Grace Burrowes - Mary Fran and Matthew

Mary Fran folded a napkin around the last of her scone and put it in her pocket, then placed her hand in Daniels’s and let him assist her to her feet. Thank God her brothers weren’t on hand to see such a farce.

“In private.” The gentleman kept his eyes front as he appended that requirement, as if admitting such a thing made him queasy.

“Shall we walk in the garden, Mr. Daniels? Pace off some of our breakfast?”

“That will serve.” He tucked her hand around his arm, which had Mary Fran about grinding her teeth. They skirted the terrace and minced along until they were a good distance from the house, and still Mr. Daniels said nothing.

“Is there a point to this outing, Mr. Daniels? I don’t mean to be rude, but I’ve a household to run, and though you are our guest, my strolling about here among the flowers isn’t going to get the beds made up.”

He stopped walking and gazed down at her with a surprised expression. “You do that yourself?”

“I know how. I expect you do as well.”

Something flashed through his eyes, humor, possibly. He was one of few men outside her family Mary Fran had to look up to. She’d been an inch taller than Gordie, and she had treasured that inch every day of her so-called marriage.

“I do know how to make up a cot,” he said. “Public school imbues a man with all manner of esoteric skills. The military does as well. Shall we sit?”

He was determined on this privacy business, because he was gesturing to a bench that backed up against the tallest hedge in the garden. They’d be hidden from view on that bench.

Even if she were amenable, Mary Fran doubted Mr. Daniels was going to take liberties. Good Lord, if he was this serious about his dallying, then heaven help the ladies he sought to charm. Though as she took a seat, it struck her with a certainty that Matthew Daniels needn’t bother charming anybody. For all his English reserve in proper company, he’d plunder and pillage, devil take the hindmost, when he decided on an objective.

Former cavalry could be like that.

“You are smiling, my lady.”

And he was watching her mouth as he stood over her. Mary Fran let her smile blossom into a grin as she arranged her skirts. “I’m truant, sitting out here in the garden. I suppose it’s fair play, given that my brothers—save for Ian—are off gallivanting about with your sisters and your aunt.” And Lord knew what Ian was up to with the spinster cousin—probably prying secrets from the poor lady.

“About my womenfolk.” He took the place beside her without her permission, though she would not have objected. “I have sisters.”

He had two. The lovely Eugenia Daniels, whom Aunt Eulalie had spotted as a possible wealthy bride for Ian, and the younger, altogether likable Hester Daniels. Mary Fran held her peace, because Mr. Daniels was mentally pacing up to something, and he struck her as man who would not be hurried—she was familiar with the type.

“I have sisters whose happiness means a great deal to me,” he went on, leaning forward to prop his elbows on his thighs. “You have brothers.”

“My blessing and my curse,” she said, wondering when he’d get to his point.

“My sisters are dear to me.” He flicked a brooding glance at her over his shoulder. “As I’m sure you are dear to your brothers.”

“Their hot meals and clean sheets are dear to them.”

He sat up abruptly. “They would cheerfully die for you or kill for you. Not for the hot meals or the clean sheets, but for you.”

She regarded him for a quizzical moment, trying to fathom his intentions. Insight struck as she studied the square line of his jaw and the way sunlight found the red highlights in his blond hair. “They won’t kill your father while he’s a guest in our home. Rest easy on that point.”

“I cannot rest easy , as you say.” He hunched forward again, the fabric of his morning coat pulling taut across broad shoulders. “My father’s regard for women generally lacks a certain…”

“He’s a randy old jackass,” Mary Fran said. “I don’t hold it against him.”

Whatever comment the situation called for, it wasn’t that. No earl’s daughter, not even a Scottish earl’s daughter running a glorified guesthouse ought to be so plainspoken.

“I’m sorry,” she said, gaze on her lap. “I don’t mean to be disrespectful. Your da’s a guest in my home, and I’m responsible…”

“Hush.” His finger came to rest on her lips, and when she looked up at him, he was smiling at her. He dropped his finger, but the smile lingered, crinkling the corners of his eyes and putting a light in his gaze that was almost… gentle.

God in heaven. The man was abruptly, stunningly attractive. Mary Fran felt a heat spreading out from that spot on her mouth where his bare finger had touched her.

“My father is a randy old jackass, I was searching for those very words. He can offend without meaning to, and sometimes, I fear, when he does mean to.”

“He’s not the first titled man to show uncouth behavior toward women.” She linked her fingers in her lap lest she touch her lip as he had.

“No, but he’s my father. If he should come to a premature end, all the burdens of his title will fall upon me, and that, rather than filial devotion, makes me hope your brothers will not have to challenge him to pistols at dawn.”

The daft man was genuinely worried. “My brothers are Scottish, but they don’t lack sense. If Ian took to dueling with his guests, God Almighty could live next door, and the most baseborn coal nabob wouldn’t give a farthing to spend a day with us. Her Majesty has just about frowned dueling out of existence.”

Plain speaking wasn’t always inappropriate, and Mary Fran sensed Matthew Daniels could tolerate a few home truths.

“I fear, my lady, you underestimate your brothers’ devotion to you, and”—he held up a staying hand when she would have interrupted—“you underestimate the depths of my father’s more crass inclinations.”

Mary Fran studied him, studied the serious planes of his face, and noted a little scar along the left side of his jaw. “I can handle your father, Mr. Daniels. I won’t go running to my brothers in a fit of the weeps because he tries to take liberties.”

“Tries to take liberties again, don’t you mean?”

He had blue eyes—blue, blue eyes that regarded her with wry sternness.

“He’s too slow, Mr. Daniels. He can but try, and I shall thwart him.”

He peered at her, his lips thinning as he came to some conclusion. “Your brother had the opportunity to take my father very much to task the other evening for a verbal slight to you. Balfour instead suggested I see my sire to bed. I’d suspect the reputation of the Scots’ temper to be overrated, except I’ve seen Highland regiments in action.”

“Our tempers are simply as passionate as the rest of our emotions.”

As soon as the words were out of her mouth, she realized she’d spoken too plainly. Ungenteelly, though that was probably not a proper word.

“I agree,” he said, rising and extending his hand to her. “Having fought alongside many a Scot, I can say their honor, their humor, their valor, and their tempers were all formidable. Still, I am asking you to apply to me rather than your family should my father’s bad manners become troublesome. I assure you, I’ll deal with him appropriately.”

She wouldn’t be applying to anybody. If the baron overstepped again, he’d face consequences Mary Fran herself was perfectly capable of meting out. God had given each woman two knees for just such a purpose.

“I can agree to bring concerns regarding your father’s conduct to you, Mr. Daniels, before I mention them to my brothers.” She placed her hand in his and let him draw her to her feet.