“There will be two. Which would you like?” She produced her dance card from her reticule.
“Both.”
“Ranulf.”
He narrowed his eyes. “Have I mentioned that the Sasannach are too stiff-spined?”
With a chuckle, she handed him the dance card and a pencil. “Yes, I believe you have.” When he chose the second waltz of the evening, she took a step closer. “Have you heard anything more from Berling or Gerdens-Dailey?”
“Nae. In fact, Debny had word that George left London for Sholbray Manor. I’m to meet him there at the end of the month, but he may have decided to go out looking on his own. I told him the approximate location of the grave.”
“That was a very brave thing you did,” she said, her changeable hazel gaze meeting his.
“Brave? Nae. I will agree that it was the correct thing to do. And I’ll also say that Gerdens-Dailey surprised me a bit. I actually thought he’d be more likely to answer me with a knife to the gizzard.”
Her fair skin paled. Bloody hell. She’d paid him a compliment, and he’d replied once again like a barbarian. Of course he was a barbarian, according to most people. There were times he liked the title. Whether she truly wished to be known as the devil’s wife, though, he had no idea. But he was going to have to ask her. Very soon. Because the only thing worse than having her refuse him would be speculating endlessly over how she would break his heart.
“Charlotte,” he murmured, gripping her fingers. “I need to ask ye a question.”
Charlotte’s breath caught in her chest. Would he do it? Would he finally ask her? She smiled up at him, wishing no one else were around so she could kiss him until neither of them could breathe. “I’m listening.”
A hand slid around her other arm. “Charlotte, people are beginning to stare,” her mother said, favoring Ranulf with an uneasy smile. “And look who’s here—Lord Stephen Hammond.”
Ranulf released her hand as if he hadn’t noticed how long he’d been holding it. She liked that, that he liked touching her. Heaven knew she craved touching him, even if it was just a brush of fingers or her mouth against his. “Ranulf,” she murmured.
“I’ll find us a private moment or two,” he returned in the same tone.
“Ah, Lady Charlotte,” Lord Stephen said, walking up and taking her hand. “Please tell me you haven’t given away both waltzes tonight.”
She fixed a smile as she faced the light-haired duke’s son. In the past he’d been generally polite, if somewhat … patronizing. But over the past year or so his treatment of her had changed. In fact, until he’d appeared at the Esmond soiree and been so pleasant to her, he’d been just as likely to make jokes—ones she was no doubt meant to hear—about spinsterhood and poor shots.
“I—”
He took the dance card from her hand before she could finish. “Ah, I see you haven’t. The first waltz must be mine, then.”
Charlotte cleared her throat, very aware of Ranulf standing like a granite mountain directly behind her. “My apologies, my lord, but I’ve promised that waltz to Lord Arran MacLawry.” It wasn’t perfect, but Arran was standing close by, and he was firmly in the category of ally.
“Nonsense,” Stephen insisted, and she noticed that his good friend Simon Beasley had appeared, as well. “Simon,” he went on, penciling in his name and then handing her card over to Mr. Beasley, “which do you want—the first quadrille, or the last country dance?”
“Lord Stephen, I don’t intend to do much dancing, tonight,” she tried again. “Please give that back to me.”
Stephen laughed. “You don’t want everyone thinking you’ve fallen for a Highlander, do you? Once he’s gone, and I’ve been assured he will be gone soon, likely never to return, you’ll have no hope at all of netting a husband. Who in his right mind wants to think he’s lapping up after a Scot? Especially when you’re already, well, on the back of the shelf.”
A hand darted out from past her shoulder, retrieved her dance card, and smoothly handed it to her. “Feel free to cross those off,” Ranulf drawled. “Ye were more polite than I would’ve been.”
Her sudden alarm became relief. He evidently had found a way to use his brain rather than his muscles—though both were exceedingly fine, and even more dear to her. “Thank you, my lord,” she said, doing precisely as he suggested.
“You’re making a mistake, my dear,” Simon Beasley commented, leering at her. Good heavens, he was drunk. And that meant Stephen more than likely was, as well. “If we wished it, we could see that you never have a partner for a dance ever again.”
“That hardly seems likely, gentlemen,” her father put in, his jaw tight but his expression uneasy. If anyone disliked a scene more than she did, it was the Earl of Hest. “I suggest you go somewhere and recover yourselves.”
“And I suggest you—”
“Why is it,” Ranulf interrupted, just the sound of his voice shutting the duke’s son up, “that when ye have some difficulty with a man, ye instead go to insult the people standing close to him instead of saying what ye mean?” He moved up to stand beside Charlotte.
Stephen snorted. “Because a fool is a fool, and has no idea how very poorly he shows, even if you try to make that burningly obvious to him. Those standing around him, though, should know better.” He narrowed his eyes, gazing at Charlotte again. “You’ll be lucky if you don’t have to pay someone to—”
Ranulf’s hand shot out again. This time it was coiled into a fist, and it struck Lord Stephen Hammond flush on the jaw. Stephen staggered backward, flailing his arms. In the next moment Simon Beasley leaped forward and threw a punch at Ranulf’s head. Then three more men charged in, all swinging at the marquis.
They weren’t drunk, she realized in the horrified second after she deciphered what Hammond had meant. He’d been the one to set fire to Ranulf’s stable. Since that hadn’t stopped the marquis, they’d done this. And now they’d merely been waiting for Ranulf to strike first. And then they would no doubt beat him half to death and claim they were only attempting to subdue the devil. “Stop it!” she shrieked, batting at Beasley with her reticule.
Arran MacLawry appeared and dove into the melee—so at least Ranulf wasn’t alone. Everyone else … could all go to the devil. They stood well out of the way, pretending to be appalled and at the same time jockeying for a better view and making wagers on the outcome.
From somewhere else the gray-haired Viscount Swansley arrived, swearing, and dragged someone off Ranulf. Was it truly to be the MacLawrys against the rest of Mayfair? Why? For heaven’s sake, Ranulf had made every effort to fit in. They wouldn’t let him. And if it was because of her, because some stupid aristocrat didn’t like that a Scotsman might win over an Englishwoman when none of them had done so …
“Gentlemen!” she yelled, smacking someone else with her small, beaded bag and wishing it were a great deal more substantial. “Cease this at once!”
“Charlotte, move away!” her mother cried, darting forward to pull at her sleeve. “For heaven’s sake!”
Tears wet her cheeks, though she didn’t know when she’d begun crying. She caught a glimpse of Ranulf, his face bloody. “Stop!” she shouted again, then got knocked backward by someone’s elbow.
Cursing, her father pulled her to her feet, then waded into the fight. For an awful moment she wasn’t certain who he was assisting, until Simon Beasley staggered by her and then stumbled to the floor with the help of her father’s boot.
“Enough!” the mild-mannered Lord Hest bellowed. Finally, evidently spurred by the sight of her well-respected father attempting to stop the fight all by himself, footmen and guests and their host, John Lansfield, the Marquis of Ferth, moved in to begin pulling men off each other.
Already she could hear Lord Stephen’s friends blaming the fracas on the Marquis of Glengask. “Barbarian” and “devil” and “damned Scot” echoed around her. That could not be allowed to stand.
Gathering her skirt in her hands, she marched up
to where her father and Lord Swansley each had Stephen Hammond by an arm. “You are no gentleman, sir,” she said sharply, “and I am ashamed that I ever called you a friend.”
He sneered through a bloody lip. “Talk to that big devil,” he retorted. “He—”
Charlotte slapped him. It stung her hand, but she didn’t care. “All Lord Glengask did was step forward when you misbehaved. Shame on you!”
Stephen Hammond glared at her, but didn’t say anything further. Hopefully he’d realized that arguing with her would only make him look more like the bully he was. Squaring her shoulders, she turned her back on him, delivering the most direct cut and show of her contempt that she could.
Janie stared at her, wide-eyed, then turned her back on Lord Stephen, as well. Their mother followed suit a moment later, then Winnie and another half-dozen women—most of whom were either near her supposedly advanced age of spinsterhood or were not considered the Season’s beauties and had undoubtedly been told precisely that by Stephen—gave him their stiff, disapproving spines. Ha. She hoped it stung him.
The rest of the men had climbed to their feet. Now she finally took a good look at Ranulf, and couldn’t help her gasp. One coat sleeve was torn off, the other ripped, while his shirt was half untucked and spattered with bright red blood. Even one knee was cut, though his kilt looked intact. Thank goodness for that.
In addition to the ruin of his clothes, his lip was cut, his nose bloody, and one eye squinted. As she watched, he took the loose tail of his shirt and wiped it across his face. His brother didn’t look much better, but Simon Beasley and his awful friends all looked to have fared even worse.
She walked forward, lifting a hand to his face and then at the last minute remembering herself and lowering it again. “Are you hurt?” she asked, though it seemed an utterly ridiculous question.
He shook his head, his expression grim. “Nae. I’m so sorry, lass. I couldnae … I couldnae just stand and listen to that amadan’s drivel.”
“I know. It’s—”
“Gentlemen,” Lord Ferth announced, wiping his hands together as if he’d touched something distasteful, “you are no longer welcome here. I will not have this barbarism in my house.” He glanced at Charlotte. “It does not matter who instigated this. I will not tolerate it.”
Grumbling something that sounded very unpleasant, Arran took his uncle by the shoulder and motioned at his brother. “Let’s be oot of this damned place, Ran.”
Ranulf nodded, his gaze still on Charlotte, as if he were trying to memorize her features. As if he never expected to see her again. Her heart stopped in her chest, leaving her hollow and cold. No.
That stupid, stubborn man. He closed his eyes for a moment, then swung around to follow his brother and uncle off the dance floor. Of course he would do the noble thing and leave, because he thought he’d failed her. Because he thought he’d done the one thing she would never forgive—stepping into a fight for no other reason than pride.
He was wrong.
Charlotte took a breath, then strode forward. Her mother grabbed for her, but she easily evaded the countess’s fingers. Catching up to the lean, hard mountain of a man, she put her hand on his shoulder and pulled.
Ranulf stopped and turned around. “What are ye doing, lass?” he muttered, surprise crossing his features.
What was she doing? What could she say here, in front of everyone, that would convince him she didn’t blame him for what had just happened, that he’d stood as a gentleman and then acted as one? That it wasn’t the same thing James Appleton had done and that she’d condemned for so long?
The answer, clearly, was nothing. There was nothing she could say that he would think was anything but her being kind.
And so Charlotte wrapped both hands into the front of his torn shirt, lifted up on her toes, and kissed him full on the mouth.
He held absolutely still, clearly astonished. Then his mouth molded against hers, and his strong arms swept around her waist, crushing her to him. She didn’t know if anyone gasped or fainted or anything else. All she knew was that he kissed her back.
After a brief, forever moment he lifted his head a little, gazing down at her. His dark blue eyes blazed. “Ye’ve ruined yerself.”
“I know.”
His mouth curved in a slow smile. “I do love ye, Charlotte,” he murmured. “Ye are so dear to me I dunnae think I could bear to be without ye.”
“And I do love you, Ranulf,” she whispered back. “Leannan.”
“Then for God’s sake say ye’ll marry me, lass,” he returned, his voice carrying and unsteady at the edges.
She nodded, tears running down her cheeks once more. But this time they were tears of joy. “I will marry you. I want to marry you. I want to live with you at Glengask. I’m not afraid. I never was.”
With a roar he firmed his grip on her waist and lifted her into the air, circling with her in his arms. “I love ye, Charlotte!” he yelled, laughing.
Charlotte grinned down at him. “I love you!” Her wild Scot. Her Highlander. Her Ranulf.
Read on for an excerpt from Suzanne Enoch’s next book
The Rogue with a Brogue
Coming soon from St. Martin’s Paperbacks
Clan MacLawry had an old saying that through the years had become, “If ye want to see the face of the devil, look at a Campbell.”
There was another saying about London and the weak-chinned Sasannach who lived there, Arran MacLawry recalled, but as he currently stood in the center of a Mayfair ballroom, he would keep it to himself. A gaggle of young lasses, all of whom had donned elegantly-arching swan masks, strolled by in a flock. He grinned at them, disrupting the formation and sending them, honking in feminine tones, toward the refreshment table.
“Stop that, ye devil.”
Arran glanced over at his brother, seated a few feet away and in deep conversation—or so he’d thought—with an elegant owl mask. “I didnae do a thing but smile. Ye said to be friendly, Ranulf.”
Ranulf, the Marquis of Glengask, shook his head. Even with his face partly obscured by a black panther half-mask, there wasn’t likely a single guest at the Garreton soiree tonight who didn’t know precisely who he was. “I said to be polite. Nae brawls, nae insults, and nae sending the wee Sasannach lasses into a frenzy.”
“Then mayhap I should’ve worn a cow or a pigeon mask, instead of a fox.” Or perhaps he shouldn’t have attended at all tonight—but then who would keep a watch for Campbells and other unsavory sorts?
The owl beside his brother chuckled. “I don’t think the disguise would matter, Arran,” she said in her cultured English accent. “You’d still make all the young ladies sit up and take notice.”
“I suppose that to be a compliment, Charlotte,” he returned, inclining his head at his oldest brother’s Sasannach fiancée, “so I’ll say thank ye.” At that same moment he spied a splendid peacock mask above a deep violet gown, but his smile froze as the green and gold swan beside her came into view. Damnation. The two young lasses joined arms and turned in his direction, but he didn’t think they’d spotted him yet. “Yer bonny sister wouldnae be a swan tonight, would she?” he asked Charlotte, slowly straightening from his lean against the wall.
“Yes,” Charlotte returned. “Poor thing. I don’t think she realized so many others would be wearing swan masks tonight, as well.”
“Well, when ye see her and Winnie, tell the lasses I said hello,” he said, turning for the door to the main ballroom. “I see Uncle Myles, and I ken he wanted a word with me.”
“Liar,” Ranulf said.
As Arran was already halfway into the next room, he pretended not to hear. He didn’t need to be wearing a fox mask to sense trouble, and eighteen-year-old Jane Hanover was nothing but. His sister’s dearest friend or not, she was a debutante, a Sasannach, and a romantic. Arran shuddered, glancing over his shoulder. Devil take him before he let himself be caught up with that.
Off to his left, the music for the evening’s firs
t waltz began. Damnation. Jane Hanover would track him down, inform him that she had no partner for the dance, and he would have to be polite because they were about to become in-laws. Before the music finished he would find himself betrothed.
A peacock and swan hurried through the doorway behind him. Whatever Ranulf said, he had no intention of being polite to the point that he ended up leg-shackled to a fresh-faced debutante who found him “ruggedly attractive.” Sidestepping between two groups of guests, he turned again—and nearly walked straight into a red and gold vixen half mask.
“Sir Fox,” she said, a smile curving her mouth below the mask.
“There he is, Jane!” he heard his sister, Winnie, exclaim.
“Lady Vixen,” he returned. “I dunnae suppose ye’d care to dance this waltz with one of yer own kind?”
Shadowed green eyes gazed at him for a half dozen heartbeats, while his doom moved in behind him. “I’d be delighted, Sir Fox,” the vixen said, saving him with not even a moment to spare.
He held out his hand, and gold-gloved fingers gripped his. Moving as swiftly as he could without dragging her—or giving the appearance that he’d fled someone else—he escorted her out to the dance floor, slid his hand around her trim waist, and stepped with a vixen into the waltz.
His partner was petite, he noted belatedly, the top of her head just brushing his chin. And she had a welcoming smile. Other than that, she might have been Queen Caroline, for all he knew. Or cared. She wasn’t Jane Hanover, and at the moment, that was all that mattered.
“Are we to waltz in silence, then?” she asked, London aristocrat in her voice. “Two foxes among herds of swans and bears and lions?”
Arran grinned. “When I looked at the dessert table, I was surprised not to see baskets of corn for all the birds.”
She nodded, her face lifted to meet his gaze. “Poor dears. Evidently Lady Jersey wore a particularly lovely swan mask to this same soiree last year, and it prompted something of a frenzy.”
The Devil Wears Kilts Page 29