“He’s a randy old jackass,” Mary Fran said. “I don’t hold it against him.”

Whatever comment the situation called for, it wasn’t that. No earl’s daughter, not even a Scottish earl’s daughter running a glorified guesthouse ought to be so plainspoken.

“I’m sorry,” she said, gaze on her lap. “I don’t mean to be disrespectful. Your da’s a guest in my home, and I’m responsible…”

“Hush.” His finger came to rest on her lips, and when she looked up at him, he was smiling at her. He dropped his finger, but the smile lingered, crinkling the corners of his eyes and putting a light in his gaze that was almost… gentle.

God in heaven. The man was abruptly, stunningly attractive. Mary Fran felt a heat spreading out from that spot on her mouth where his bare finger had touched her.

“My father is a randy old jackass, I was searching for those very words. He can offend without meaning to, and sometimes, I fear, when he does mean to.”

“He’s not the first titled man to show uncouth behavior toward women.” She linked her fingers in her lap lest she touch her lip as he had.

“No, but he’s my father. If he should come to a premature end, all the burdens of his title will fall upon me, and that, rather than filial devotion, makes me hope your brothers will not have to challenge him to pistols at dawn.”

The daft man was genuinely worried. “My brothers are Scottish, but they don’t lack sense. If Ian took to dueling with his guests, God Almighty could live next door, and the most baseborn coal nabob wouldn’t give a farthing to spend a day with us. Her Majesty has just about frowned dueling out of existence.”

Plain speaking wasn’t always inappropriate, and Mary Fran sensed Matthew Daniels could tolerate a few home truths.

“I fear, my lady, you underestimate your brothers’ devotion to you, and”—he held up a staying hand when she would have interrupted—“you underestimate the depths of my father’s more crass inclinations.”

Mary Fran studied him, studied the serious planes of his face, and noted a little scar along the left side of his jaw. “I can handle your father, Mr. Daniels. I won’t go running to my brothers in a fit of the weeps because he tries to take liberties.”

“Tries to take liberties again, don’t you mean?”

He had blue eyes—blue, blue eyes that regarded her with wry sternness.

“He’s too slow, Mr. Daniels. He can but try, and I shall thwart him.”

He peered at her, his lips thinning as he came to some conclusion. “Your brother had the opportunity to take my father very much to task the other evening for a verbal slight to you. Balfour instead suggested I see my sire to bed. I’d suspect the reputation of the Scots’ temper to be overrated, except I’ve seen Highland regiments in action.”

“Our tempers are simply as passionate as the rest of our emotions.”

As soon as the words were out of her mouth, she realized she’d spoken too plainly. Ungenteelly, though that was probably not a proper word.

“I agree,” he said, rising and extending his hand to her. “Having fought alongside many a Scot, I can say their honor, their humor, their valor, and their tempers were all formidable. Still, I am asking you to apply to me rather than your family should my father’s bad manners become troublesome. I assure you, I’ll deal with him appropriately.”

She wouldn’t be applying to anybody. If the baron overstepped again, he’d face consequences Mary Fran herself was perfectly capable of meting out. God had given each woman two knees for just such a purpose.

“I can agree to bring concerns regarding your father’s conduct to you, Mr. Daniels, before I mention them to my brothers.” She placed her hand in his and let him draw her to her feet.

And there they stood for a long, curious moment. His blue eyes bored into her as if he were trying to divine her thoughts.

“My name is Matthew,” he said, still holding her hand. “I would be obliged if, when we are not in company, you would do me the honor of using it.”

He was so grave about this invitation, Mary Fran had to conclude he was sincere. He would be honored if she addressed him familiarly—there was no accounting for the English and their silly manners. She nodded, put her hand on his arm, and let him escort her back to the house in silence.

She did not invite him to address her as Mary Frances.

***

Maybe being born with red hair, slanting green eyes, a mouth that personified sin incarnate, and a body to match made a woman sad—for Mary Frances MacGregor was a sad woman.

Matthew drew this conclusion by watching her at meals, watching the way she presided over the table with smiles aplenty and little real joy. He drew further evidence of her sadness from the way her brothers treated her, verbally tiptoeing around her the way Matthew had learned to tiptoe around his wife when she was tired, fretful, or in anticipation of her courses.

And Mary Frances worried about her brothers. The anxiety was there in her eyes, in the way she watched them eat and kept their drinks topped up. To Matthew, it was obvious the MacGregor clan was not happy about having to trade their title for English coin, but the Scots as a race could not often afford the luxury of sentiment.

Because she was sad, and because he genuinely enjoyed dancing, when the middle brother, Gilgallon MacGregor, challenged Aunt Julia to a waltz—those were his words, he challenged her to a waltz after dinner—and Julia had laughingly accepted, Matthew joined the party adjourning to the ballroom.

“Who will play for us if I’m to show Gilgallon what a dance floor is for?” Julia asked the assemblage.

Before Genie could offer, and thus ensure she wouldn’t be dancing with Balfour, Matthew strode over to the big, square piano. “I will provide the music for the first set, on the condition that Lady Mary Frances turns the pages for me.”

Genie shot him a disgruntled look, but stood up with the youngest brother, Connor MacGregor, while Balfour led a blushing Hester onto the floor.

“What shall we play for them?” Matthew asked. “Three couples doesn’t quite make a set.”

“I believe my idiot brother demanded a waltz,” Lady Mary Frances muttered as she sorted through a number of music books stacked on the piano’s closed lid. “Take your pick.”

She shoved a volume of Chopin at him, which wasn’t quite ballroom material.

“I take it you don’t approve of dancing?” Matthew flipped through until he found the Waltz in C-sharp Minor and opened the cover shielding the keys.

“Dancing’s well enough,” the lady said. Her tone was anything but approving.

“Maestro, we’re growing moss over here!” Julia called, but she was smiling up at her partner in the manner of a younger, more carefree woman, and for that alone, Matthew would dust off his pianistic skills.

He launched into the little waltz, a lilting, sentimental confection full of wistful die-away ascending scales and a turning, sighing secondary melody.

“You play well, Mr. Daniels.”

Lady Mary Frances nearly whispered this compliment, and Matthew could feel her gaze on his hands. “That’s Matthew, if you please. I’ve always enjoyed music, but there wasn’t much call for it in the military.”

Out on the dance floor, by the soft evening light coming through the tall windows, three couples turned down the room in graceful synchrony. Beside Matthew, Lady Mary Frances was humming softly and swaying minutely to the triple meter. He finished off the exposition with another one of those tinkling ascending scales, which allowed him to lean far enough to the right that his shoulder pressed against the lady’s.

“Page, my lady.”

She flipped the page, and Matthew began the contrasting section, a more stately interlude requiring little concentration, which was fortunate. Lady Mary Frances had applied a different scent for the evening. That fresh, cedary base note was still present, but the overtones were more complicated. Complicated enough that Matthew could envision sniffing her neck to better parse her perfume.

“What scent are you wearing, my lady? It’s particularly appealing.”

“Just something I put together on an idle day.”

Matthew glanced over at her to find she was watching the dancers, her expression wistful. “You haven’t had an idle day since you put your hair up, and likely not many before then.”

“A rainy day, then. We have plenty of those. Your sisters are accomplished dancers.”

“As are your brothers.” For big men, they moved with a lithe grace made more apparent for their kilts. “You should take a turn, my lady.”

“No, I should not. I’ve things to see to, Mr. Daniels, but it is nice to watch my brothers enjoying themselves on the dance floor.”

“Page.”

She turned the page for him, and Matthew had to focus on the recapitulation of the first, delicate, sighing melody. The final ascending scale trickled nearly to the top of the keyboard, which meant Matthew was leaning into Lady Mary Frances at the conclusion of the piece.

And she was allowing it.

“Oh, well done, my boy, well done.” Altsax clapped in loud, slow movements. “I’d forgotten your fondness for music. Perhaps you’d oblige us with another waltz, that I might have the pleasure of dancing with Lady Mary Frances?”

“When did he slither into the room?” Lady Mary Frances muttered, resignation in her tone.

Matthew rose from the piano bench. “I’m afraid that won’t serve, your lordship. My compensation for providing music for the ladies is a waltz with my page turner. Perhaps Hester will oblige at the keyboard?”