Balfour sent them on their way with a grateful smile, while Mary Fran remained ominously silent.
“You got word from Her Majesty?” Matthew asked.
Mary Fran, elegantly turned out in MacGregor plaid with all the Highland trimmings, looked bemused and not… not unfriendly.
Also not quite kissable. “I cannot refuse an official summons, Matthew, and you cannot go back to the ballroom dressed like that and reeking of horse.”
He stopped dead in the corridor. “I stink.” Which likely explained why an audience with the Queen hadn’t resulted in Mary Fran plastering herself to him in welcome.
Her lips quirked. “The smell of horse has never offended me, but Ian said he’d seen to your fancy kit.”
The earl was not a man to be underestimated. “I’ll change then.” But damn and blast, he’d wanted to waltz with her. Now he’d have to wait until the good-night waltz, but at least that was typically a slower tune.
A more romantic dance. And some romance was apparently in order. Her Majesty had looked with favor on Matthew’s plight, and had apparently seen matters set to rights, but Mary Fran was still regarding him with some… speculation.
“Come with me,” Matthew said, tugging her down the corridor. “A man needs an extra hand if he’s to get into his evening finery posthaste.”
She came along, not reluctantly, but not enthusiastically either. As it turned out, Matthew did need her assistance, because Balfour’s idea of evening finery was a McDaniel dress plaid and all the trimmings, save a bonnet. Mary Fran’s assistance was more than appreciated; it was necessary if Matthew was to don his clothing properly.
“Some fellows will wear their underlinen if they’re in mixed company, but my brothers do not.” Mary Fran stepped back and surveyed him in the confines of his bedroom. “The sporran helps protect your modesty, if that’s a concern.”
“Stop fussing over the clothing, Mary Fran, and tell me if you’ll marry me.”
Graceless, tactless, and the only question that mattered to him. She’d spoken with the Queen, gotten as much explanation as anybody could give her, and all that remained was to break Matthew’s heart or crown his future with resplendent happiness.
“I wasn’t sure you’d ask again, Matthew.” She regarded his riding attire, heaped on a plaid-upholstered chair. “My past is no better than yours, in theory. I’m glad you told me of the scandal, but when I had time to think, to consider if something long ago and far away should control both our futures, I decided it should not.”
She wasn’t making sense, entirely, but her day had no doubt been long, and scandal, even scandal with a royal explanation, was a difficult topic.
He took her hand in his, relief and joy soaring around in his chest like so many shooting stars. “You’ll marry me. That’s all that matters. I’m sorry I could not be more forthcoming, but promises made to protect a lady’s honor are not easily broken.”
She gave him a puzzled look as he stepped closer. “We’ll need to say something to Fiona.”
“I think we have her permission.” He took the lady of his heart into his arms. “Your brother approves too, of that I’m certain. Now, will you get me pinned into my sash, or will we be late to the dance, Mary Frances?”
She did get him into the sash, eventually, and they were late to the dance, too.
***
“I will bloody damned kill you, Matthew Daniels.” Mary Fran did not shout, but she spoke the utter, sincere truth as she stalked along the barn aisle.
Matthew looked up from petting Fiona’s kitten outside Hannibal’s stall, the wee beast’s purr audible at several paces. “You go calling on the neighbors with my cousin and come back in a tear?”
His expression was the cautious, teasing countenance of a man who wasn’t certain what he’d done wrong.
“Don’t you cajole me, you wretched mon.” She scooped the kitten from his grasp and set the thing on the ground. “You and that scheming woman, you led me such a dance, and all along, you were a spy.”
His expression shuttered, and he glanced around, tugging Mary Frances into the saddle room. “I thought you knew. You said you’d had your tête-à-tête with Her Majesty when we spoke of it the night of the ball.”
“She’d simply sent me a note. We didn’t speak of anything, not until today.” Mary Fran wrenched from his grasp, ready to howl, to shout, to do murder at what her neighbor had so genteelly explained. “I was so damned glad to see you, so glad you hadn’t turned your back on me over some silly scandal, except you could have been killed.”
Her brothers might have told her to calm down; Matthew was smarter than that.
“I was an officer, Mary Fran. Of course I could have been killed. I take it Victoria only now apprised you of the details.”
“I’m marrying a very quick study. She said—” Mary Fran stopped her pacing long enough to draw in a steady breath. “Her Majesty said you were charged with handling delicate matters, you and your wife, and that the two of you agreed to marry so you might be better situated to handle those matters.”
That had been the Queen’s term: delicate matters. Matthew, the most honest and forthright man Mary Fran knew, and the Crown had set him to sneaking and skulking.
He crossed his arms and widened his stance, a warning that he was about to be forthright again. “We were spies, Mary Frances. I was a spy, and so was my wife. She was much better at it than I was, but I’d learned Russian from some school chums as a boy and studied it further at university. There was much to be gleaned in diplomatic circles, and we were useful, even if many would not consider our activities honorable.”
“Useful.” She spat the word. “Honorable. Victoria said your wife came up with the notion you should compromise the general’s daughter, made it a dying request to you. I hate this wife of yours, Matthew. I always will.”
His expression was bleak, but again, he did not argue. “She was better at the game than I was. Her plan was brilliant.”
Mary Fran marched up to him, so angry she could have shouted. “What was brilliant about a plan that compromised your honor and left your future a bloody shambles? When Victoria told me of this, I could barely keep my temper, Matthew.”
He uncrossed his arms. “The general’s daughter was passing secrets—perhaps unwittingly—to the Russian pretending to court her, and compromising her was a way to get her back to England without letting anybody know she’d been caught. This scheme also kept the girl safe, in that the other side would not have spared her once they realized we’d used her to pass false information.”
“What in the bloody hell does that matter?! You spared your Queen embarrassment, kept a dying promise to your wife, saw a foolish young woman safely home to England, but I could have lost you.”
She turned her back on him, because the upset of it was still too raw. “I could have lost you over a stinking little military scandal, except you were clever enough to get around your vows and promises and see the truth laid at my feet. I love you, you dratted man, but I hate the truth.”
A white handkerchief scented with cedar dangled over her shoulder.
“When you thought it a stinking little military scandal—just another randy officer misbehaving with a foolish young lady—you were willing to marry me, Mary Fran. If I didn’t love you before, I will always love you for that.”
She snatched the handkerchief from him and blotted her eyes. “I want to wallop you, and you talk of love. What if Her Majesty hadn’t been willing to trust me with the truth?”