The Scottish Bride (Sherbrooke Brides 6)

“Yes,” Tysen said absently. “Now, it’s time to have our last—hopefully small and of short duration—bride-welcome, at the Strapthorpes’. They live just over toward the forest, Mary Rose, a ten-minute walk. Grattling Grange—a strange name for a house. Mrs. Strapthorpe tells everyone that it comes from a German count who built it in the fourteenth century. I have no idea if this is true.”

Meggie said, her voice far too grim for a ten-year-old, “I’m sorry, Mary Rose, but you’ll have to face Miss Strapthorpe. But I won’t leave you. At least now she will have to stop flirting with Papa. And the way she’s always treated me and the boys—” Meggie shuddered.

“She was rather quiet when all the ladies visited the vicarage our first day back,” Mary Rose said, tilting her head up so the sunlight could fall full on her face. It felt wonderful. She felt Tysen’s warm breath on her cheek as he lightly kissed her. She stopped, looked up at him, her heart in her eyes, and said, “Did she really flirt with you, Tysen?”

“No. Meggie is exaggerating.” He kissed her again, on her ear.

Meggie rolled her eyes.

They heard a noise that sounded like a giggle. It was Mrs. Snead, the local seamstress, who had been examining a swatch of muslin. A soft pink muslin that, Tysen thought, would make up a beautiful gown for Mary Rose. He smiled at her and introduced his wife, who complimented her on the beautiful muslin. Tysen then asked Mrs. Snead to make his beautiful Mary Rose a gown.

Mrs. Snead sighed, a palm over her heart.

“Well done, Papa,” Meggie said when they were on their way again.

“Mary Rose looks beautiful in pink,” Tysen said, and kissed her ear.

Meggie began humming at that. As for Mary Rose, she was happy to her toes. She was also feeling very confident. It didn’t matter if Glenda Strapthorpe had flirted with Tysen and was very pretty. Mary Rose was wearing the pale yellow muslin walking dress that was a gift from Sinjun, and she knew she looked very fine in it. Meggie had told her so at least three

times. As for Max, he had frowned at her, looked her up and down, and said, “Just look at you, Mary Rose. You look all soft and fluffy, like a yellow dessert with red hair, and that’s why you shouldn’t be able to speak Latin.”

“Quis est qui inquit, Max?” Mary Rose said, and grinned at his father, who was closing a large hand around his son’s throat.

Meggie asked, her brows lowered at her brother, “Just what does that mean?”

“It means ‘Who said that,’ ” Max said. “Why, Mr. Harbottle says that, that’s who.”

Tysen shook his head, perplexed. He’d been thinking that Mary Rose looked edible, at the very least, until his ears had finally picked up Max’s words. He said, “I don’t wish you to listen to Mr. Harbottle again, Max. Do you understand me? I can’t believe that I never before realized what a fool the man is. I have made inquiries, Max, but there just aren’t many tutors about who know more than you do. Is it possible for you to simply learn from him and not adopt any of his absurd philosophies?”

“You mean like girls are worth very little?”

“That’s it exactly.”

“I will try, Papa,” Max said.

“You’re such a shortsighted little dolt I doubt you’ll be able to manage it,” Meggie had said, and smacked him in the shoulder.

Now Meggie said to Mary Rose, “I don’t trust Glenda Strapthorpe. She’s a cat. She’s wanted Papa for more than a year now, and he’s had to be very wily to escape her. Remember that time she trapped you in the vestry, Papa? I heard two of the ladies saying behind their hands that she tried to assist you out of your robe.”

“Er, yes,” Tysen said, and Mary Rose saw him blush. Then he shook himself. “No matter. I’m married now, and she will quickly accustom herself. She has probably long forgotten me and is searching out fresh quarry.”

Mr. Strapthorpe was monstrously fat, with gout and at least three chins. He admired Tysen not because he was a devoted town leader and an excellent vicar but because he was the brother of an earl, a very wealthy earl with a great deal of power. Mr. Strapthorpe was still in trade, although he’d removed himself physically far away from his factories in Manchester, and his new status as a wealthy man and the most important man in Glenclose-on-Rowan had made him look to Tysen as a possible son-in-law.

But he was philosophical, if nothing else, and greeted Mary Rose with gallantry while his pinched and meager wife poured tea and complained about the servants that one had to deal with in a small town.

Glenda Strapthorpe made a lovely entrance not three minutes later, her eyes on Tysen as she came into the overly warm drawing room, wearing so lovely a gown that Mary Rose felt suddenly like a dowd. Evidently Meggie agreed, because she moved closer.

As for Tysen, he rose to greet Glenda and said charmingly, “You are in fine looks, Miss Strapthorpe, as is my own lovely wife. When she has settled in, we shall begin entertaining.”

Glenda paid no heed to this or to the vicar’s new wife. She said, without preamble, “I need to show you something, Reverend Sherbrooke. In the conservatory. Mama, we will be back shortly.”

Her mother shot her a nervous look, nearly spilling the tea she’d just poured. Her father looked as if his gout suddenly pained him. Tysen knew Mr. Strapthorpe didn’t like this forwardness in his daughter, but Glenda ruled the house. Her parents were there to serve her, and everyone knew it.

Tysen smiled at Mary Rose and his daughter, and took Glenda’s arm. He said over his shoulder, “No sugar in my tea, Mrs. Strapthorpe. We will be back very quickly.”

Glenda Strapthorpe had no sooner closed the door to the conservatory—it was just a room so far as Tysen could ever tell—than she said in a wonderful, throbbing voice, right in his face, “How could you, sir?”

“How could I what, Miss Strapthorpe?”