Page 14 of I’ve Grown Accustomed to My Scot

Grace set down her cutlery with a clatter at the uncomfortable reminder, but Rory snorted a laugh.

“My dueling days are over,” he said, and bowed politely. “We will speak in the morning, Grace. We need to discuss your future.”

She hadn’t thought of a reply before he closed the door behind him. Although they were spoken in a pleasant tone, the words sounded ominous. Her new husband was off, out on the town to enjoy himself as if he had forgotten her existence already. Grace had still been hoping that Rory would come to her bed, and their marriage would become a real one and not just something written on a piece of paper that could be tossed aside. That she could be tossed aside. Now she would have to wait until he came home. If he came home.

The servants were clearing the table and the countess rose to her feet with Grace scrambling up after her. “I expect you are tired,” Jennie said kindly. “Come and I will walk you to your bedchamber.”

Grace wondered if that was pity as well as kindness she heard in the countess’s voice. She did not want to be pitied. It made her seem weak, a poor thing at the mercy of others, and Grace was not that. In her father’s company she was often silent, or she dropped her gaze, but that wasn’t weakness. It was a strategic move, a way of becoming invisible in the hope it would prevent him from tearing her character to shreds. She did fight him on the occasions when he had her sisters in his sights and she could no longer stand by and watch their suffering. But when it came to herself, it was just better to say nothing.

The two women climbed the staircase together, with the countess chatting about inconsequential matters that Grace did not need to respond to other than with a nod or a smile. When they reached her bedchamber, the other woman said kindly, “Sleep well, my dear.” As she moved away to her own room, Grace heard her say to herself, “Where on earth has Bothwell gotten to?”

Grace supposed Bothwell was the countess’s maid and closed her door. Her room was softly lit, bright enough for her to see to undress and take out the pins from her hair. She wondered where the maid who had helped her earlier had gone, but she preferred to be alone. And then she realized she wasn’t completely alone. The cat was still asleep on her bed, and seeing it there made her smile.

She thought wryly that at least she would have some company on her wedding night, even if it wasn’t that of her husband.

As she climbed into bed, she tried to tell herself she was very grateful indeed, knowing she could lie here and not fear for tomorrow. But the truth was that she did fear it. Ormsby’s warning had made a lasting impression upon her. Tomorrow, or the day after, or in a week or even a year, Rory might decide to break their marriage asunder. And then what would happen to her?

There had been a time when she had believed her future lay with Bolton—she had been so certain of it. She had believed in him, had believed that finally she had found someone who was willing to help her. But instead of helping her, he had destroyed her trust and made her life very much worse. Bolton had not broken her heart—she had not been in love with him. When he had shown such marked interest in her, she had decided he was her way out of her miserable life. Ormsby had guessed the truth. She had thought herself so clever, but it had turned out that while she was plotting to use Bolton, he had been playing his own cruel game.

With a sigh, Grace told herself there was no point in mulling over her mistakes right now. There were other more important matters to consider. She would doze a little in her bed with her cat while she was waiting for Rory to come home. Then she would sneak into his bedchamber and into his bed and ensure that their marriage was legal. Surely a man with such a reputation would not be able to resist a naked woman? A naked willing woman?

Then she remembered again the countess’s comment about the MacKenzies and their word being so important to them, but quickly dismissed it. Rory would likely be foxed and his barriers lowered by the drink. And really, what option did she have? She couldn’t bear the thought that she may have to creep back home to Ormsby and beg him to take her in.

Because she was very sure he would slam his door in her face.

Chapter Eight

Despite his plans to enjoy a wild night and forget he was now a married man, Rory had not ventured far. He sat in one of the drinking establishments he favored, brooding over his glass while the lively noise swirled around him. Ironic that he had chosen this place because it offered plenty of entertainment, but instead of joining in, he was choosing to ignore it.

Mrs. Smith was a widow who, discovering herself in dire financial circumstances after her husband died, had chosen to turn her home into a place for the pleasure of gentlemen and ladies alike. There were gaming tables as well as palatable servings of food, and upstairs were some pretty lassies who he knew would welcome him. Rory had often enjoyed his evenings here and had certainly made the most of the available attractions, but not tonight. He wasn’t interested, preferring to sit alone and stare into his whisky.

Why on earth was he being so gloomy? And why did his thoughts keep returning to Grace and the cold, hard fact that he was now a married man, as if it had changed him in some way when he knew it hadn’t. It wouldn’t!

How Callum would laugh when he found out! Which, Rory sincerely hoped, would not happen soon. Or ever. When Rory had agreed to the marriage, he had thought that once Grace was safely out of her father’s clutches, he would have done his job and therefore could put her out of his mind. Yes, she would need somewhere to live, and he was going to make sure of that, and also that she would be safe. But really, that was all that was required of him—indeed she had told him as much—and he expected that once Grace’s future was dealt with, he could forget he had a wife. He could carry on living in the same carefree manner he always had.

For some reason it wasn’t turning out to be as simple as he thought. They had only been married for a day and already he was having problems. For instance, he found himself replaying Grace’s expression as she sat opposite him at the table tonight. When she first entered the room, she had been anxious, as if she thought she would be made to feel unwelcome. That had reminded him of the situation he had saved her from, so he had set out to show her things would be different now. Soon she had been smiling, her eyes alight with something very like happiness, and he was able to tell himself that he had done that. But not everything was congratulatory.

She was wearing a dress that was sadly out of date, although it still suited her far better than the awful pink wedding dress. He thought that if she were dressed fashionably and in clothing more suited to her coloring, she would be quite stunning. With her long, elegant neck and her glossy dark hair, she would turn heads. But he also couldn’t help but notice the area of creamy skin above her bodice, which looked . . . bare. It would be nice if she had a pendant or necklace to fill in that space, something to draw the eye. It occurred to him that if this were a proper marriage, he would have given her something like that as a wedding gift, and his mind drifted to what stones would suit her best. He decided upon emeralds.

Which was ridiculous! Why should he be thinking of giving her anything other than what they had already decided upon? It was certainly not the sort of marriage where he would be showering her with gifts to show his love and appreciation. And to be fair, she had not asked him for more than he had given, and really, why should she want more? He had stepped into her life like a storybook hero and saved her from her evil stepfather. Rory should be pleased and satisfied with that. Then why did he have the strangest compulsion to give her more?

He shook his head but his thoughts continued to wander, although that may have been the several glasses of whisky he had already imbibed.

What would it be like to cleave to the one woman as Callum was doing? To never feel curiosity when his gaze rested on another female? Or even if he did, never to go beyond that curiosity and decide to climb into that female’s bed? Rory had never thought himself the sort of man who could pass up those sorts of temptations, and that perhaps he was the outlier in his family because Callum, Donal, Maxwell, and Luna were all true to their other halves. He could not imagine any of them stepping outside their vows, not even Donal who was yet to marry his one true love.

And yet sitting here now, he had begun to wonder if he was so different to the rest of his family after all. Here he sat, doing a very good job of ignoring the enticements surrounding him at Mrs. Smith’s, and he wasn’t even tempted! Although, was that through any desire to be true to Grace? He tried to imagine the expression on her face if he were to suggest they play husband and wife for real, and it made him chuckle. She would be horrified and rightly so. No, whatever the problem was, it was Rory’s and his alone.

His smile faded as his thoughts strayed to the scoundrel who had caused her ruination. Bolton Buckingham. It was not a name he knew, but he could make some discreet inquiries. Although to what end? Did he intend to punish the man for his cowardly behavior? Did he have any right to do that, and would Grace be grateful or dismayed if he interfered? As far as Rory knew, she might still be pining for the fellow!

That thought jolted him and stirred something inside him, some emotion he didn’t recognize and was sure he had never felt before. But instead of examining it further, Rory groaned and stood up. He needed to go home and sleep, and then perhaps when morning came he would have shaken off this strange, worrying mood and be himself again. His old self. Carefree and thoughtless Rory MacKenzie who cared only for distraction and dissipation.

*

The Strathmore house was quiet, the servants abed, as were Aunt Jennie and Grace. His wife. Rory stood a moment in the entrance hall, wondering if he should have another glass of whisky before he turned in. Would that make things better or worse?

No, he decided he was tired and what he really needed was sleep. This strange mood of his would be gone in the morning. Bed it was then!

Once in his bedchamber, Rory swiftly undressed, tossing his clothing anywhere. His mother wasn’t here to tell him he was being thoughtless, and the valet he had borrowed from his absent uncle would pick the garments up in the morning, so why should he bother being tidy? He climbed into his bed, yawned and stretched, and a moment later he was asleep.