The drawing room was small and covered with books and flowers.  

They were all there together: Callum, Miss Butterworth, her two parents and a sister.

Not that Miss Butterworth seemed particularly lively now. She seemed to be doing her best to imitate a shrinking wallflower.

He smirked. She could never disappear into the scenery. Her eyes were far too expressive, and that hair was far too red.

Her sister was more successful at being nondescript, and he noted pale hair, a willowy figure, and a bottle green dress that did not benefit her complexion. Still...her gaze felt intelligent, and from time to time he felt her eyes on him.

His lips twitched. In truth, there was no need for either sibling to speak. Their mother seemed determined to hold a conversation for everyone. She spoke rapidly, her eyes glimmering and her lips turning into such a large smile, that Hamish almost felt guilty.

No matter.

His brother had given only the most cursory greeting to Miss Butterworth, and the woman did appear most nervous.

Hamish might never have contemplated marriage, much less a love match, but he knew that it should consist of more than cursory greetings. He smirked and turned to Miss Butterworth. “My brother has not told me much about you.”

She stiffened.

“But why would he?” Mrs. Butterworth asked, inexplicably rising to Callum’s defense.

A pink flush spread over Miss Butterworth’s cheeks, and she smoothed her dress. She needn’t. It looked fine, if a trifle shabby.

He glanced at his brother, who was occupied in sipping tea and staring out the room’s one window. Though Hamish was fond of views as well, this one seemed underwhelming when compared to protecting one’s betrothed’s sensibilities. God in heaven. Perhaps Callum was preoccupied, but he’d gotten himself into this mess. The man had seemed melancholic all day, and his brother always exuded sanguinity.

Perhaps Callum did not want to irritate his future mother-in-law. It was not as if they had another mother, and even Lady McIntyre had now passed away.

Hamish’s chest squeezed. No need to mull over that now. He turned to Mrs. Butterworth. “I would have thought you would have imagined he’d told me something about her.”

“Nonsense.” Mrs. Butterworth shook her head with such vigor that the lace trimmings on her cap whipped about, while keeping an entirely inappropriate smile on her face. “You’ve just reunited with your brother again. I expect you have other things to speak about.”

“Well,” Hamish said, recognizing some logic in her words. “That is true.”

“Of course it is.” Mrs. Butterworth beamed. “I would much rather hear about the castle. The dear duke said you actually live in it.”

Hamish adjusted the positioning of his pillow. The armchair seemed suddenly devoid of any comfort, though, for some reason, the pillows did not provide any alleviation.  

He scowled. He was used to much worse. What should it matter if Miss Butterworth was not spoken about with great enthusiasm?

“I do live in a castle.” Hamish glanced at his brother, but Callum was feigning great enthusiasm at a leather tome. “For now.”

“How very delightful. It’s too delightful for words.”

“And yet you’ve been able to add many words,” Mr. Butterworth remarked.

Mrs. Butterworth blushed. “Perhaps. Oh, but I am thrilled about this whole marriage.”

Her eyes glimmered again, and Hamish turned away, conscious of that strange feeling of guilt again. Now was not the time for his tutors’ pontifications on ethics to finally affect him. Besides, who knew how many generations of future Montgomerys he was assisting?

“Tell me about your first meeting with my brother,” he asked Miss Butterworth.

“Oh, but I can tell the story!” Mrs. Butterworth cried out.

Miss Butterworth swallowed hard. This was a woman who’d comfortably brandished a candlestick before him. Why was she unsettled now?

“It’s really not necessary, Mama,” Miss Butterworth said.

“I’m happy to tell it.” Mrs. Butterworth leaned forward, and some pillows toppled from their perch behind her. “I witnessed the whole thing.”

“Indeed,” Hamish said.  

“From this very chair!” Mrs. Butterworth exclaimed, and Hamish scrunched his eyebrows together. 

“You mean my brother just called on this household?”

Mrs. Butterworth nodded eagerly. “Yes. That’s how he met my dear daughter. Just like that.”

“That is most unusual,” Hamish said.

“You think so?” Mrs. Butterworth widened her eyes. “I thought it was actually pedestrian.”

“You see? None of your stories are pedestrian, my dear.” Mr. Butterworth’s face glowed, despite the sideburns that valiantly covered a large portion of it. “I’ve been trying to tell her that for years.”

Mrs. Butterworth laughed. “He just wants to stay in Norfolk.”

Hamish’s brows remained furrowed, and he set his now empty teacup on the table, wedging it between two stacks of books. “But how did my brother know to call at precisely this household?”

It felt incredibly wrong.

Except... He could believe that the Butterworths and his brother were not in the same circles. Mr. Butterworth was a vicar, and Callum—well, Callum was a duke who apparently devoted his time to a gaming club.

Mrs. Butterworth stretched and refilled Hamish’s teacup with the casual expertise of a woman accustomed to being surrounded by books and undaunted by the fear of tipping a tower over or submerging a tome in hot liquid. “I suppose he must have asked my other daughter. I never actually inquired.”

“I find that a most intriguing question.” Hamish tapped his fingers over his armrest, vaguely noting that for some reason Miss Butterworth seemed to be slinking into the sofa, as if she thought it possible she could blend into it.

Mrs. Butterworth clapped her hands, and her curls bounced, unhampered by her white cap, generously laden with ribbons. “Do you know? I think you just might have a point.”

“And then when did they become engaged?”

“Oh, by the end of the afternoon, I believe.”

“How very expedient.” Hamish glanced at his brother, who seemed to be taking an interest in the floral bouquets now and did not meet his eyes. 

On another occasion Hamish may have laughed. Callum had never found flower arrangements of much interest before.

“My daughter is very beautiful,” Mrs. Butterworth said, taking another sip of tea. “Most angelic.”

Hamish’s lips twitched. Angelic was not the word he would select to describe Miss Butterworth. He doubted Mrs. Butterworth would appreciate his opinion on that particular matter and he turned to his brother. “But how could you have possibly proposed so quickly?”

“It—er—” Callum seemed for once at a loss for words.

Hamish frowned. The man’s behavior was most unconventional, but the mild-mannered Mr. Butterworth did not seem to be a blackmailer.

“Obviously it was love at first sight. Or nearly first sight.” Mrs. Butterworth’s voice wobbled somewhat. No doubt she’d also been surprised by Miss Butterworth’s hasty engagement to the duke.

“More tea?” the other Miss Butterworth asked.

It was the first thing she’d said.

“Splendid idea.” Callum smiled, helping her.

Hamish scrunched his eyebrows together, struggling to recollect if Callum had ever helped with tea before.

“When will the rain ever stop?” Miss Butterworth asked abruptly.

Everyone appeared puzzled. The conversation halted, and Callum reclined in his seat. Hamish was again struck by the room’s small size. He heard breathing and feet sliding over the floorboards as people readjusted their positions, but not the patter of raindrops.

“Well, it’s hardly affecting us indoors,” Mrs. Butterworth said finally.

“I merely wondered—”

“I believe it’s stopped now,” Hamish said.

Miss Butterworth looked to the window, no doubt discovering that the sky did seem of the clear variety. Her cheeks pinkened.

The room was silent, more awkward than before.

“I much prefer sunshine to drizzle,” Miss Butterworth said.

“For the sake of the flowers?” Callum smiled. “My dear brother. Did you know that Miss Butterworth is quite interested in garden design? I believe you might find you have some things in common. My brother is of course an architect.”

“I was unaware,” Hamish said, assessing Miss Butterworth.

Garden design. That was intriguing. Not of course as intriguing as architecture, but what else was?

“She redesigned our garden at home three times,” Mr. Butterworth said, his voice brimming with fatherly pride. “Every summer a new design. I think she wants me to become a deacon just so she has a larger garden to work with.”

Some expression changed in Mrs. Butterworth, and she gestured toward her daughter. “Do you not find her pretty as well, My Lord?”

“Er—quite pretty,” Hamish said, conscious his voice felt hoarse, and not daring to look in Callum’s direction. Well. He could hardly say that his brother’s betrothed was not pretty.

Unfortunately contemplating her physical features made him remember exploring those same physical features last night, and that was not something he should be doing in the parlor, with her parents, sister, and fiancé in the room.

“I do hope you will remain in London. You must dance with her. The waltz. It’s more romantic.”

Hamish blinked.

“Romantic dances are always the best sort.” Mrs. Butterworth nodded, as if she’d simply declared a preference for a particular park.

“I doubt the waltz in particular would be appropriate,” Hamish said. “Perhaps we could attempt a cotillion?”

“Do you not waltz, My Lord? Perhaps Mr. Butterworth might give you lessons. I have found him an excellent waltzer.”

The two exchanged such affectionate glances that something in Hamish’s heart panged. The room might be small, and no fire blazed in the hearth, but the atmosphere exuded warmth.

“I waltz,” Hamish admitted.

“Splendid.” Mrs. Butterworth clapped with such vigor that she seemed to bounce on the sofa cushions. “Then it’s settled.”

Miss Butterworth’s face paled.

“I mean, she is going to be my brother’s wife,” Hamish said. “I thought a cotillion might be considered more appropriate.”

Too late it occurred to him that keeping Miss Butterworth from dancing excessively romantic dances with his brother might be in Hamish’s best interest.

“Oh, no.” Mrs. Butterworth shook her head adamantly. “Miss Charlotte Butterworth is to be your new sister.”

“I did not have an old one,” Hamish grumbled.

“Even more splendid! But what I mean is that your brother is not planning to marry my older, auburn-haired Georgiana.”

And then he understood.

He’d attempted to bribe the wrong sister.

No wonder she’d refused to be swayed.

“You mean—” Hamish’s Adam’s apple seemed to somersault.

“Are you sure you’re quite well?” Callum placed a floral bouquet back on the table, and his voice was filled with such brotherly concern that Hamish had the unfortunate realization that his shock must be blatantly evident.

“I’m fine,” Hamish said, though his voice sounded of the strangled variety. “I’m just surprised.”

Callum frowned. “But why would you think I was marrying her?”

Georgiana’s face pinkened, and outrage shot through Hamish’s body. There was nothing wrong with Georgiana. She’d make an excellent duchess, even if he had spent last night attempting to convince her of the contrary.

He glanced at the other Miss Butterworth. Charlotte. She was blonde, slim. He should have guessed that she would be Callum’s choice. She’d been retiring, calm.

And yet, having met Georgiana, he’d never once considered that his brother would marry the other sister.

“Dear Lord Hamish Montgomery,” Miss Charlotte Butterworth said, taking charge of the conversation. “How was your travel from Scotland? I trust that the weather was tolerable?”

“Tolerable.” He frowned. “The state of the sky does not impede on my enjoyment of things.”

“He never enjoys things,” Callum said, and the others laughed.

Hamish frowned. They shouldn’t laugh. Laughing was uncalled for.

He’d tried to bribe the wrong woman.

And worse, he’d kissed her.

Well. It might be difficult to ascribe the kiss as being too horrible. So far in London the kiss had been by far his best experience, though he could hardly admit that to the others who seemed determined to make pleasant conversation with him, as if such a thing could ever be possible after having discovered that one’s brother was ruining his life and that of future Vernons.

He gazed at the red-headed Butterworth.

And then averted his eyes away quickly, lest her mother, obviously in matchmaking mode, decided to expound more on the loveliness of her eldest daughter and the vast pleasure he would experience by repeating the steps of some dreadful continental dance with her.

Not that there might not be some pleasure in waltzing with her. Something about holding one hand on her waist and the other on her hand was not dreadful to contemplate, though in all likelihood, knowing her, she might be prone to grip his hand in an attempt to discern whether she might shatter it and to wear some form of hair belt around her waist to cause him discomfort.

At least it was less dreadful than the rest of the activities in London. He supposed he should be thankful no one had suggested that they go shopping in the Bond Street Bazaar for wedding attire.

Still.

The lassie could have told him. It was dashed embarrassing to have made a whole speech to the wrong woman. He’d been proud of his phrasing then and in all likelihood, he wouldn’t be able to repeat it to the same effect. It was difficult to make an impassioned speech to someone after spending the afternoon discussing varieties of teas and methods of drinking them.

Besides, how would he even access Miss Charlotte Butterworth’s chamber? He could hardly go about traipsing the corridors of the Butterworths’ townhome, no matter how politely they might converse about the weather. A house like this was bound to have more than one candlestick.

So far his attempt at stopping the wedding was not going well. He would need to contemplate other means. He scrutinized the room, and something in his gaze must have made his brother wary.

Callum placed his teacup on the table. “We will not stay long.”

“Naturally,” Mrs. Butterworth said.  “I expect you will want to prepare for tomorrow’s wedding.”

Hamish thought quickly.

He couldn’t leave just yet. He needed to make some progress. He needed to spend less time focusing on Miss Georgiana Butterworth and more time in making Miss Charlotte Butterworth reconsider her hasty attachment.

There seemed to be hope. This was evidently a whirlwind romance, and any fool knew that whirlwinds never ended well.

He mused over the words of Callum’s maid, who’d possessed the supremely sensible name of Eliza, one that did not evoke half-dressed figures from antiquity.

She’d noted alcohol, unfaithfulness and dislike as deterrents. Naturally dislike could be disregarded. There was nothing dislikable about Callum. The man was a Montgomery after all, and he could hardly find another woman in the parlor who would say she had dallied with him.

But alcohol... He could do something about that. Hamish would be a fool to not take advantage of the fact that they were all drinking.

Of course, tea was not known for its poor effects, and Mr. Butterworth had listed all the virtues of the drink.

“I would like to try the green tea,” Hamish said.

Mr. Butterworth beamed. “Splendid. I was worried you might find it to be too strong.”

“Nonsense,” Hamish said. “I like a hearty taste.”

“You should see him eat black pudding,” Callum said.

“Well then.” Mr. Butterworth’s eyes glimmered. “You’ll probably like it more than I do.”

Hamish grinned and leaned back.

He’d brought a flask of alcohol with him. The very strongest sort. It would be easy to slip some of the drink into his brother’s cup. Callum was likely so inexperienced with green tea that he wouldn’t even realize that the strong, delicious flavor was not supposed to be there.

Soon they were given the tea.

Hamish stretched and doused Callum’s tea with a heavy dose of special Scottish whisky, thankful for the towers of books. He strove to not smile when Callum raised the teacup to his lips.

“How do you like it?” Mr. Butterworth inquired.

“I enjoy it very much,” Hamish said.

“The man does seem pleased,” Mrs. Butterworth said merrily. “I do believe he does enjoy the tea. Who knew a man would crave a bitter taste to such an extent?”

“Oh, it’s much less bitter than I expected.” Callum downed his teacup with a rapidity not associate with the drink.

Hamish leaned back into his armchair. In no time Callum would feel rather less polished than was his tendency.