Page 36 of A Hot Scot for Christmas
Rory clapped Mr. Warton’s back. “Come by tomorrow. We’ll see if we can find them.” Rory eyed the ever-silent Mr. Wyler. “You too, sir.”
“Capital of you, Mr. MacLeod. I will,” said Mr. Wyler.
Mr. Warton and Mr. Wyler made their excuses and ambled off. Mr. Warton tucked his bent plague doctor mask under his arm, and Mr. Wyler fumbled with the toga he wore over his black velvet coat. A writer of historical tomes, dear Mr. Wyler preferred the company of books and on occasion, his friend, Mr. Warton. A shared love of fishing bonded the two men.
Rory sidled up to her and watched them go. “They’re not bad.” He took a drink of his ale. “Mr. Warton would treat you kindly if you gave him the chance.”
She pulled her head back in horror. “You can’t be serious? Me? Marry Mr. Warton? He’s older than my father.”
“What about Mr. Wyler. You’d never have to worry about him talking your ear off.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Rory MacLeod, are you playing matchmaker? I asked you to scare my suitors away, not match me with them. Furthermore, I can’t understand why you’d encourage them with your discussions of fishing poles and whatnot.”
Rory rested his shoulder on the wall as though he’d try to talk sense into her. Was he trying to manage her?
“I grant you, Mr. Warton is older.”
“Thank you,” she said emphatically.
But…” Rory took a sip of the pint he’d been nursing. “…his brother does business in Leeds.”
“I’m very glad for Mr. Warton’s brother.” She sniffed, impatient.
“I inform you of this fact because when you were in the lady’s retiring room, Mr. Warton and I discussed the supplies his brother sells to ships and such. And…” Rory’s eyes sparked with triumph. “…that his brother has been on the hunt for a new brewer.”
She grabbed his sleeve. “You spoke to him on my behalf?”
Rory’s crooked grin spread. “I did.” He touched the tip of her nose, playful. “I ken that Mr. Warton’s too old for you, though a man could wax hopeful, can’t he? I don’t blame the man for trying.”
“That would be another name for your list.”
“We can add Mr. Wyler’s too. Turns out he visited you because of Eden House’s library.”
“Why? It’s terribly small.” She recalled Mr. Wyler calling on her twice.
Agonizing visits, they were. Conversation dragged on with awkward painful silences. But now that she thought of it, Mr. Wyler had cast a baleful eye at her little library. A room she hardly visited.
Of all her suitors, Mr. Wyler fumbled the most when trying to flirt. Of all her suitors, he seemed the least interested in matters of household income. She firmed her lips: Captain Crawford owned that. She’d lost count how often he came to call, but at least once or twice per visit, he would slide a subtle inquiry about her financial health.
Most of the time, she chalked it up to normal male concern over a young widow.
“But there is a book Mr. Wyler would like to have only he’s too shy to ask after it.” Rory sipped his ale, his gaze roaming the ballroom.
Her library? Eden House’s library was barely larger than the scullery. “And you gathered all this in the last hour?”
“The Wyler’s of the world are few and far between, but he was born to be a solitary man. Invite him to search your library and he’ll make you an offer,” Rory said. “I understand it’s a rare book. Might fetch a fine sum for you, money to help fund your new brewery.”
She flung her arms around him and murmured into his chest, “Thank you.”
The show of affection was impulsive and untoward in a ball. She cleared her throat and pulled away to hear a cold voice sending daggers at her back.
“Mrs. Throckmorton-Rutherford…” then a blade sharp “…MacLeod.”
Sabrina spun around and Rory slid off the wall, menacing. “Sod off.”
Captain Crawford’s brow furrowed. “Profanity, MacLeod. Contain yourself. We’re at a ball, not a public house.”
As if Rory needed lessons in true decorum, she huffed, indignant. The Highlander might look like a dark warrior of old, but he was the embodiment of gentility and manners.
