Bridegroom Wore Plaid by Grace Burrowes Read Free Book Online Page A

she’d opened the book. Her frown became an expression of concentration as she stood right there and began to read. The only sound was the library clock ticking quietly on the wall, and still she remained absorbed in the book.
    Ian realized how closely they were standing when he caught a whiff of lilacs from her person, a soft, pleasing scent that went with her retiring demeanor much better than the tart lemon had. She’d caught her hair back in a neat chignon, which left him with a curious desire to see her glossy black braid swinging over her hips again.
    Maybe even a desire to have another of those chaste, maidenly little pecks to his cheek?
    “I meant to thank you,” he said, the words surprising him. Step back, you idiot.
    She glanced up at him, her expression questioning.
    “At breakfast,” he clarified. “I presumed to use informal address with your cousin. You aided me in this regard.”
    She blinked and closed the book with a snap. “I aided the cause of our digestion. I was not raised to stand particularly on ceremony, your lordship. My grandfather was merely a baron, or a… what is the Scottish equivalent?”
    “A lord of parliament, or lord baron. I hope you enjoy the novel, Miss Merrick.”
    He turned to go. There was work to be done, and she was regarding him with a peculiar light in her strange eyes.
    “My lord?”
    He stopped in midstride and turned to face her from a small distance. “Madam?”
    From this angle, he could see that a curl had managed to escape from the black netting gathered over her nape. It was provoking, that curl. Lying against her neck, it disturbed the picture of order and calm she presented otherwise.
    “I had thought…” She dropped her gaze from him to the book in her hands. “I don’t mean to presume, but if you were so inclined…”
    Ian liked women. He enjoyed their company in bed and out, and he treasured the grace and sweetness they added to an otherwise difficult and burdensome existence. Still, something warned him to resist any queer starts on the part of this shy spinster who wandered barefoot in the dew and dispensed kisses at dawn.
    He took one step closer. “You are a guest under my roof. You have only to ask, and any aid I can offer, any courtesy, is yours, Miss Merrick.” She was also his only ally in his efforts to wed the Daniels fortune, which fact excused his tarrying with her between the bookshelves.
    She mumbled something, so he took one more step closer, and now he could see her cheeks were flaming.
    “I beg your pardon, Miss Merrick?”
    “Augusta.” She raised her gaze to his, her eyes lit with determination. “It might make your informality with Genie less difficult for her if you adopt the same address with Hester and myself. Just don’t…”
    This was costing her, this declaration. For it was a declaration of some sort—maybe of support for his goal, or maybe of something else entirely.
    “Just don’t?” he prodded. He put his hands behind his back lest he tuck that curl up into its rightful place.
    “Don’t call me Miss Gussie, or Gus, or Miss Auggie, or—”
    She could not have blushed any more brightly red, and abruptly, he did not want to look on her distress. Did not want to cause it.
    “I’m Ian.” He interrupted her to say this. “I didn’t think your cousin would remain at table if I suggested we use first names only, though you may call me Ian if you like, and I shall call you Miss Augusta. My brothers will not refer to me by the title unless they are wroth with me, and it grows… awkward, to be Ian to this person, Balfour to that, my lord to the other.”
    Her blush was fading, though this left a nice color in her usually pale cheeks.
    “My grandfather said the same thing, said titles were confusing at best, and a damned lot of nonsense generally.” He thought she’d cause herself to blush again, but instead she gave him another of those shy, mischievous smiles. “A lady oughtn’t to use such