The Highlander Is All That

by York, Sabrina

  Moncrieff had been a rake in his day but had apparently met his match in a redheaded Scotswoman who had utterly tamed him, and that alone fascinated all of them.

  “I’ve heard he has horns,” Victoria said as they waded through her closet looking for the perfect gown.

  Mary shook her head. “I hear there’s a tail.”

  “Well, we can’t very well search for a tail,” Anne remarked, holding up a pretty blue frock. “It would hardly be proper.”

  Elizabeth sighed. How she would love to wear something in bold colors. They’d been in mourning for the past three years, and then in the annoying whites and pastels of a debutante.

  Victoria sighed. “Perhaps the new duchess will tell us.”

  “I cannot fathom how one would ask,” Anne said on a sniff.

  “Easy.” Mary grinned. “Pardon me, Your Grace, but does your husband happen to have a tail?”

  “Or horns?” Victoria added.

  Anne chuckled. “You might as well ask if the other rumors about him are true.”

  Three heads whipped around. “What other rumors?” Victoria breathed.

  Mary plopped down on the bed. “Oh, do tell.”

  Anne frowned. “I am not spreading gossip.”

  “Too late. You have to tell us now,” Victoria said, “or we might stare at him.”

  Their eldest sister shook her head. “One does not stare at a duke.”

  “They do if he has horns.”

  Elizabeth grinned at Victoria. “Come, Anne. You must share.”

  “Oh, all right,” she huffed, but there was a glimmer in her eye. “There was one rumor that he is an author.”

  Mary gasped. “Never say it.”

  Victoria humphed. “Imagine that. A duke of the realm involved in something as vulgar as publishing.”

  “It is only a rumor.”

  “And the rest?” Clearly, Mary was out for blood.

  “Well . . . Some say his cousin is actually his sister.”

  Mary and Victoria gaped at each other. “How can that be?” they asked in tandem, but Elizabeth had figured it out. Apparently illicit affaires ran in the Moncrieff family. “That is scandalous.”

  Anne shrugged. “Perhaps. But there is no doubt he is the heir—the family birthmark, don’t you know—so no one really cares.”

  “Is there more?” Mary pressed.

  “A bit. Here and there. About his association with known criminals and pirates—”

  “Oh!” Victoria threw herself back on the bed into a pile of crinoline and lace, in a paroxysm of scandalized delight. “I cannot wait to meet this man!”

  “Do you suppose there will be pirates in attendance?” Victoria asked, fluffing her hair.

  “It is a good thing he’s married, or our dear aunt would never allow us to go tonight,” Mary said.

  “She might,” Elizabeth responded. “Word is, everyone who is anyone is going to be there.”

  “He’s been completely accepted by the ton,” Anne reminded them. “Despite his spotty past.”

  “Of course,” Mary said.

  “Of course,” Victoria parroted.

  Elizabeth had to smile at their enthusiasm. It was clear her younger sisters were over the moon for the festivities, and to be honest, she was excited as well.

  Who knew what delights this evening could hold?

  * * *

  Of all the hideous evenings Hamish had had to suffer through in London, the Moncrieff ball was by far his favorite. For one thing, Lady Jersey attended . . . with her husband, who kept her on a short leash.

  For another, the Duke of Moncrieff was a damn fine fellow, who shook his hand as though he were an actual human. Hamish was delighted when Moncrieff introduced him to his brother-in-law, Ewan McCloud, a bona fide Scotsman—even though he was from Perth. Then the duke himself stood with Ranald and Hamish and McCloud and they critiqued the company.

  It was all subtle, and offered in code, but they all knew what they were saying and it was enjoyable indeed.

  For once, Hamish felt like he fit in with a group of men in London.

  Also, there was whisky.

  And it was a fine sort that Moncrieff had delivered to them in champagne glasses so no one would know.

  The only fly in the proverbial ointment was the fact that Twiggenberry was in attendance and he insisted on dancing with Elizabeth.

  As he watched the two round the ballroom, with a glower on his face, Moncrieff grunted. “I never liked that one,” he said. “Something about his piggy eyes.”

  Hamish blinked. “He has piggy eyes? I didn’t notice.”

  “Definitely piggy,” McCloud grunted. Then he took a sip of his “champagne.”

  “Never got past the stench, myself,” Hamish murmured.

  The duke barked out a wet whisky-laden snort. He yanked out his handkerchief and dabbed his mouth. “That was wicked, Robb. And he does indeed have an odd . . . odor about him.”

  “He’s courting Elizabeth,” Hamish said before he fully processed the thought. Both the duke and his brother-in-law pinned him with a sharp glance.

  “Lady Elizabeth,” Bower clarified.

  “Oh, I got that.” Moncrieff turned back to watch the couples dancing. His sharp gaze landed on Twiggenberry and Elizabeth. “On the plus side, she does not appear enamored.”

  “Does she not?” Ranald asked drily.

  “She looks as though she wants to escape,” McCloud snorted.

  God, it was wonderful being around Scots again. Men who said it like it was, rather than the way they expected it to be.

  “She doesna like his . . . odor either.”

  “She does look as though she might retch,” Moncrieff observed.

  It was undoubtedly wicked to add, “It wouldn’t be the first time.”

  “Perhaps I should cut in,” McCloud offered.

  Hamish sent him a toothy grin and Ewan started in that direction. But before he reached them, Twiggenberry whirled Elizabeth in a turn and danced her out of the room and into the hall.

  And Hamish’s gut surged.

  Bluidy hell and damnation.

  “Come on,” he growled to Ranald, and they lit off after their wayward chick.

  * * *

  As delightful as the evening had promised to be for Elizabeth, all the shine wore away the moment Twiggenberry showed up.

  She had thoroughly enjoyed meeting the duchess—who bade them to call her Kaitlin—and her friends Lady Darlington and Lady Pennington, and her sister-in-law Violet McCloud, who was married to the brawny Scotsman chatting with Hamish.

  These were ladies she would love to call friends, and she hoped their connection would continue.

  But then Twiggy had appeared and claimed her.

  They had danced around the ballroom and taken a promenade and then had the obligatory lemonade and Elizabeth had thought her trail had ended. But when her next dance partner arrived and cried off—apparently Blackworth had stubbed his toe or some such nonsense—Twiggenberry claimed her again.

  It was tantamount to a declaration, two dances in a row, but Elizabeth didn’t much care. He could declare all he wanted. Tonight she was handing him his congé. So to speak.

  What she didn’t expect was having the blackheart whirl her off the dance floor, down a hallway, and into the deserted library.

  The fact that it was deserted was enough to concern her.

  But then there was his expression.

  “My lord. We should not be in here alone,” she said.

  She headed back to the door, but he caught her arm. “Shouldn’t we?”

  Oh. She didn’t care for the look in his eye in the least. “Please let me go.”

  “Never.” The zealous trill of his voice frightened her and she tried to pull away. His fingers tightened painfully. And then—horrors—he yanked her into his arms. She fell against his chest with an inelegant oof.

  But that was only the beginning. Because then, with a reptilian smile, he smashed his mouth against
hers.

  She very nearly retched again, but saved her energy for fighting him.

  Sadly he was stronger, and clutched her tighter, and deepened the kiss.

  And then, to her absolute horror, he grabbed her breast.

  * * *

  Hamish sprinted down the hall after Elizabeth, peering quickly into the open door of a salon filled with tittering partygoers. No. Not there.

  Then he saw Twiggenberry’s tailcoats disappear into the next room, and he bolted after him.

  He flung open the door and his hackles rose.

  Twiggenberry had Elizabeth in his arms and though she was clearly fighting him, he wouldn’t let her go.

  Unable to stop himself, Hamish issued a feral growl that resonated on the air.

  Twiggenberry lifted his head. Elizabeth gasped for breath.

  Hamish opened his mouth to bellow something—probably something foul—but before he could, a triumphant voice sounded from behind them. “I say, Twiggy! I do believe you are thoroughly compromised.”

  Hamish whirled around to see Blackworth, Lady Jersey, and a coterie of the ton’s haughtiest patronesses standing with him in the hall and looking on. That Moncrieff and McCloud were among them didn’t help. Something acidic swirled in his belly. The hair on the nape of his neck rose. His hands closed to fists. He turned back to Twiggenberry, who looked far too smug for this to have been anything but a setup.

  Blackworth chortled. “Well, Twiggy. You’ll have to marry her now.”

  To which Elizabeth fainted.

  And the bastard didn’t even catch her.

  Chapter Seventeen

  “I’m sorry. There’s nothing for it. You are going to have to marry him.”

  Elizabeth ignored her aunt. She would much rather stare out the window onto the street before the Moncrieff ducal mansion. It was so pretty out there, with the streetlights glinting off the puddles. The lights were deliciously blurred.

  Behind her, in this small sitting room, was hell.

  She could hear the rustle of skirts and the whispers—her aunt, Lady Jersey, the duchess, Ranald, and the duke himself—but she didn’t mind that they were whispering. She really didn’t care to hear what they had to say.

  “Here.” Kaitlin, the Duchess of Moncrieff, appeared by her side with a cup of tea. “Drink this.”

  “I couldn’t.”

  “Please. You’ve had a shock.” Kaitlin pressed the cup closer and Elizabeth caught a whiff of something that was definitely not tea.

  She accepted the offering and sipped, relishing the warm burn of excellent whisky. She glanced at her hostess and gave a small smile. “I had heard you were a scandal.”

  Kaitlin smiled back. “I do try. Now. Finish that up and come have sandwiches.” As though sandwiches were a cure-all for everything.

  They were not.

  But perhaps whisky was. “Maybe he will not want to marry me if I am a drunk,” she suggested and took another snort. What a pity it went down the wrong way and made her cough and wheeze. The duchess, very obligingly, patted her back.

  “He seems rather resolute in the matter. Such devotion is not such a bad thing in a husband.”

  Elizabeth snorted a laugh. “He was resolute enough to force me into that room and kiss me against my will.”

  “He did not!”

  “He most certainly did. Do you imagine I would kiss that man of my own volition?”

  “I was wondering. You did seem a sensible sort.”

  “I am.”

  “But he is wealthy, I am told. And some say he is handsome.”

  “And titled,” Aunt Esmeralda warbled, although no one had invited her to join the conversation at the window.

  “We need to figure out how to handle this,” the duke said. He turned to Lady Jersey. “Can you offer suggestions?”

  Lady Jersey sniffed. “The most obvious is a special license.”

  Elizabeth blanched. “No.”

  The reigning queen of the ton fixed Elizabeth with a bland glance and raised a brow. “No?” This she said as though she’d never before heard the word uttered in her presence.

  Elizabeth frowned at them all, each in turn. “I didn’t want to go with him. I didn’t want to kiss him. I don’t want to marry him.”

  “My gel,” Lady Jersey intoned. “Life is not about what we want.”

  Oooh. Elizabeth wanted to smack her. What a pity she was civilized.

  As always, her aunt sensed her mood. “Sarah, why don’t you go back to the party? I would hate for you to miss a thing.”

  Lady Jersey bristled. “Nonsense. This is far more interesting.”

  “Twiggenberry is waiting,” Ranald reminded them. It had been a major coup, keeping him out of this discussion, but the duke—bless him—had insisted.

  “Let him wait,” Esmeralda snapped.

  “You need to make some kind of announcement tonight,” Lady Jersey advised. “To avoid scandal.”

  “I couldn’t give a fig for scandal,” Elizabeth cried. “I’m not marrying him.”

  “I understand, dear gel, that you do not have a care for what society thinks, but this is not just about you. Is it?”

  Elizabeth blinked at Lady Jersey, then mopped her eyes. “What . . . do you mean?”

  Lady Jersey stood and cupped her hands. “This is about your family. About your reputation. How many offers do you think your sisters will have with this hanging over their heads? Do you really want to rob them of their futures? Their opportunities?”

  Oh.

  Oh dear.

  Visions of Anne and Victoria and dear Mary flitted through her head, and her heart ached. She couldn’t put her own happiness before theirs. Could she?

  Seeing Elizabeth falter, Lady Jersey pressed her point. “It is the only way.”

  Elizabeth glanced at her aunt, who grimaced and nodded.

  “I’m afraid she’s right,” the duchess said sympathetically. “If you want to avoid a scandal, this is the only way.”

  How devastating that they were right.

  She could walk away if this were only about her. But it wasn’t.

  It wasn’t. It was about the people she loved most on earth.

  People she couldn’t bear to disappoint or tarnish or wound.

  And so it was that, the night of the Moncrieff ball, Elizabeth St. Claire became engaged to Lord Wallace Twiggenberry.

  And everything within her died.

  * * *

  It couldn’t be so.

  It couldn’t be.

  How could she have said yes?

  How could she have agreed?

  Hamish sank deeper into his chair in the Sinclair House library—the very place he had kissed Elizabeth just this morning—and tossed back his drink.

  This had begun as the most wonderful day of his life and ended as the absolute worst.

  The woman he loved had—willingly—given herself to another man.

  He wanted to die.

  On that note, he rose and made a markedly staggered way to the window, where there was another carafe of . . . something. He poured another drought—some of it into his cup—and headed back to his seat. The room spun, but not as much as his world, which was whirling in tatters around him.

  “There you are.”

  “Go the fook away.” He didn’t want to see Ranald, or anyone.

  “I know you’re upset.”

  Hamish stilled, then fixed Ranald with a sardonic stare. “Really?”

  “Do you want to talk?”

  “I want to drink.”

  “That willna help.”

  “It’s helping at the moment.”

  His friend took a seat, sat back, and sighed heavily. Then he took the carafe from Hamish and poured himself a glass. When he took a sip, he grimaced and spat it back. “This is ratafia.”

  “It’s all that was left.”

  Ranald sighed and stood, headed for the bellpull, and tugged. “I canna have you drinking ratafia.”

  “I just doona under
stand. And she willna talk to me.”

  “She’s too overset. She doesna want to talk to anyone.”

  “How could she have said yes? To him? He’s a fooking worm.”

  “Aye. He is.”

  “How could she have said yes?”

  “What do you think? That she decided in the course of a dance that she dinna want you after all? That she wanted a smelly, titled lord with ten thousand a year?”

  He had thought exactly that. At least for a moment. Or six.

  “Why else would she say yes?”

  “It should be obvious.”

  “Nothing is obvious.”

  “She did it to save her sisters from the scandal.”

  Well. That shut him up. That was the Elizabeth he knew and loved. “That is stupid,” he muttered.

  “Aye. But what her society demands.”

  “She hates her society.”

  “With good reason, it appears.”

  “She wants to live in Scotland.”

  “Perhaps Twiggenberry will take her?” A horrible joke, and Ranald knew it. He winced at Hamish’s glare. “Sorry.”

  “Maybe I should just kidnap her.”

  “It didn’t work for Tiverton.”

  “I’m cleverer than Tiverton.”

  “Nae doubt. But the issue with her sisters and their reputation still remains. No’ to mention the reputation of the duke.”

  Hamish grimaced. Bluidy hell. There was that. He owed Lachlan better. “Maybe Twiggenberry could die before the wedding.”

  Ranald cleared his throat. “I was thinking more along the lines of delaying the wedding as long as possible. You know. In the hopes that some opportunity presents itself?”

  “That works too.”

  “Do you have any ideas?”

  Hamish gestured to his rumpled person. “Do I look as though I have any ideas?”

  “Now that you mention it, you do no’.”

  Henley scratched on the door just then. He entered without waiting for a response and with little ado, he set a tray of sandwiches on the table.

  “What the hell is this?” Hamish bellowed.

  But then Jamison appeared, carrying a bottle of amber liquid. “From the duke’s special collection,” the butler intoned. With aplomb he opened the bottle and poured three glasses, one of which he lifted in salute. “My sympathies,” he said and tossed it back.

  It occurred to Hamish that Henley might actually have a soul after all.