The Devil Wears Kilts

by Suzanne Enoch

  “So this is you simply being you, is it?” she ventured in a low voice. “You’re not making a statement or showing your contempt for my fellows?”

  His grin deepened. “It’s just clothes, lass.” He patted himself on the chest, his silver buttons glittering. “All proper up top, and fun down below.”

  “Oh, good heavens.” Because of that, now she couldn’t help recalling every bawdy song and poem she’d ever heard about a Scotsman and what he wore beneath his kilt. Which, if the stories were true, was precisely nothing. “Write your name down, and return my dance card.”

  “Call me Ranulf again.”

  She took a deep breath, feigning annoyance. What was it about him that roiled up her insides? Everything logical said she should want nothing to do with him, or his kilt, or his beastly manners. “Write your name down, Ranulf, and return my card. Better?”

  His lifted his eyes, shadowed beneath dark lashes. “Most people dunnae speak t’me the way ye do, Charlotte,” he said softly, scrawling something on the card and handing it back to her.

  She didn’t quite know how to take that. “Our sisters have become dear friends. There should be a certain honesty between us, don’t you think?”

  “Is that what we’re calling it?” He studied her face, the scrutiny making her not uneasy, but unsettled. “Honestly then, Charlotte, I dunnae know what to make of ye. But I’m inclined to stay close by until I figure ye out.”

  “I’m not that complicated.”

  “I beg to differ.”

  Because she didn’t want to meet his gaze any longer, and because people were beginning to notice her as well as him, Charlotte looked down at her dance card. And frowned. “You can’t take both waltzes.”

  “I just did.”

  “It’s not done, Glen—Ranulf.”

  “Then if any other man cares to claim ye fer one or the other of them, he can come and try to take ye.” His smile dove into something devilish and delicious. “Though that would likely mean a brawl.”

  So now he meant to use her own antipathy to violence to make her give in to something scandalous. Well. He could have the first waltz, then, but she would claim an aching head before the second one. That would eliminate both the scandal of waltzing with him twice, and the need for anyone to brawl to prevent it. Not that anyone was likely to fight for her favor; ladies without beaux seldom had champions. Especially when they’d reached her age.

  “You should go claim a dance from Winnie while she still has one,” Charlotte suggested when he seemed inclined to remain standing there in front of her.

  He lifted his head to glance over toward where his sister and Jane both stood surrounded by young men. Briefly his expression became alarmed, then settled back into one of slightly amused arrogance. Ranulf took a step past her, then paused to lean down. “I think ye may be a witch, Charlotte Hanover,” he murmured in her ear, “because only if I were bewitched would I forget my own duties.”

  Before she could conjure a response to that, he strode over to take his sister’s card right out of Lord William Duberry’s hand. And Lord William, not known for his patience or his even temper, simply allowed it. Likewise, now that he’d left her side, other men came crowding in to claim dances from her. Most of them she refused, of course, with a smile and a verbal nudge toward the other, younger ladies, but it was … pleasant to be asked.

  “You glitter like emeralds tonight, Lady Charlotte.”

  The cool, careful tone caught her attention at once. Inwardly cursing, Charlotte turned around to face the man who’d spoken. “Lord Berling. What a pleasant surprise.”

  He lifted an eyebrow. “A surprise that I would attend an event that everyone else in Mayfair wouldn’t miss?” The earl sent a glance over his shoulder. “Ah. A surprise that I would appear after being growled at by the barbarian Highlander. Between you and me, my lady, he growls at everyone.” He shook his head, clucking his tongue at the same time. “It must be wearying, to be so defiant about everything. I almost feel sorry for him. I do feel sorry for his sister, trying to have a pleasant time while he strides about flinging men away from her.”

  “Did you grow up in the Highlands, my lord?”

  “Heavens, no,” Berling responded, his brow dropping again as he scowled. “Why do you ask?”

  Charlotte shrugged, surprised to realize on whose side she stood—and that it wasn’t that of the reasonable-sounding earl. “You seem to be very well acquainted with Lord Glengask.”

  “The Gerdens side of the family has land up there,” he explained with a smile. He wasn’t at all ill-looking, even if there was something she didn’t quite like about his eyes. “We spent the autumn there on occasion,” he continued, “and I do like to look in on my holdings from time to time.” He lifted her dance card from her hand. “I hadn’t realized that your family was acquainted with the MacLawrys.”

  So now it was her turn to attempt to minimize the Hanovers’ connection to the MacLawrys. It would likely be wise to do so, if even half of what Ranulf had told her was true. There were times, though, that she prided herself on being true rather than wise. “My mother was dear friends with Eleanor MacLawry,” she said, “and Janie and Rowena have corresponded over the years. We were delighted she was able to come down to London for her Season.”

  “I see. Lady Rowena’s civilized enough, I suppose. But you’d be wise to keep your distance from the brothers.”

  A chill crept up Charlotte’s spine. “And why is that?”

  Slowly he handed her card back. “Because they’re outspoken and stubborn and refuse to keep up with the changes in the world. It’s a dangerous combination, my lady, and people around them tend to get hurt.”

  Oh, dear. She glanced down at her card as he vanished back into the crowd. He’d written his name by the evening’s second quadrille—the one immediately after the first waltz. Which meant that Ranulf would have to hand her over to Berling.

  If she wanted to keep the peace, evidently she was going to have to work a miracle to do so. The easiest solution would be simply to leave—immediately. Charlotte looked over at Ranulf, who was currently writing his name on Jane’s card. Half the women present at the soiree seemed to have found urgent business on that side of the room, as well.

  They all wanted to dance with him, and she could hardly blame them. He could say she’d bewitched him or some such nonsense, but there did seem to be … something drawing them together. Because otherwise she couldn’t explain why she’d already decided to remain and dance at least one waltz with him.

  Chapter Six

  If Ranulf had been of a mind to share his—or someone else’s—bed after the soiree, it would have been a simple thing to manage. As he walked over to the refreshment table one young lady even blocked his path to give him her name, her address, and to tell him which upstairs window she would leave open later that night. It was all done behind the cover of her ivory fan, but she said it, nonetheless.

  Fortunately for all the English lasses, and likely for him, he had no intention of entangling himself in their pretty ribbons and well-manicured nails. He took a swallow of the whisky he’d liberated from a footman’s tray, eyeing the dance floor over the rim on his glass. Well, perhaps there was an English lass he wanted in his bed, but that wouldn’t be happening tonight.

  He didn’t think he’d ever seen anything as exquisite as Charlotte looked this evening. The emerald of her gown chased all the brown from her hazel eyes, and the pearls and gold chain in her golden hair glinted like starlight. She’d piqued his curiosity and his interest almost from the moment he’d set eyes on her. But now, tonight, his thoughts were more physical and more difficult to ignore.

  He couldn’t be the only one to notice her, but in the evening’s first four dances she’d partnered with her father, that Henning fellow, a bent-shouldered lad who looked enough like her mother that he had to be a relative, and now an older man whose jolly wife used a cane and currently sat in a chair against the wall, cheering every time t
he couple rounded to her side of the room.

  Finishing off the glass, he set it on a passing tray and signaled for another. The country dance had already been going on for ten minutes. One silver-haired woman had fainted, and two other couples had left the dance floor and sought chairs. It was still tamer than a clan gathering; until someone had gotten bloody, it wasn’t a party.

  When his uncle walked past for the third time since the dance had begun, Ranulf relented. The problem with spending so little time out of the Highlands was that he wasn’t as well acquainted with the extended clan members of those families who’d relocated themselves southerly. And his uncle would be, however questionable his judgment. “Myles,” he said, as his uncle crossed the ballroom yet again.

  The viscount stopped. “I’m not here to intrude, Ranulf. I was invited. I merely didn’t want my presence to surprise you.”

  “I’m nae asking ye to leave.” He backed closer to one side of the room, and his uncle followed. “I know the redheaded lout, the one in the brown coat, is Berling’s younger brother.” With his chin he indicated the burly fellow from the earlier encounter at the park.

  “Yes. Dermid Gerdens. He’s not the most brilliant of men, and he has a short temper on top of that. Not a pleasant combination.”

  “And the thin fellow by the fire has the chin of Campbell.” The otter from the park still wore black, and still looked just as oily.

  His uncle moved closer. “You have a good eye, lad. That’s Charles Calder, old William Campbell’s grandson. I saw two of his cousins off in the gaming room earlier.” He accepted a glass of wine from one of the wandering footmen and took a generous swallow. “In other words, Ranulf, you are badly outnumbered here tonight.”

  “I promised Rowena that I wouldnae make trouble.”

  “Ah. You’ve an interesting way of going about that, then.” Myles flicked a finger at one of the buttons on Ranulf’s sleeve. “Not that you exactly blend in with London Society, anyway.”

  Why the hell did everyone keep seeing the need to point that out? “This is formal attire for any fancy Highland party. Ye know that. And the lot of ye here must’ve seen a piper before, at least. I’ve nae idea what’s so bloody shocking.” He had meant to be as much himself as he could possibly manage, but he’d actually expected to be shunned, not mobbed by females.

  “Mm-hm. Since you’re speaking to me I won’t argue that you know precisely what’s so bloody shocking.”

  “Aye. If the Bruce had known the Sasannach could be so easily overset by a bare-arsed Scotsman, we might have marched down through York naked and saved all the bloodshed.”

  Myles snorted, then recovered himself enough to frown again. “You’re generally more cautious than this, Ranulf.”

  Myles moved against the wall beside him, so they were both facing the crowded ballroom. And as much as Ranulf hated to admit that London Society had him in over his head, it was pleasant to have another set of eyes to watch for trouble.

  “So why don clan colors with enemies all around?” Ranulf finished, then scowled. “I blame the lass.”

  Myles frowned as well. “What lass?”

  “The emerald one.”

  “The…” His uncle searched the dance floor. “Lady Charlotte Hanover?”

  “Aye. She said if I didnae’t like being looked at sideways, I shouldnae try so hard nae to be English.” He finished off the second whisky. “Acted like a poor-mannered schoolboy, I did.” And the why of it all continued to elude him. God above, she aggravated him.

  Beside him, his uncle stood very still. Likely he worried that a cross word would have him drummed from the family permanently. How odd that Myles chose his words so carefully, when the lass with the sunshine hair didn’t seem to feel the need to curb her tongue at all. Of course he would never strike a woman regardless of what insult she handed him, but it was more than that. It was something about her, in particular, that sent him spinning off balance.

  “Are you dancing this evening?” Myles asked.

  “Aye, with Rowena and the Hanover lasses.”

  “Ah.”

  Ranulf glanced at his uncle. “‘Ah,’ what?” Yes, he was the chief of Clan MacLawry and a marquis, but it would be … pleasant on occasion not to have to pull words out of people like teeth.

  “It’s only that if you dance with a select few ladies, you may start the wags thinking you’ve a particular … affection for one of them.”

  “Well, I do! Rowena’s my blasted sister.”

  “I mean the other two. And you may also give the impression that you have a certain disdain for this Society.”

  “Which I d—”

  “Which could affect which other young ladies are willing to or are permitted to befriend Winnie.”

  That nonsense again. With a brief curse in Gaelic that would have had the ponsy blue bloods around him blushing if they’d understood it, Ranulf left the refuge by the wall. A few delicate lasses tried to catch his eye, but their eagerness made him shudder. Finally he spied the round girl from the dress shop, standing close by her worried-looking mother.

  “Miss Florence?” he intoned.

  She turned scarlet as she faced him. “Yes, my lord.”

  “Would ye care to finish off this dance with me, lass?”

  “I … Yes. That would be splendid.”

  Ranulf held out his hand, and she placed her fingers in his. They shook a mite, but hopefully she was sturdy enough to make it through the remainder of the boisterous country dance. He moved them smoothly into the loose line, let her go, bowed and turned, and caught her up again.

  “This is splendid of you, Lord Glengask,” she said as they stepped through the middle of the dance and down to the end again.

  “Why is that?”

  “I … I don’t seem to be a favored dance partner, is all,” she returned, ducking her head. “Mama says it’s my freckles. I scrub them with lemon juice every night, but it doesn’t seem to make any difference.”

  “In the Highlands we say a lass with freckles is sun-kissed. It’s a blessing, and naught to be ashamed of.”

  Light green eyes gazed up at him hopefully. “Truly?”

  “Aye.” He nodded, hoping he hadn’t somehow gotten himself betrothed by being kind to her. “Truly.”

  “That’s so nice. Lord Stephen Hammond said I had the shape and skin of an orange.”

  Well, that was a dastardly thing to say to any woman. “I’d wager this Hammond has the brains of an orange,” he retorted, and she chuckled.

  Thankfully the dance ended before she could begin telling him that she would enjoy seeing the Highlands and would he show her about. Ranulf joined in the applause and returned her to her mother, then escaped as swiftly as he was able.

  Charles Calder, the Campbell’s grandson, still stood by the fire, as if he couldn’t catch enough heat to warm his bony frame. Berling had been dancing, but luckily for the earl it had been in the other line of dancers. If the man had so much as touched Rowena’s hand, he would lose his own.

  “That was a very nice thing you did,” Charlotte’s voice came, and she wrapped a hand around his sleeve.

  Ranulf looked down at her, ignoring the skitter in his chest. “I beg yer pardon?”

  “Dancing with Florence Breckett. It was very nice of you.” She angled her chin back to where he’d parted from the stout lass. When he followed her gaze, a half-dozen young ladies, including two of her yammering cousins, surrounded her, all of them talking excitedly and sending glances in his direction.

  “That. Oh. Aye. I’m a nice man.”

  She snorted, covering the sound with a polite cough. “We’ve a few minutes before the waltz, and I am desperately in need of some fresh air. Will you accompany me out to the balcony?”

  “I cannae leave Rowena with no one to watch over her,” he returned, the sharp pang of regret he felt at having to say the words startling him a little.

  “She’s talking to your uncle. And I happen to know that the man who’ll be
claiming her for the waltz is Robert Jenner, a very nice young man whose uncle is in the prime minister’s cabinet.”

  “Ye have it all figured oot, then,” Ranulf commented, sending a last glance in Rowena’s direction before he allowed Charlotte to guide him toward the tall windows on the far side of the room. He’d have been easier standing directly beside—or in front of—his sister and demanding the credentials of every man who approached her, but she would never forgive that. Given Myles’s familiarity with his fellows, she was likely better off in her uncle’s company, anyway.

  Either that, or he was grasping for reasons he could go walking thirty feet away with Charlotte Hanover. He would have either of his brother’s heads if they went off and left Rowena as he was doing, but he kept walking. The lass could lead him over a cliff and he’d likely follow. Given what he was and what she was, the fall over the cliff seemed highly probable, anyway. Ranulf lowered his gaze to her swaying hips and remained on her heels.

  A handful of people stood out on the wide balcony, while another dozen or so wandered the gardens below. The air smelled like rain and horseshit, which was still more pleasant than the heavy, hanging aroma of dozens of French perfumes mingling inside.

  “I am not trying to bewitch you,” Charlotte said into the relative quiet.

  He grinned at the annoyed, matter-of-fact tone. “I ken that. If ye were, ye’d be nicer to me.”

  Her hazel eyes, darker now in the torchlight, narrowed. “Why is it that when I’m trying to be pleasant and helpful you argue with me, and when I’m telling you not to be ridiculous, you’re amused?”

  “I’m a conundrum.”

  She scowled. “Oh, never mind, then.”

  Ranulf put a hand on her shoulder before she could turn her back on him. “Ye’re a puzzle to me as well, ye know,” he said, keeping his voice low.

  “Am I?” she returned, her smile a bit forced and brittle to his eyes. “It isn’t intentional.”