Page 5 of I’ve Grown Accustomed to My Scot

“I don’t . . . I won’t . . .” the woman began and then closed her lips on whatever protests she wanted to make.

Rory’s gaze returned to her. He had expected her to continue to refuse to have her future decided in such a ramshackle manner, but instead she had choked down whatever she wanted to say. Again he could see the fear in her large brown eyes and knew beyond doubt that she was terrified of her father.

Rory didn’t blame her. The man was poisonous—as his aunt had said, a snake in pantaloons. He wasn’t going to agree to anything the earl said, but it amused him to annoy him. He thought about the best way to do that and came up with, “I can hardly marry someone I have no’ been introduced to. I am particular like that.” And he smiled as if he hadn’t a care in the world.

Ormsby shot him an irritated glance and strolled over to the fireplace where he took an enamel snuff box from on top of the mantel, opening it with a flick of his wrist. “This is my daughter Grace,” he said. “And no woman was ever less deserving of the name.”

Grace seemed to shrink into herself, letting her hair fall forward to hide her face while the earl went on as if she weren’t even in the room.

“She is ruined, but unfortunately the scoundrel responsible has fled the country. Ramsgate was going to marry her in return for my promise to clear his gambling debts, but it seems he is too badly injured to front up to the altar, and I don’t have time to wait for his recovery.” His cold eyes slid over his daughter’s body in a manner that left no doubt as to his meaning.

“I dinna think that your daughter’s misfortune is my business,” Rory replied in a calm voice. He thought about yawning but then decided that might be a step too far.

Grace caught her breath. “Father, please do not—”

“Sit down!” Ormsby ordered her.

Grace sat.

The earl carried on. “As it was you who injured Ramsgate, then you must take his place. You, Lord Rory MacKenzie, will marry my daughter.”

It was preposterous. Rory thought about laughing, but when he looked at Grace, he could see the embarrassment and humiliation in her slumped shoulders and decided he would not add to her suffering. Her face was very pale and her lips were trembling despite her efforts to press them still. What must it be like for her, to be treated as if she had no feelings? Bartered by her father to a stranger . . . No, not even bartered. She was being given away to whoever would take her.

As if she had felt his perusal, her dark lashes lifted and her eyes met his. There was a starkness in her expression, as if she had come so far and could go no further. As if she had reached the end of her tether. He felt an urge to say something comforting, but what could he say? As if coming to the same conclusion, she turned her head, hiding once more beneath the fall of her untidy hair. He watched her hands twisting together in her lap—an outward sign of the tumult inside her.

“As generous as your offer is,” he told the earl quietly, “I’m afraid I must decline. I have no plans to marry your daughter or anyone else. I am a confirmed bachelor and intend to remain that way.”

He heard Grace catch her breath. Perhaps she could not believe anyone would be brave enough or foolish enough to deny her father his demands? Once again, Rory uncharacteristically found himself wanting to reassure her. It was because she was a woman in distress, and when it came to the fairer sex, that had always been his weakness.

The earl commanded his attention once more. “You will marry her,” he said in the voice of a man used to getting his own way. “Understand me, MacKenzie, the ceremony will take place, even if I have to deliver you to the altar in chains. Set your mind to it.”

Rory eyed him curiously. “Why must I marry her? Are there no willing men lining up for her? If she took some bother with her appearance then she would be a pretty enough lassie, and that’s all some men require in their beds.”

Grace lifted her head and gave him a furious stare, and for the first time Rory thought he saw some fire beneath her frightened facade. She looked as if, given the right circumstances, she would have plenty to say about her situation, but a sideways glance at her sire had her biting her lip. Whatever words might have spilled from her mouth were forced back.

Ormsby scoffed. “No man in his right mind would want her. She is ruined. She could be breeding. Her actions have put in jeopardy the marital chances of my other two daughters and I want her gone. Out of my sight. I don’t care what you do to her once you marry her. Send her into the wild country of Scotland. Lock her up in a cage. She knows well enough not to call upon me for help. I will be happy to pretend she never existed.”

It was an appalling statement by a father to his daughter. He had given Rory his permission to mistreat the woman in any way he wished, or to abandon her entirely once the ring was on her finger.

Once more he found himself looking to Grace to see her reaction. She was not speaking up in defense of herself, and even if what the earl had said about her ruination was true, surely she did not deserve this fate? Rory found it difficult to believe any father would behave in such a cruel way to his daughter, but then Rory’s father would never do such a thing. Yes, he would be angry, but that anger would be directed at the scoundrel who had ruined and then abandoned her. Certainly not the victim. In fact, Rory could not imagine the duke forcing his daughter Cat to do anything she did not want to do. And as for marrying her off to a stranger and telling him to treat her with such contempt?

No, no, a thousand times no.

“My father,” he began, thinking to reassure Grace that not all men were like the earl, only to be interrupted by Ormsby.

“Your father is a duke, yes, but he is far away from London. You should not expect any help from that quarter. Do as I say, MacKenzie, and I won’t have you arrested for dueling with Ramsgate and causing him injury.”

Rory stared in amazement. Would he really . . .? But yes, meeting those icy grey eyes, he knew Ormsby would have him arrested. He probably had a tame magistrate he could call upon to sign the papers. Did this mean . . .? But no, Rory refused to be browbeaten into marrying a woman he did not know even if he weren’t a confirmed bachelor. Over the years, he had gotten himself into many awkward situations, but he had always managed to wriggle out of them through luck or cunning.

Grace was still twisting her hands together, her face turned to the window so that he could only see her cheek and her trembling lips. With consternation, he realized there was a fat tear rolling down her cheek. Quickly followed by another one. They plopped onto the bodice of her dress, and now he looked, he saw there was a damp patch forming.

Rory might be a pragmatic kind of man but his sister only had to sniffle and he was begging her to tell him what the matter was so that he could fix it.

Beneath his brash exterior, Rory’s soft heart gave a twang.

“I would like to speak to your daughter alone,” he said, remembering to add a polite, “my lord.”

Ormsby hesitated, taking a pinch from his snuff box as he considered the request. Then he turned to the door and shouted, “Fitt!”