Could not.

“Calm yourself, my heart. You’ll upset the lad, and we’ll be all night settling his wee feathers. Hester will never give her hand to a lying scoundrel of an Englishman.”

Augusta looked up abruptly from the child in her arms. “We still haven’t heard from Mary Fran and Matthew?”

“Not a word. I’m keeping the telegraph office in coin, sending wires all over the Continent. Not a single reply.”

“This is not good. You are certain Spathfoy hasn’t told Hester his plans for Fee?”

“I would bet my horse on it. It isn’t that Spathfoy is so English, it’s that he has no wife, no children of his own. He sees them as separate bits of business: you propose to this one, you collect that one for delivery to the marquess. If anything, he probably thinks having Fee at the family seat will be an inducement for Hester to marry him.”

Augusta blew out a breath, her brows knitting in thought. “That is diabolical.”

“That is what happens when a man has no countess to show him how to go on.” He tucked an arm around her shoulders and saw that their son—drat the boy, for it meant Ian wasn’t to have a turn holding him—was falling asleep in Augusta’s arms. “The way the lad is tending to his slumbers now, we won’t get our nap this afternoon, Wife. I would bet my horse on that as well.”

“You seem to think Hester will throw Spathfoy’s proposal back in his face.”

“Of course she will. Hester got a bellyful of scheming, charming men with that Merriford jackanapes.”

“Merriman. And you have it all wrong, Husband.”

He closed his eyes. Augusta might know her own cousin, but Ian knew women. “How is that, my love?”

“Spathfoy is cunning, Ian. Hester might detest the man for flying false colors, for taking Fee away from those who love her just because some old man in England has rediscovered his familial conscience, but Hester will go for Fee’s sake. She’ll marry that useless, handsome excuse for a raiding Englishman to make sure Fee isn’t all alone in Northumbria among strangers.”

“She wouldn’t be that daft.”

“It isn’t daft when you love somebody. Hester spends more time with Fiona than Mary Fran did.”

Ian felt yet another cold slither of misgiving in his vitals. “Than Mary Fran could, you mean. Running Balfour on a shoestring took up more of my sister’s energies than it should have, but Fee had three uncles about her to keep their eyes on her.”

The baby let out a tiny, peaceful sigh, making Ian and his wife momentarily pause to behold their son. For no reason at all, Ian kissed his wife’s cheek.

“Fiona is a child,” Ian said. “All she knows is her mother was always preoccupied with household matters at Balfour, then Mary Fran became enthralled with Matthew. Of course Fee appreciates an adult spending time with her.”

Even an adult such as Spathfoy?

Augusta busied herself cuddling the baby close. “And now her mama and step-papa are off on an extended honeymoon, and Hester has come to the Highlands to mend a broken heart. She and Fee are thick as thieves, Husband. This cannot end well, not for Hester, and not for Fiona.”

Ian wanted to argue; he wanted to soothe and reason and offer the comfort of superior male wisdom, though he was nearly certain Augusta had the right of things. He also wanted to beat Spathfoy within an inch of the damned English border.

He settled for tucking his wife closer and drawing the blankets a little more securely around their son.

Hale Flynn, ninth Marquess of Quinworth, took his brandy to the balcony of his private sitting room. In the west, the sun was taking its damned time to sink below the surrounding green hills, but to the east, the comfort of night was making an approach.

He sank into a chair, set his brandy aside, and withdrew the letter from his pocket.

Nights were no better really, though when the sun rose, he could ride out over the vast Quinworth acreage and at least find a few hours’ enjoyment at the start of his day.

He didn’t need to read the letter—he’d written it himself, addressed it himself, sealed it himself. The staff knew, of course. They took the post off each day and brought him the incoming mail all sorted into business, personal, and family correspondence.

This letter had gone out as family correspondence; it came back as personal, as if by action of post, his marchioness could dissolve their marital bond—though not the decades of familiarity marriage had engendered.

Her ladyship was dissolving his sanity. Season by season, year by year, her stubbornness and independence were taking a toll on his reason and on his ability to hold his head up socially. Nobody said anything to his face, of course, but his womenfolk were not biddable.

Not the girls and not their mother. Taking their cue from the marchioness, his three daughters went about socializing all over the realm, spending the Season in London, the summer at various house parties or by the sea, back to London for the Little Season, and then Yuletide with friends and cousins.

If the northern summer light didn’t appeal to Joan’s confounded artistic inclinations, he’d have nobody to share an eighty-seven-room mansion with but Spathfoy. And Spathfoy bided at the family seat only periodically to look in on the farms, or possibly—lowering, odious thought—on his own father.

Quinworth’s voting record in the Lords was distinguished. His holdings prospered year after year. He was accounted a handsome man, a man still in his prime, and from time to time he considered forming the kinds of liaisons available to wealthy, titled men even long past their prime.

Then discarded the notion, unwilling to take the final step that would prove Deirdre had won. With a sense of growing despair, he held the letter to his nose and inhaled.

“Spathfoy has proposed marriage to me.” Hester had to speak slowly because her Gaelic was very much a work in progress. She could understand almost everything Fee and Aunt Ariadne said to her, but they made allowances for her weak vocabulary and faulty syntax.

Ariadne’s face lit with pleasure. “This is marvelous! You will be Fiona’s aunt twice over. Have you told the child?”

Hester got up to pace the small, slightly overheated drawing room where they were having their late-morning tea. “I haven’t given Spathfoy my answer, and to be honest, I’m not sure what it will be. Augusta says I should make him wait, and suggests because of what happened with Jasper, I might not know my own mind.”

“What happened with Jasper was unfortunate. I trust your fears in this regard have been relieved by Spathfoy’s attentions?”

The question was delicately put while Aunt Ariadne fussed with the tea tray. Hester stopped her pacing and regarded Ariadne’s serene countenance.

“Is there something you’d say to me, Aunt?”

“Mr. Deal checks the sconces in the occupied hallways twice each night, or he has one of the footmen do it to ensure the wicks aren’t smoking and there’s adequate oil in the lamps. He told Mrs. Deal, who told me, that he heard laughter coming from your bedroom long after the family had gone to sleep. According to him, this is proof the house is once again haunted by some previous owner of dubious political judgment.”

Hester turned away as if regarding the gardens beyond the window, though she couldn’t help but smile.

“Laughter in bed is a wonderful thing, young lady. A thing to be treasured, and if I had to guess, I’d say Spathfoy is overdue for some laughter wherever he can find it.”

“You’ll think me wicked.” And still, Hester did not risk looking Aunt Ariadne in the eye.

“I’m the one who told you to get back on the horse. Aren’t you going to drink your tea?”

Sly old boots. Hester obediently resumed a place on the sofa. “I haven’t, you know. Not entirely. Gotten back on the, um, horse.”