Stranded With The Scottish Earl

To Charlotte’s surprise, the first person over the bridge to the manor a couple of hours later wasn’t one of the servants, but her father. Sir John leaped off his favorite gray mare with the vigor of a man half his age and hurtled through the doors with his usual brio.

“Where’s my girl?” he bellowed, bursting into the hall and looking around the vast space with a pleased expression. “All’s fine in Bassington Lea, you’ll be pleased to hear.”

Charlotte was crossing toward the staircase, Bill at her heels, when she witnessed this exuberant arrival. She stopped and put her hands on her hips.

“Good morning, Papa,” she said coldly. Whatever the end result of his matchmaking, she had a bone to pick with her impulsive parent.

Her father might be theatrical, but he was far from stupid. He lowered the arms he’d stretched out toward his daughter, and his regard turned watchful. “Is that any way to greet your father, miss?”

“It is when he’s lost his mind.”

“That’s doing it too brown, Charlotte.” He didn’t make the mistake of pretending ignorance. With a sigh, he swung his greatcoat from his shoulders and tossed it onto a hard wooden chair near the door. Then he began to tweak his elegant clothing, straightening his spotless cream silk waistcoat over his substantial stomach, and fiddling with his gold fob watch. All to avoid her accusing stare.

“Do you think so?”

Her father’s expression was sheepish when he at last met her eyes. “I can see you misunderstood my last letter. That’s why I came down as soon as I could. I need to explain.”

“What is there to explain?” Through the open door, she saw the servants filing up the drive. After the days alone with Ewan, it felt odd to imagine her home full of people once more.

“You’re angry with me.”

“Yes.”

“And hurt.”

“Maybe,” she said, although they both knew that she was.

Her father leaned down to pat Bill who was sniffing around his boots. “I should have phrased my suggestion better.”

Charlotte’s lips tightened. “I doubt there was any way of saying you’d arranged a marriage without asking me that would make it better.”

Her father chanced a step in her direction, but didn’t try to touch her. He looked genuinely distraught, although sometimes with him, it was hard to tell the difference between sincerity and artifice. “It wasn’t like that.”

She didn’t relent. “Tell me what it was like, then.”

“It was…” To her amazement, her father spread his hands, struggling for words. Words came to him the way swimming came to a trout. “Dash it, it’s hard to explain. And it will sound deuced insane. I met young Macrae, and a voice in my head said, ‘He’s the one for my Charlotte.’ He’s a grand fellow. I’m sure you’ll like him. All the fine London ladies are mad for him.”

“Well, I’m glad it was love at first sight—at least for one of us.” She stifled a pang at the thought of all those fawning London ladies. “Why don’t you marry him?”

Her father’s smile was gentle. “I fell in love with your mother at first sight, you know.”

She did know. It was a memory he treasured and often spoke about. “That gives you no right to throw me at a stranger like an old coat that no longer fits you.”

He frowned. “Dear girl, is that what it felt like? No wonder you look like you want to cut out my kidneys. I can only say I’m devilish sorry. I had no such intention.”

She folded her arms and regarded him with displeasure. Out on the forecourt, one of the grooms led her father’s gray around to the stables. Groups of servants crossed the lawns and made their way to the back of the house.

“So what exactly was your intention?”

Her father’s expression was earnest, and much as she wanted to stay annoyed, she recognized his regret at bruising her feelings. She shifted to the side so the returning staff couldn?

??t see their discussion.

“I just wanted you to meet Lord Lyle. God forgive me if you thought I meant to compel you into a match. You should know better. Your papa has always been a romantic.”

“The letter was full of plans for the wedding.”

He had the grace to blush. “I might have had a brandy or two when I wrote it.”