a disgust for her then she would have seen it. He hadn’t.

Never in her wildest dreams had she imagined asking someone to marry her. The begging note in her voice had made her want to cringe. She had always been so proud. No matter how often her father’s words and actions wounded her, she had tried very hard not to show she cared.

If only she had not fallen under the spell of Bolton Buckingham, she might have been able to survive in a household that, even before her mother had died, had never felt like home. Instead she had convinced herself that Bolton was her salvation and participated in her own ruination. Bolton had lied to her and used her and then run away. Perhaps if that had not happened, if she had not become a scandal, she might have found someone worthy to marry. Someone who cared enough for her to stand between her and her father. Too late now. Her options had narrowed considerably. With Ramsgate out of the race, there were only two contenders for her hand left.

Lord Rory MacKenzie or Fitt the footman.

She looked up. While she had been lost in her thoughts, Rory had been watching her. She suspected he could easily tell she was desperate. It would be impossible for her to hide just how close she was to breaking.

Now he looked away, rubbing a hand over his clean-shaven jaw. Every time he moved, the emerald pin fastened into his snowy white neckcloth caught the firelight from the hearth, as if to remind her that he was a gentleman and the son of a duke. And that made her wonder again why on earth he had allowed himself to be trapped in the earl’s web.

“Have you come to London to find a wife?” she asked impetuously. “Like your brother, I mean?”

Rory laughed, he had a deep laugh with a husky catch to it. She found that she rather liked it. “Definitely not. I came to London because I was bored with Bonnyrigg and it was bored with me. My family were so enamored with Callum’s new wife that I decided to leave them to it.”

Grace was not sure if that was strictly true. Did he feel unappreciated? She could sympathize with that.

“Would marrying me bring your family’s attention back to you?” she asked him suddenly. Because if that was his prerequisite for marriage to her then she was happy to go along with it.

He grinned, his eyes sparkling. “It might.” Then, the smile dying from his face. “I don’t like the idea of you being married off by your father as if your wishes do not matter. And as for your prospective bridegroom . . .” He looked at Fitt and grimaced.

Rory was chivalrous! She was surprised to realize it. Grace’s trust in her fellow man had diminished to the point where she did not believe much of anything that was said to her, and certainly did not trust it. But now, suddenly, she threw caution to the winds.