"No apologies."
"No, no apologies." She frowned. "They’ll still think our wedding was very sudden."
"My Scottish relatives know little of my day-to-day life in London. My mother probably could find out what I’m up to, but she’s too busy nagging the prime minister to pay much attention. They remember that I was your father’s student. Our marriage isn’t as much of a surprise to the world as you might think."
"It is to anyone who knows us," she retorted.
He spread his hands in appeal. "Won’t you help?"
"And carry on as if I’m giddy with triumph at capturing such a prince?"
Her sarcasm fell flat. The problem was that most girls would consider Hamish a prince. He was rich and charming and generous, and he had no heinous vices. Heaven help the susceptible females of the world, he even looked like a prince.
His smile was wry. "There’s no need to go overboard. But perhaps when we’re in public, avoid ordering me around as if I’m a thick-witted pug."
He was trying to make her laugh, but it didn’t work. She slumped on the stool. "You make me sound like such a witch."
"A very pretty witch."
More charm. She supposed he couldn’t help it, even when his compliments fell on such stony ground as Emily Baylor’s soul. "They’ll hate me. For a start, I’m English."
"They’ll love you – especially if you give them a chance and don’t make them pay for my sins. You made a good impression at the wedding."
Goodness knew how. She’d been caught up in a fog of misery, and worried sick over her father as well. She’d been so lost in her own unhappiness that she hadn’t even registered who any of the exuberant Scots at the wedding breakfast were. "You’ll have to help me with names."
"I won’t leave your side."
That wasn’t as reassuring as he might want it to be. Especially now she’d promised to feign a modicum of contentment in this marriage.
To her surprise, Hamish reached out to tilt her face up. "Stop fretting. I’m almost sure that no Douglas has killed an Englishman – or woman – in at least twenty years."
Emily made herself smile, although it was difficult when she was far too conscious of the heat of his fingers on her skin. If she hoped to convince an eagle-eyed band of sisters and cousins and childhood friends that she was happy as Hamish’s wife, she needed to become accustomed to his touch. "I’ll do my best."
"It’s only for one night. Not even a night. A couple of hours."
"They’re all going back to Scotland tomorrow?"
Her unconcealed relief made him laugh as he released her. For pity’s sake, what was wrong with her? She missed his touch the moment it was gone.
"Most of them. Fergus and Marina are staying behind to talk to some art dealers and meet with the committee of the Royal Academy."
She frowned. "She’s the striking Italian lady, and he’s your cousin with red hair?"
"She’s a famous artist. You’ve heard of her, I’m sure. Marina Lucchetti."
Her eyes rounded. "Lord above, I had no idea." The night ahead sounded more alarming by the minute. She started pleating her shiny green skirts, even though she knew that would crease the silk.
"And he’s not my cousin, but the brother of my soul. Diarmid is my cousin."
"The tall, dark-haired one who looks like a poet. He was your groomsman."
"That’s him. Diarmid and Fiona and their children are staying a few more days, too. Fiona’s never been to London before."
Emily didn’t recall Fiona at all. Panic fluttered inside her like a trapped bird. She was sure to make a complete fool of herself.
"You’ll get them straight in your mind soon enough." Hamish shifted away. "A lass who can cope with calculus can cope with sorting out my family connections."
Emily breathed more easily now Hamish had stepped away. It was odd how her lungs stopped working when he was close. When he touched her, her breath stopped altogether. "I think…I think I’d rather stay home."