Free Bridegroom Wore Plaid by Grace Burrowes Page A

been laying it on a bit thick, but she nibbled her lip and glanced over at him, a considering, somewhat fretful gesture. He waited, hoping they were on the verge of some genuine honesty, a small step in the direction of betrothal, but an important first step.
    She dropped her gaze and then stumbled hard, pitching into Ian with an unladylike yelp. He caught her around the middle before she could hit the ground and hauled her up against him.
    She stood awkwardly, one foot raised, letting Ian keep her balanced by virtue of leaning into him.
    “I am so sorry, my lord. I’m not usually clumsy. I’m never clumsy, in fact, but I can be preoccupied… oh, blast. Excuse my language, but it hurts.”
    She was going to cry. Ian scooped her up against his chest and carried her to a fallen tree lying sideways along the path. When he had her seated, he fished for his handkerchief, wondering all the while if this was a ploy or a genuine mishap.
    “Genie?” Miss Augusta came bustling up, Gil at her side. Ian had never been so glad to see a decent woman in his life. “Dear heart, have you come a cropper?”
    “I twisted my ankle, Gussie. I feel so terribly stupid.”
    “We can heal your ankle,” Augusta said, patting her cousin’s shoulder. “The stupid part is a chronic facet of the human condition.”
    Gil whipped out his handkerchief and passed it to the lady, while Ian wondered when his brother had started using monogrammed linen.
    “Here, now. Let’s have that boot off.” Gil knelt on one knee like some damned parfit gentil knight and started on the laces of Genie’s walking boot, while Augusta—what was wrong with the woman?—stepped back to allow him.
    “Oh, that cannot be comfortable,” Augusta murmured, taking the boot from Gil’s hand. “You did yourself an injury, my dear.”
    “I feel so stupid.”
    Yes, they knew that. Ian was beginning to feel rather stupid himself. He shifted to Augusta’s side.
    “We can have the grooms bring a pony cart for you,” he said. “Or I can simply carry you back to the house.”
    Genie blushed. Gil’s hand on her foot hadn’t caused her to color up like that, but Ian’s very gallant offer—if he did say so himself—had her cheeks flaming.
    “Of course we can’t put his lordship to that trouble,” Augusta said. “Gilgallon will carry you back to the house, and Lord Balfour and I will locate the others and inform them of your accident.”
    “You mustn’t cut short the outing.” Looking fragile and brave, Genie pressed Gil’s handkerchief to the corners of her eyes.
    “We won’t.” Hester spoke up from Augusta’s other side. “We’ve a way to go yet before we’re along the Balmoral property line. I’ll tell Her Majesty you were otherwise detained, shall I?”
    “Give her my regrets,” Genie said. “His Highness too.”
    Hester saluted, straightened, and walked off in the direction of the Queen’s holding. And just like that, Gil was hefting Genie into his arms, while the lady—Ian’s intended—looped her arms around Gil’s neck and laid her cheek against his shoulder.
    “Only to the edge of the woods, Gil.” Ian put some sternness in his voice as Augusta tucked the boot into Genie’s lap. “Hail a groundsman to have the pony cart brought along for the sake of the lady’s dignity.”
    “Put ice on that ankle,” Augusta added, looping her hand over Ian’s arm. “White willow bark tea would be a good idea too.” She dropped her voice as Gil moved off with his burden. “Do come away, my lord. Genie is mortified enough.”
    “What about me?” Ian asked, letting himself be marched on down the path. “What about my mortification? I was the lady’s escort, and I was supposed to keep her from harm.”
    “Genie is not at her best just now, and you did keep her from harm. What if she’d pitched to the earth and struck her head on a rock? No, don’t look at them. She would never want you to see your prospective bride so