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She’s not going to accept.
Miss Butterworth’s eyes were decidedly dry. They managed to even appear...angry. At least, the manner in which they bored into him seemed decidedly unromantic. Her body seemed rigid. Wasn’t a woman of her position supposed to swoon?
His ancestral home might be in Scotland, a fact that might wrongly give some women the impression of a lifetime condemned to consume haggis and endure perpetual precipitation, but that didn’t change the fact he was a duke, and her lineage was decidedly less impressive.
What if she refuses me?
He shuddered.
He didn’t want to consider the scandal of proposing to someone who rejected his advances. This whole endeavor had been to tarnish the McIntyre reputation. His goal had not been to tarnish his own.
“I’m gaining a son!” Mrs. Butterworth shrieked, and with a happy sigh, Callum realized it didn’t matter what Miss Charlotte Butterworth might say—her mother considered the proposal accepted.
“Indeed you are,” he said amiably, before Miss Charlotte Butterworth might interject with any unfestive statements.
Her face darkened, and he decided it would be more enjoyable to direct his attention to his new relatives rather than his new betrothed.
“When I saw you last night, I did not realize we would be spending every Christmas and Easter together for the rest of our lives,” Mrs. Butterworth said.
“His Grace has not extended an invitation,” said his new betrothed’s sister.
Mrs. Butterworth waved her hand in an impatient gesture. “It is implied.” Then her face grew more solemn. “I do hope they burn Yule logs in Scotland. That is quite the nicest thing about Christmas.” She directed her attention to him. “Tell me, Your Grace. Are you a Yule-log burning enthusiast?”
“I’m sure I could be,” Callum said.
Mrs. Butterworth’s eyes widened. “You mean you don’t know?”
“I’ve never given it much thought.” He paused, trying to remember if he’d experienced a Yule log before, but then shook his head. “My parents died when I was seven, and my guardians—” He winced at the word. “—expressed a fear that placing a burning log in the house might lead to the manor house burning.”
“Such nonsense,” Mrs. Butterworth said. “We will come for Christmas, and we will have a Yule log. Or dearest Charlotte and you can come to the vicarage in Norfolk.”
He might have proposed, but that did not mean he intended to make uncomfortable journeys across the country to stay in likely dreary vicarages. Norfolk was infamous for its general provincialism. Most English aristocrats favored the area that stretched from Hampshire to Kent, and provided them occasional glimpses of sloping verdant fields and blue water. Some Northern aristocrats prided themselves on the rugged landscape in which they found themselves, though Callum suspected they delighted less in the steepness of the slopes and the picturesque qualities rendered than by the ample supply of coal mines underneath that same rugged landscape and the equally ample supply of workers whom they could force to toil there. No one though seemed to give much thought to Norfolk. It was generally seen as too flat.
“Please forgive my mother,” Miss Charlotte Butterworth said. “She is enthusiastic. I’m certain His Grace has spoken too quickly.”
“I did not,” he said.
“Of course he didn’t, my dear. Men don’t wander into people’s homes and accidentally propose. When they do it, they do it with intention. Now you two must kiss.”
“Kiss?” Callum asked weakly.
“You’re engaged.” Mrs. Butterworth beamed.
“The man is a gentleman,” Mr. Butterworth said. “He does not need to kiss anyone.”
“The man is a duke,” Mrs. Butterworth said. “No gentleman at all.”
“I-I.” Callum glanced at Miss Butterworth.
Kissing her had not been part of the plan. Proposing to her had not even been part of Miss Charlotte Butterworth’s plan, and he shifted his legs. The thin worn carpet was not a proper barrier from the floorboards, and they groaned beneath him, like a whistle to signal distress.
Perhaps he’d miscalculated. Perhaps, despite all the ways a union between them made sense, she did not see the benefits.
“Of course I accept,” Miss Charlotte Butterworth said finally. “But a kiss is unnecessary.”
“Oh, I suppose you have a lifetime for that,” Mrs. Butterworth said, sinking back into her pillows, and a sadness appeared in Miss Butterworth’s eyes.
I’m going to kiss her.
Callum narrowed the short distance between them and clasped her face in his hands. Her cheeks were softer than velvet, and the shade of her blue eyes exceeded any color that the sea might conjure.
“You needn’t,” she said.
“I want to,” he said, realizing it was true, and he brushed his lips against hers.
He’d experienced many first kisses with women before. He’d kissed women on balconies, ballroom music wafting to them and stars above them; he’d kissed women in rose gardens, inhaling the floral scent carefully cultivated by expert gardeners, and he’d kissed women in palatial bedrooms, over the finest imported sheets. None of his prior kisses had involved crouching near a too small chair in a sparsely decorated parlor, before a bevy of the woman’s relatives.
The kiss shouldn’t cause him any delight, and certainly no heart swelling, and yet a thrill of something very like excitement cascaded through him, and when his lips touched hers, he was unwilling to let go, delighting in their soft succulence.
“How romantic,” Mrs. Butterworth pronounced, fluttering her hands. “How very splendid.”
Much as he welcomed a positive reaction, the only reaction he cared about was Miss Butterworth’s, and he gazed at her. Her eyes had a glazed look to them.
“Are you quite well?” he asked quickly. Perhaps kissing was not recommended. He shouldn’t have forgotten her frailty. The doctor had said she should experience no excitement. “Your eyes appear dilated, and your cheeks are flushed.”
“Are they?” Miss Butterworth pushed her hand to her cheeks, as if to ascertain the temperature, but Callum added a dry throat to his list of concerns. Her voice had seemed most normal only two minutes before.
“I should go,” Callum said abruptly. “Enough excitement.”
“I’ll see you to the door,” Miss Butterworth said, springing up in a manner that did not necessarily convey her impending invalid state.
They rounded the corner.
“What are you doing?” Miss Butterworth demanded.
“I thought it was obvious.”
“You just proposed,” she wailed.
“Indeed.”
“My parents think we’re going to marry!”
“We are.”
She narrowed her eyes. “But why—? You don’t know me—”
“My dear Miss Butterworth,” he said airily. “Or should I call you Charlotte now?”
“Call me anything you like. Just explain it to me.”
“You gave me the idea. Last night.”
She peered around her, and her face whitened. “You mustn’t mention my visit.”
He shrugged. “I won’t. Not that it would matter. We are getting married.”
“But why? You know I can’t give you what traditional wives can—”
“I know,” he said gently. “But you gave me the idea.”
“Me!” Her eyes widened, and then she blinked. “You mean... I’m someone inappropriate.”
He frowned. He didn’t like hearing those words on her tongue.
“Because of my parents. My mother’s too talkative, and my father is too scholarly, isn’t that correct?”
The room seemed to have become warmer.
“And we don’t have any money, and I’m not a Lady Charlotte. I’m just a Miss Butterworth.”
“Soon you will be a Your Grace,” he promised. “Soon you will be a duchess.”
“Is this because you feel sorry for me?” she asked.
He averted his eyes. He did feel sorry for her. She was dying. He wouldn’t be much of a person if he didn’t feel the slightest twinge of sorrow.
“Perhaps,” he admitted, and she stiffened. He despised himself for causing her distress. “But that doesn’t mean I would marry just anyone who was sick.”
“Well, that’s discerning of you.”
“I mean—I like spending time with you,” he said, realizing that it was true.
And that kiss—
He could desire more than spending time with her. He shook his head.
“Obviously you cannot have any excitement,” he said. “Obviously we wouldn’t have a traditional marriage.” The words felt false in his mouth, and he wondered if perhaps there was not really so very much obvious about the statement. “But that doesn’t mean I can’t marry you, if you’ll have me.”
“I can’t give you an heir,” she said.
“Fortunately I have a twin brother filled with responsibility.” He frowned. Hamish better not learn of the wedding. “Besides, given your situation—”
“You’ll remarry,” she said. “After I die. And that woman will give you an heir.”
“Er—precisely,” he said, not desiring to meet her eyes.
“In that case, I accept,” she said.
“Good,” he said, conscious of a strange relief flooding his body. It was easy for him to find anyone to marry, much more someone inappropriate. But marrying someone other than her felt wrong.
Besides, forever wouldn’t be very long. If they despised each other, and he didn’t think they would, it wouldn’t matter. In the meantime, he could do his best to make her last months as pleasant as possible. He would make sure she was cared for. He would be a dutiful husband.
“I’ll call on you tomorrow,” he said.
“Oh?”
“I believe it’s appropriate,” he said. “Now that you will be my bride. I’ve heard a June wedding is considered ideal.”
“Then June it is,” she said softly, and he beamed.
Happiness flitted through him, and he told himself it was just because he had gotten his way, and he liked getting his way. He strolled back to Hades’ Lair.
If Wolfe hadn’t left to travel, he would shock him now. Now surprising him when he returned would have to suffice. He had the odd impression that he would not mind calling on her.