“Mrs. Eames isn’t feeling just the thing,” he said solicitously. “I was just escorting her to the drawing room so that she might recover herself.”
“I can do it.”
The pointed looks of both Declan and her brother told her they expected her to leave MacKintosh behind and take Leachman’s arm. Just as they were sure she’d see what they saw as common sense and marry the beast, even though it was the last thing she wanted to do.
“I am more than pleased to accompany Mrs. Eames myself,” MacKintosh said, low and firm.
Prim steeled herself for Leachman’s reaction. True to form, he threw back his shoulders and puffed out his barrel-like chest, looking for all the world like a rooster strutting about to frighten off others who thought they might settle in to roost.
He’d always been like that. A brute. A bully. Mr. Leachman used his size and booming voice to intimidate in business and his personal life. It was only one of the many reasons she didn’t want to marry him.
Not that she had any interest in remarrying at all, but with a glower like that, she wouldn’t have even had the option. He was the main reason she hadn’t had another suitor since her husband’s death. He’d frightened off every other man who’d come sniffing around. Fortune hunters and decent men alike. There were few men with the fortitude to stand up to such a cock of the walk.
Yet…Mr. MacKintosh wasn’t slinking off in defeat, nor did he look like he had any intention of backing down. Moreover, Leachman was eyeing Mr. MacKintosh with something bordering on caution. Even intimidation. Of course, he wouldn’t know what to do when his usual tactics failed.
Prim looked up at Mr. MacKintosh again. Far up. He was tall, several inches over six feet, and broad. Perhaps not quite as beefy and barrel-like as Leachman but large enough that he’d never be able to buy off-the-rack clothing with arms so brawny. Though handsome—yes, she could admit it. He bordered on beautiful—Mr. MacKintosh’s clean-shaven features were still rugged. The scowl currently gracing his features might be seen as downright menacing.
She’d noticed before that while ladies tended to sigh and cling to his muscular arms with a helplessness that humiliated her for the sake of all womankind, men tended to veer around him, eyeing him with respect and maybe a touch of fear.
Never before had she seen Leachman look upon any man like that, with the exception of her father-in-law and perhaps her late husband. But she was seeing it now.
And enjoying it.
“Will you excuse us, Mr. Leachman?” she asked politely.
Mr. MacKintosh smirked cockily as he navigated her around the man. To her surprise, Leachman did not stop them.
MacKintosh steered her out of the lavishly gilded salon and across the main hall with its marbled walls, vaulted stained glass ceiling, and topiary sentries. The transition from cluttered opulence to cool airiness invited a deep calming breath.
“Thank you.”
“Anything for the cause.”
With a silent gasp, Prim looked up at him. She had almost forgotten his provocative jabs at the bridge table. She braced herself for the verbal assault, but what she saw in his dancing green eyes was not reproach or even outrage.
There was nothing but teasing and perhaps a hint of…admiration?
Oh, surely not.
CHAPTER 6
She’s got some sort of notion in her head concerning the eternal rights of women.
~ Kate Chopinfrom The Awakening
If men weren’t opposed to women’s votes, they’d already have the law passed. All the gentlemen of her acquaintance, most assuredly those in the immediate family, heartily resisted the notion.
That Mr. James MacKintosh, Brit and nobleman, hadn’t yet taken it upon himself to belittle her for participating, or at the very least out her to her male relatives, was astonishing.
If nothing else, she expected him to most ardently berate her support of the cause as her brothers no doubt would if they knew. Prim had been warned time and time again at their suffrage meetings that most men, with rare exception, would do so. She must be educated and prepared enough to refute their arguments without faltering under confrontation. They’d been coached how to respond with dignity and without the displays of excessive emotion that would only serve to support the male perspective that women were too emotive for the great responsibility of determining the fate of the country.
Yet, he gave her the chance to do none of that. He only inquired as to whether she was in need of a place to sit or lie down. She wasn’t. And whether she’d like something to drink. She did. He called over a nearby footman to bring them both a glass of Scotch, ignoring her protest that ladies didn’t imbibe such drinks. Nonetheless, she took it when it was delivered, enjoying its bolstering effects.
“Are you not going to say anything about what you witnessed in Albany, Mr. MacKintosh?”
“Would you accommodate me if I were to express some thoughts on the matter? That’s not at all something I anticipated given the…er, brevity of our previous discourse.”
She worried her lip between her teeth, awash with embarrassment over the memory of how abrupt and rude she’d been to him.
