She hated the ball itself—had taken all balls, dances, and assemblies into dislike the night Fee was conceived, and saw no reason to change her opinion at this late date.

“You are glowering, my lady. Have I done something to offend?” Augusta Merrick posed the question in the soft, polite voice Mary Fran would never be able to imitate.

“All this nonsense offends,” Mary Fran said, glancing around the ballroom. “We won’t have a flower left in the garden, and the ice alone will beggar us.”

“He’ll come back, Mary Fran.” The same soft voice, but with a hint of something under it. “Matthew is honorable. If he told Ian and Fee he’d be back, he will be.”

“I’m that obvious?”

“You’re that in love.”

Mary Fran peered over at the Englishwoman who was arranging flowers for a small centerpiece. Augusta had suggested keeping most of the centerpieces low, and therefore simple and inexpensive. She’d also suggested including heather here and there to keep the air fresh and the tenor of the gathering Scottish.

“You wouldn’t begrudge me your cousin’s affections?” Mary Fran could not have asked that question of Matthew’s sisters. For some reason, they took less notice of him than Miss Augusta did.

“Let’s take a break,” Augusta said. “And no, we will not ring for tea.”

She linked her arm through Mary Fran’s and led the way out to the terraces, where footmen were setting up torches and tables while maids scurried in all directions. Mary Fran drew out her pocket flask when she and Augusta got to the first bench behind the privet hedge.

“A medicinal nip is in order.” Mary Fran passed the little leather-covered flask to her guest, who did not even pause to wipe the lip before taking a sip.

“Powerful medicine.”

“Each time we put on one of these fancy-dress affairs, I hate it a little more.”

“Matthew will lead you out, and then you won’t hate it so much ever again.”

“You don’t mind that we’ve become… involved? Nobody else seems to have noticed, not even your aunt Julia, whom I would think had some things in common with Matthew.”

“Grief?” Augusta passed the flask back, but Mary Fran studied it rather than take a drink.

“He loved that wife of his. He simply didn’t realize it until it was too late.” Mary Fran deduced that some of what afflicted Matthew was guilt, and one had to feel some love if guilt found a way to take root.

August Merrick didn’t seem at all discomfited by the topic. “I met Lydia only at the wedding. She was a plain little sparrow trying to make us think she was besotted with her dashing husband. The Queen had a hand in the matchmaking, from what Genie said, but I worried for the couple.”

“He said…” Was it violating confidences to repeat words spoken in private? “He said she saved his life, ordering him moved from the hospital, fetching an Arab doctor to tend him, selling her jewelry to see him properly fed and cared for.”

“And then she fell ill, and there was nothing Matthew could do. Hester has told me a little of it, but Matthew doesn’t speak of the past.”

He does too. To me he speaks of it, though not honestly enough.

“What gave us away?” Mary Fran took a sip, but a small one.

Augusta’s smile was a little smug and a little sad. “You look at Matthew the way I look at Ian.”

Mary Fran absorbed that truth, nodded, and passed her the flask. “Will you come with me to Balmoral after the shoot? Her Majesty won’t be joining us for the dress ball, but she’s summoned me to relay all the details afterward. His Highness might pop over for the shoot on Saturday.”

“You visit back and forth as if they were any other neighbors?”

Mary Fran accepted the flask back. “We do. Fee visits the princesses often, and Ian and the Prince Consort are quite friendly. This time, though, Her Majesty has sent a formal summons.”

“I suppose you’d best heed it, then.”

***

The bloody damned trains and the bloody damned coaches and the bloody damned lame livery horses conspired to make Matthew bloody damned late to the ball. The idea that he might disappoint Mary Fran made him positively frantic, so frantic he barged in on the dinner gathering in all his riding attire and dirt.

And not a moment too soon. Balfour announced Genie’s engagement, and good wishes were offered all around. By virtue of careful orchestration on the earl’s part, Altsax was hustled off to the library with the MacGregor family surrounding him, while the guests called toasts from all sides to the prospective bride and groom.

Amid all the toasting and familial machinations following Balfour’s announcement, Matthew had not one moment with Mary Fran, not even as they joined the family for the celebratory dram in the library.

“We’ll return to the ballroom,” Matthew said, taking Mary Fran’s hand at an opportune moment. “Somebody needs to get the dancing started, and Mary Fran is the hostess.”

Balfour sent them on their way with a grateful smile, while Mary Fran remained ominously silent.

“You got word from Her Majesty?” Matthew asked.

Mary Fran, elegantly turned out in MacGregor plaid with all the Highland trimmings, looked bemused and not… not unfriendly.

Also not quite kissable. “I cannot refuse an official summons, Matthew, and you cannot go back to the ballroom dressed like that and reeking of horse.”

He stopped dead in the corridor. “I stink.” Which likely explained why an audience with the Queen hadn’t resulted in Mary Fran plastering herself to him in welcome.

Her lips quirked. “The smell of horse has never offended me, but Ian said he’d seen to your fancy kit.”

The earl was not a man to be underestimated. “I’ll change then.” But damn and blast, he’d wanted to waltz with her. Now he’d have to wait until the good-night waltz, but at least that was typically a slower tune.

A more romantic dance. And some romance was apparently in order. Her Majesty had looked with favor on Matthew’s plight, and had apparently seen matters set to rights, but Mary Fran was still regarding him with some… speculation.

“Come with me,” Matthew said, tugging her down the corridor. “A man needs an extra hand if he’s to get into his evening finery posthaste.”

She came along, not reluctantly, but not enthusiastically either. As it turned out, Matthew did need her assistance, because Balfour’s idea of evening finery was a McDaniel dress plaid and all the trimmings, save a bonnet. Mary Fran’s assistance was more than appreciated; it was necessary if Matthew was to don his clothing properly.

“Some fellows will wear their underlinen if they’re in mixed company, but my brothers do not.” Mary Fran stepped back and surveyed him in the confines of his bedroom. “The sporran helps protect your modesty, if that’s a concern.”

“Stop fussing over the clothing, Mary Fran, and tell me if you’ll marry me.”

Graceless, tactless, and the only question that mattered to him. She’d spoken with the Queen, gotten as much explanation as anybody could give her, and all that remained was to break Matthew’s heart or crown his future with resplendent happiness.

“I wasn’t sure you’d ask again, Matthew.” She regarded his riding attire, heaped on a plaid-upholstered chair. “My past is no better than yours, in theory. I’m glad you told me of the scandal, but when I had time to think, to consider if something long ago and far away should control both our futures, I decided it should not.”

She wasn’t making sense, entirely, but her day had no doubt been long, and scandal, even scandal with a royal explanation, was a difficult topic.

He took her hand in his, relief and joy soaring around in his chest like so many shooting stars. “You’ll marry me. That’s all that matters. I’m sorry I could not be more forthcoming, but promises made to protect a lady’s honor are not easily broken.”

She gave him a puzzled look as he stepped closer. “We’ll need to say something to Fiona.”