Lessons from a Scandalous Bride (Forgotten Princesses #2)(4)

“No,” he growled, dropping down onto an equally dainty settee much too small for his frame. The furniture groaned in protest, earning him a frown from Fiona. He glared back.

Nothing could make him feel better. Not if he had to abide another moment in this fog-ridden, overpopulated city. The only thing that made this visit tolerable was spending time with Fiona. She scarcely visited since she’d married. He supposed he understood. As was customary in his family, children soon followed the wedding vows. Three babies in five years made travel to the Highlands difficult.

Fiona set down her quill and pointed to the still shivering drawing-room doors. “Might I remind you that this isn’t McKinney Castle, with its five-hundred-year-old oaken doors?”

“Aye, puny English wood.”

His sister arched a carrot-colored eyebrow. “Might I remind you that I’m English now?”

He waved a broad hand. “Speak not such sacrilege. You’re not English. You’ve simply married an Englishman—a fine man even by that account, I’ll grant you, but an Englishman nonetheless.”

If possible, his sister cocked that eyebrow higher and leveled him a reproving glare.

“Don’t give me that look, Fiona Rosalie,” he said. “I’m still three years yer elder.”

“And I’m married with three children and a fourth on the way. Until you’ve accomplished as much, you’ll not be chiding me, dear brother.”

He sank a little lower in his seat, suddenly feeling like a lad again dressed down by his mother for one of his many boyhood mischiefs. With her snapping amber eyes, Fiona was the very image of Mary McKinney.

“May I remind you,” she continued, her faint brogue thickening, “that you’re here to find a bride? An English bride? Unless you know of any Scottish heiresses?”

Smug wench. She knew there were no Scottish heiresses to fit his pressing financial needs. He snorted. “Reminder unnecessary. You remind me every chance you get.”

She thinned her lips until they practically disappeared and shook her head in disapproval. Holding out her hand, she began counting off on each of her fingers. “Abigail’s come-out is in one year. Josie’s in four. And Simon needs funds for university next year. I’m also certain Niall would like to join him there soon. He is the most scholarly among us, after all . . . and only at the tender age of fourteen. Or did you not wish your brothers to take their studies beyond what the governess can provide?”

Logan scowled. “I’m well aware of the situation. This is what brought me to your doorstep, after all.”

She nodded, sending the carroty sausage curl draped artfully over her shoulder bouncing. Since she’d married, his sister had become quite the fashionable lady. Her husband, the owner of a shipping line, provided her with a beyond-comfortable existence. “Now. Shall you get about the business of finding a dowered bride instead of finding fault with every candidate thrust before you? Honestly, Logan, you’re running out of choices.”

He bit back the retort that burned on his tongue. Every heiress he had met was as appealing as Nan’s day-old porridge. All were vapid girls who pelted him with silly questions about his castle in the Highlands.

Is there a drawbridge? La! And a tower? I always imagined myself a princess in a tower.

If he could find a bride who at least made his pulse race, then he could perhaps overlook a less than scintillating personality. Or simply a lass with something more substantial than feathers in her head would be palatable. If he had to live with the female for the rest of his life, could she not at least possess some aspect he found desirable? Was that asking too much?

Fiona stared at him, waiting, her expression one of forbearance.

Logan gave a terse nod and sighed. His desires bore no significance. He had a duty. And little time in which to perform it. He’d tried to find a bride he wanted. Now he simply must select the bride he needed.

Using her husband’s connections, Fiona had gone out of her way to see he was properly introduced to the ton. He couldn’t blame her for being so vexed with him.

Her features softened. “Logan, perhaps you need to simply adjust your . . .” her nose wrinkled as she grasped for the right word, “expectations?”

He shook his head. His sister married for love. He knew she felt guilty that he could not consider his own heart in the matter of matrimony. But then he’d never been a romantic. When he’d considered marriage—a rarity, to be sure—it had always been with practicality in mind. A female he respected . . . who would be a good mother to their children. He’d never wished for more than that. No point in getting sentimental now.

“What is tonight’s agenda?” he asked, clapping his hands once and forcing an air of efficiency.

He’d suffer marriage to an Englishwoman he felt nothing for just as he’d survived everything else in his life. The deaths of his parents and eldest brother. The sudden obligation of finding himself The McKinney, responsible for countless lives.

After all that, he could easily stomach wedding a woman for whom he cared nothing.

With a considering look, Fiona murmured, “You and Alexander are attending the opera with Mr. Hamilton. Alexander bumped into him at his club. They attended school together as boys. Mr. Hamilton was kind enough to invite us to join him for the evening.”

“You’re not joining us?”