“Did it—?”
“Perhaps I should try again.”
His eyes narrowed. He licked his lips, though she was certain he was unaware of the slip.
She shot him a sweet smile. “Ah, well. No doubt Bower would be willing.”
“He bluidy hell would not!”
“Honestly, Hamish. There is no cause to yell.”
“I’m no’ yelling,” he yelled. Three birds in the apple tree took wing. He sucked in a great breath, fighting for composure, scoured his hair again, and then muttered, “You will drive me to drink, lass.”
Elizabeth’s smile widened. She batted her lashes. “Is that a good thing?”
“It most definitely is no’.”
“I shall have Henley supply you with some brandy.”
“I prefer Scots whisky.”
“I’m certain he can find some of that.” She winked. He did not seem amused, but that hardly bothered her. She was having far too much fun tormenting him.
Because she knew something he refused to tell her. He had liked that kiss. He’d liked it a lot. She’d felt the undeniable length of his arousal pressing against her belly, and it had thrilled her to death.
Oh, she would kiss him again.
Whether he wanted her to or not.
And he would like it then too!
On that thought, she whirled away and headed back to the house on her own. She only looked back once and it was to see Hamish staring after her with a glower on his handsome face.
* * *
Scotsmen.
Anne St. Claire stormed into the library and slammed the door. A duke was one thing, but these men? Dusty and scruffy? It was intolerable. Utterly intolerable.
That the fair one, the baron, was far too much like Kirk for comfort didn’t help.
She shuddered and thrust all thoughts of that bastard from her mind.
Or at least she tried.
It still hurt to think of him. Of what he’d done to her.
Though she hadn’t minded at the time. Kirk’s kisses, caresses, and whispers of love had warmed her young heart and given her dreams of a future with him.
It hadn’t occurred to her that he might be lying. That he might be playing with her, the naïve English lass who didn’t have the sense God gave a goose. She’d fallen into his arms like the fool she was. She’d fallen for him.
He hadn’t only taken her innocence and broken her heart, he’d mocked her for being so stupid.
Oh, how she hated him.
Her chest ached with it.
She’d been able to bury the pain over the years, but she’d never really recovered from the blow to her ego. Her shattered heart was still in pieces. She’d been able to keep the memories at bay, but now, with them here, it all came rushing back in a black tide.
She vowed to avoid them, though even that wouldn’t help. She would still know they were here and—
“Ahem.”
Anne whirled around and froze. Hell. There he was, the baron, standing by the window, watching her. How could she not have seen him? How could she not have smelled him, that filthy, dusty creature?
“I’m sorry to interrupt you, Lady Anne. I was looking for a book.”
She forced a smile and held out her arms. “This is the place.”
“I, ah, doona know if you’re aware, but you were muttering to yourself,” he said with a smile that was so sincere and smug, it speared her.
She couldn’t help but bristle at his mocking tone. Above all things, she abhorred being mocked. “I most certainly was not.”
His grin widened and dimples appeared on his cheeks above the scruff of his beard. “Aye. You were. But I’ll not hold it against you.” He winked then, that hideous beast.
Anne’s eyes narrowed and her nose scrunched up. She knew better than to show any emotion to a man like this, but she couldn’t help herself. He was too attractive by far . . . and he knew it. He made her hackles rise. “I cannot tell you how relieved I am,” she said in a tone as dry as dust.
His laugh irked her. Though she was poised to quit the room, instead she glared at him and snapped, “I fail to see what is so funny.”
“You, for one thing. You could at least pretend to be welcoming. I thought that was the British way. Grin and bear it and all that. Are you so displeased that the duke dinna come?”
“I couldn’t give a fig about the duke.”
“Ah. So it is his minions you resent.”
She stared at him, her heart pounding in her chest. Fury and frustration and annoyance swamped her soul. “We do not need you.”
He grinned again and shrugged. “I doona doubt that for a moment.”
Driven by vexation, she stepped toward him. “We do not want you here either.”
“Again, quite obvious. But the duchess had other ideas.” Again, with that warm and friendly smile. He could, at the very least, have the decency to respond to her animosity in kind.
“I . . . The duchess?”
“Aye. The Duchess of Caithness. Lana Sinclair.”
Anne blinked. “What does she have to do with anything?”
He stepped toward her, closing the distance between them, but Anne did not back away. She was far too curious now. “Her Grace is the one who convinced the duke that if he couldna attend your season, someone should come in his stead.”
Anne snorted. She absolutely ignored the fact that this Scottish baron had hazel irises circled with black that somehow made them mesmerizing. “And what would your presence here accomplish, exactly?”
He chuckled and his breath gusted over her face. His scent made her body warm. Naturally, she turned away.
“Her Grace wanted you, and the entire world, to know that the duke fully supports his cousins.”
“Nonsense. He lent us this house and paid for everything.”
“Some would say that is but a token.”
Anne whirled around, her mouth agape. The season was costing thousands. “Hardly a token.”
“It is. To a man of his means. But he wanted to do more. He truly wanted to come, truly wanted to meet you all, which I hope can happen in time. You see, Lachlan never had family and . . .”
Anne stepped toward him again. She had no idea why. “And . . . what?”
“I know it sounds odd, for a duke, but he’s been lonely. He’s always wanted a family and never thought it possible. At any rate, he was thrilled to discover your connection and wanted to be here for you.”
“But Her Grace is increasing.”
“Indeed. He canna expose Lana to the rigors of travel and he willna leave her.”
A Scotsman who would not leave his woman. What an incongruous concept. “But he sent you in his place. Expected you to leave your family . . .”
Bower smiled again and his eyes took on a twinkle, one that made Anne catch her breath. “Catriona was pleased to see me leave.”
Something pricked at her heart. She refused to think it was jealousy. Yes, he was a handsome and charming man—he was even charming her from a foul mood—of course he would have a wife. Anne crossed her arms over her chest and sniffed. “She is so devoted a wife?”
He threw back his head and laughed, a sound that arrested her. “Ah, lass, Catriona is no’ my wife.”
His lover then? Somehow that was not any better.
“She’s my daughter.” He leaned in and said, conspiratorially, “She’s five and itching for independence.”
“At five?” So young?
He shrugged. “She’s a Scots lass. As wild as the tors.”
“And you left her?”
“No’ alone, of course. She’s staying with the duchess’s sister, Susana, who has a daughter about the same age.” That wicked grin again. “They’re both hellions. I can only imagine what trouble those two will get into together.” He seemed delighted at the prospect, which floored her.
“You seem pleased that she is a hellion.”
He lifted a shoulder in a lazy shrug. “I love her as she is. She coul
d use a mother though. At some point.”
“I imagine so.” Curiosity pricked her and after a moment she asked, “What happened to her mother?”
“Ah.” His expression darkened and he scrubbed at his beard. “Fever.” The word was choked out.
“I’m . . . sorry.”
“It was difficult. I do miss her.”
“Of course.”
Something of an awkward silence settled then, and Anne couldn’t think of a thing to say to break it. It was strange enough that she wanted to. That she wanted to converse with him more, which was an anomaly indeed.
At long last, he spoke. “I do hope we can be friends while I am here,” he said sincerely. “T’would make things much easier, I imagine. For both of us.” He held out his hand, but she hesitated.
Speaking to him was one thing. Touching him was another thing entirely.
“What do you think, Lady Anne? Shall we work together to find your sisters wonderful husbands?”
How could she say no to that? Besides, she really didn’t want to. Friendship did sound attractive and even though he was far too handsome and reminded her of Kirk, there were also ways he was unlike her old lover.
Could she forget that he was a Scotsman? Probably not. But could they be friends? “Yes.” She thrust her hand forward and hardly shivered at all as he enclosed it in his enormous, warm paw. “Friends.”
“Friends, indeed.”
And this time, when he smiled, she smiled back. And meant it.
Chapter Four
Hamish blew out a breath. Bluidy hell.
Had he thought his mission would be hard?
Impossible was more like it.
He’d been here less than a day and he had already succumbed to Elizabeth’s seductive wiles. Already yanked her into his arms, like the barbarian he was, and kissed her soundly.
And damn. What a kiss.
Hamish was not a green lad. He’d had more lovers than he could recall, but never, not ever, had he kissed a woman who made him so crazed.
He’d nearly lost his mind and taken her on the floor of the folly. And what folly that would have been.
Lachlan would flay him alive, for one thing. For another, he would never forgive himself if he allowed himself to seduce an innocent. He was a man of the world, and his tastes were . . . sophisticated. That girl had no idea what fate she was tempting. Beyond that, Hamish had no intention or desire to marry, but he knew damn well what the cost was for deflowering an English debutante.
And forget a forced wedding. The British lords would string him up by the balls.
The only sane course was to keep his distance from the enticing Elizabeth and absolutely, positively never kiss her again.
“There you are!”
Hamish jumped as a militant roar echoed behind him. He whipped around to see Lady Esmeralda with her cane in tow. “My lady.” He bowed.
“Bah. Don’t ‘my lady’ me. Call me Essie.”
He swallowed. Hard. Essie? And what was that glimmer in her eye? It horrified him a little. “Aye, my lady.”
“Come along, boy. We have work to do.”
“We . . . do?”
“Yes. Get moving.” She thwacked him on the bottom with her cane. It surprised him just enough to have the desired results.
“Where . . . are we going?”
She fixed him with an impatient stare. “To the parlor, of course. Come. Come.”
He really had no choice, with her herding him as she was. And he suddenly regretted his decision to leave his room. If he’d been wise, he could have avoided all of this—and that unfortunate kiss—by sleeping the day away as Ranald was.
But when Lady Esmeralda—Essie—opened the door to the parlor, his friend sat, still and uncomfortable on the divan looking remarkably like a prisoner of war.
“I thought you were resting,” Hamish said.
Ranald made a face. “So did I.”
“Nonsense. I have no use for layabouts.” Both men opened their mouths to dispute this accusation, but Lady Esmeralda did not give them a chance. “Henley, a tea tray for me and whisky for the gentlemen,” she barked. Then she picked up a thick folder and began thumbing through it.
While Hamish was more than happy to stay—now that there was sustenance on the way—he did have to wonder, “What work have we to do?”
Esmeralda gave him another one of those looks, one that inferred he was hopelessly clueless—which he was—and she sniffed. “We need to plot out our strategy for the season.”
Hamish chuckled. “This is hardly war, madam.”
“Oh, it is,” she warbled. “It most certainly is.” And then she laid the papers out on the table and spread them around.
“What’s all this?” Hamish asked.
“Invitations, dear boy. Invitations. They started coming in once word got out that the duke was coming.”
“How on earth did word get out?” Ranald asked.
Lady Esmeralda fixed her features in a credibly innocent mien. “I’m sure I have no idea. People do gossip, don’t you know.”
“I’m sure they do.”
“Nevertheless, here’s what we have. We need to decide which events to attend.”
Hamish and Ranald stared at the papers, all inscribed with flowing script and on very expensive-looking vellum. They glanced at each other and shared a shrug. “You expect us to help in this?” Ranald asked.
Honestly, neither of them had the slightest clue.
“Of course. Don’t be difficult.”
Hamish cleared his throat. “We’re not being difficult, Lady Esmeralda—”
“I told you to call me Essie.”
Ranald gaped at him and mouthed the word Essie? and heat crept up Hamish’s cheeks. “But we doona know the first thing about London society,” he sputtered.
“Well, we shall have to tutor you, won’t we, my boy?” She patted his knee. Her hand lingered. Somewhere to his left, Ranald snickered.
Hamish shot him a glower but was relieved when the door opened and Anne and another lovely blonde entered the room. It was only politic to leap to his feet . . . and Esmeralda’s hand fell away.
“Ah, there you are, gels.” She shot a sardonic glance at the men. “We’re saved,” she said drily.
“I heard you were sifting through the invitations,” Anne said. She glanced at the men and then pointedly took a seat on the other side of the room.
Hamish was reminded of what Elizabeth had told him, and indeed, he could see a hint of pain and distrust in Anne’s eyes. It really was a shame because she was quite pretty.
“What fun,” the other blonde said.
“Ah, Catherine, do sit.” Esmeralda waved vaguely in the girl’s direction. “This is Catherine Ross. Catherine, Ranald Gunn, Baron of Bower, and Hamish Robb.”
“So good to meet you,” she said with a smile. “I understand you’ve come in lieu of the duke.”
Both men nodded and Esmeralda snorted. “The duke promised to come.”
“He sends his regrets,” Ranald reminded her.
“He would know which parties to attend.”
Hamish held his tongue because that fact was patently untrue. Lachlan would rather be fishing in a stream than attending a stuffy ball any day. Besides which, he eschewed anything having to do with London society. But there was no harm in letting Esmeralda have her delusions. In fact, it was easier that way.
“Where shall we begin?” Catherine said, picking up several of the invitations. She immediately made a face. “Ugh. This one is a no.” She handed the paper to Esmeralda, who responded with a grunt.
“Definitely not. Preeble is a pompous ass.”
“Here’s one from Tiverton,” Anne said in a dry tone.
Catherine made another face. “You can go, if you like. I prefer not to encourage him.”
“Nonsense, gel. How could you encourage him? You are betrothed to Mackay.”
“Tiverton seems to think he can change my mind.”
Anne laug
hed. “I can only imagine what Mackay thinks about that.”
Esmeralda barked a laugh. “Not one to keep his thoughts to himself, that boy.”
“He’s hardly a boy,” Anne said. Her lip curled, just slightly.
“Well, he’s a boy to me,” Esmeralda said. “Most men are anymore.” She shot a glance at Hamish, and he shifted in his seat.
Just to be helpful, or occupied at least, he picked up a piece of paper. “How about a house party at Lord Mulberry’s?”
“Don’t be absurd.” Esmeralda snatched it from his hand and tossed it into the fire.
Then she effectively nixed every invitation in his pile. Honestly, why did she need them present if she was going to make all the decisions anyway?
Then she found one that made her light up. “Oh. This masquerade at Lord Daltry’s tomorrow night is a must.”
“I do love a masquerade,” Catherine said.
“I find them annoying,” Anne said.
“Yes, well, you would,” Esmeralda responded. “Ah. The Moncrieff ball.”
“Ooh,” Catherine cooed. “The Dark Duke.”
Anne frowned. “We can’t go to that one. He’s far too scandalous a character.”
“We dare not miss it, for that very reason,” Esmeralda huffed. “Besides, he’s married now, and everyone knows what they say about reformed rakes.”
Hamish frowned. He didn’t know. “What do they say?”
Esmeralda glowered at him. “And look here. A musicale at the Smythe-Winstons’.”
Anne made a face. “Torture.”
“Perhaps, but an excellent venue for finding the right men.”
Catherine grinned. “Men in dire need of rescuing, I dare say.”
“Lady Smythe-Winston does not allow card tables,” Esmeralda told Ranald in a conspiratorial tone.
“Is that a good thing?” Ranald asked.
“A very good thing.” Esmeralda’s eyes glimmered. “The beasts cannot escape, you see.”
Hamish couldn’t help that ping of pity for the poor beasts who could not escape. Considering they were British beasts, he wasn’t altogether sure why.
They worked through the afternoon for quite some time—much more time than an activity like this should command—but Hamish was able to bear it on account of the fact that Henley had procured whisky. In fact, by the end of the ordeal, he was feeling quite mellow.
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