Her uncle’s face turned even more sour, and his ears reddened. “We are not medieval barbarians! What man does not wish to meet his future wife before they are wed?”
In all honesty, Rosie had consented to this unusual request of Seth’s because she agreed it would add mystery and excitement to their wedding night—though she could never share such intimate details with her uncle. She and Seth had exchanged photographs two years ago, so she knew what he looked like, dark and handsome, with angular features and thick hair. She would never regret marrying the man her father had chosen for her.
“Ye are being stubborn. And he is singlehandedly making sure the elders of this village will never trust him, or more importantly, respect him.”
She ignored the additional insults of her betrothed and said, “Perhaps there is another way to divert his attention, to keep him from following through on this wedding date.”
“Aye?”
“Since we are so invested in tradition, is there not a practice of holding a celebration for the groom before he speaks his vows?”
Her uncle rubbed his chin, clearly considering her words. “Aye,” he finally said. “But this is usually hosted by his friends and family. The baron is a stranger to us.”
“Butyouare the closest thing to family he has in Belware. Therefore, the responsibility rests with you. Gather your friends, Uncle. Choose all the men of Belware, speak to the innkeeper, arrange for a wonderful celebration. If my betrothed imbibes too much, surely, he will wish to sleep at the inn. Then we can hold the wedding the next morning.”
Her uncle gathered her into his arms, embracing her tightly. With his chin resting atop her head, he said, “Ye are a practical lass. Intelligent and crafty like your father. How I miss him and your mother.”
“Aye,” she said, as her uncle would. She had spent years in a boarding school in London, where the aristocratic women in charge of her education had battered the Scottish brogue out of her.
He smiled down at her. “Leave me be, lassie. I have a celebration to plan.”
Chapter Three
“Acelebration?” Sethlooked at his barrister, confused.
“Aye,” the man said. “A chance to commemorate your last moments as a confirmed bachelor.”
“And when would this celebration take place?”
Mr. MacLain loosened his collar before he answered. “Tomorrow.”
Seth’s eyes grew wide as he shook his head. “Impossible. I have chosen tomorrow evening as my wedding night.”
“Aye,” the barrister said, “which is why we must start the celebration early in the day. I know you have been away for a long time, sir. But ye are still a Scot. Consider accepting this invitation as a small gesture of kinship with the men of the village.”
“Kinship? To most, I am their master.”
McLain uttered something imperceptible in Gaelic. “Master is not a word these proud men like to hear.”
Pride was something Seth could appreciate in anyone. He had been raised to be proud of his name and birthright. Perhaps there was something worthwhile in what his barrister suggested. After all, this was his home for the rest of his life, and his sons after him. “And who are the guests of honor at this event?”
“Yourself, of course. And the earl. I will serve as your escort. There is the magistrate…”
“The Earl of Westley will be there?”
“Aye. He is the host.”
Seth grew suddenly pessimistic, for his betrothed had written him often concerning the doubts her uncle had about their engagement. He disapproved of arranged marriages and wanted his only niece, Lady Rosalind, to be happy in her life, not trapped by outdated practices. “How can I refuse the earl?”
The barrister grinned with obvious approval. “Very good. I will send the necessary acceptance to the earl.”
“Where will it be held?”
“At the inn, of course.”
“What time is the bachelor supposed to arrive?” he said in a jesting tone.
“That’s the spirit.” Mr. McLain slapped him on the back as if they were old friends, then regained his formality. “Forgive me. It has been a long while since we held a wedding in the village.”
