Page 17 of The Devil Wears Kilts
“Mr. Henning. So grand to see you.”
“Lady Charlotte. I wondered if you would do me the honor of the next dance.” His brows dove down in a brief frown. “It’s a quadrille, I think. Though it might be a country dance.”
She felt rather than saw the Marquis of Glengask move up behind her, large and formidable as a mountain. If he thought she needed protection from Francis Henning, of all people, he must consider her entirely helpless. Charlotte smiled and nodded. “Whatever the next dance may be, it is yours, Mr. Henning.”
“That’s sterling. I’ll just be…” He glanced past her, his ruddy cheeks paling a little. “I’ll be by the punch bowl,” he finished. “With my grandmama.”
“Very good.”
Almost before she’d finished speaking, though, he’d retreated.Oh, this was unacceptable.“What did you do?” she demanded, facing Glengask. He stood closer than she expected, and she had to lift her chin quite high to look up at his face. “Did you scowl at him?”
“Who was that?” he returned, rather than answering her question.
“An old friend. Francis Henning. Should I have introduced you?”
Glengask cocked his head, making him look an attractive mix of endearing and lethal. “I dunnae. Should ye have?”
“Certainly not, if you only meant to glower at him.”
He met her gaze levelly. “Ye’re under my protection, lass.”
From the way he said it, that statement was clearly meant to explain everything. And she likely should have let it be, because he was the chief of a clan, accustomed to his words being accepted as law and obeyed without question. But they weren’t in Scotland, and he simply could not go about bullying and intimidating people. “Then with whom did Jane dance?” she asked. “And with whom is she about to dance the quadrille?”
The marquis swung his head around to glance at her sister. From his quickly hidden expression of confusion, he’d completely forgotten about Jane. So it seemed to be something about her in particular that he felt required his protection. The very idea should have annoyed her to no end. It did, of course, though annoyance didn’t quite describe the thrill of heat running beneath her skin.
“I’ll find that oot.”
He took two long steps before Charlotte caught up to him and blocked his path. “I know who they are, for heaven’s sake.”
“Then why did ye ask me, woman?” he shot back. The guests nearest them turned to look, abruptly interested in their conversation. Of course, a number of the young ladies had been eyeing him from the moment he’d entered the assembly rooms.
But he wasn’t the only one to feel flummoxed. “I was making a point.” The orchestra sounded a note, then began playing a quadrille. “Now go dance with your sister, as you promised.”
For a long moment he gazed at her. Then wordlessly he went to collect Winnie. Only then did Charlotte go find Mr. Henning. Tomorrow she needed to do some searching into the background of the Marquis of Glengask. Luckily for her, the best person to ask happened to be residing three bedchambers away from her own.
Chapter Three
“M’laird, Uncle Myles is awaiting yer pleasure in the front room.”
Ranulf looked up from the newspaper he’d been reading over his breakfast. It felt odd to have hold of news that wasn’t a week old. And unsettling to read that the Marquis of Glengask was in Town and residing precisely where he was. “He isnae yer uncle, Owen. To ye, he’s Laird Swansley.”
“Aye, m’laird. It’s just that he was at Glengask fer so long—”
“I know. Bring ’im in here.” He’d long ago learned the advantage of claiming a room and a seat, and had no intention of allowing Myles Wilkie the opportunity to do so. London might be Myles’s domain, but the MacLawrys claimed Tall House for themselves. For a fortnight, anyway.
A moment later Myles Wilkie stood in the breakfast room doorway, kind brown eyes taking in the setting and finally resting on Ranulf at the far end of the table. Ranulf watched him in return. Sympathetic gaze or not, the man had the wits of a fox and the stubbornness of a badger. He wasn’t about to forget that. Not for an instant. Not even when Una trotted forward, tail wagging furiously, to greet the viscount. Fergus remained under the table at Ranulf’s feet and huffed his disapproval. If he’d needed any further proof that most lasses didn’t have any sense, that provided it.
“You sent me a request to find you some likely servants,” the viscount finally said, and produced a folded paper from one gray pocket. “Keeping in mind your… particular requirements, I thought I’d best bring it by in person. I’ve located half a dozen men and three maids who should suffice.”
Ranulf nodded, flicking a finger at Peter. The footman went to retrieve the paper and unfolded it himself. “I cannae read these hen scratches, m’laird,” he proclaimed after a moment spent squinting at the page.
From the opposite side of the room Owen blew out his breath and walked past Myles to snatch the paper from Peter’s fingers. “Ye cannae readanyscratches, and ye’ve nae fooled a one of us aboot that.” After a moment he looked up from the page, frowning. “These ain’t Scots names, Laird Swansley.”
“No, they’re English. Born and bred.” Myles squared his shoulders. “May I sit, Ranulf?”
“Aye. Give ’im back the paper, Owen, and go have Stirling saddled. We’re off in twenty minutes. Take Peter with ye.”
“But—”
