Page 82 of The Devil Wears Kilts
“Aye.” Ranulf had no desire to elaborate. “How do ye know my uncle, Mr. Beasley?”
“Our families are neighbors,” the stout man returned with an easy smile. “Our family patriarch is the Marquis of Dunford, but I’m several cousins away from him.”
“Simon and I attended Oxford together,” Lord Stephen put in. “Both of our families have pedigrees dating all the way back to the second Henry.”
“There’s a club of sorts at Oxford,” Simon added, his grin deepening. “A gathering for descendants of England’s original earls.”
That seemed singularly uninteresting, but Ranulf nodded. The Sasannach talked so much, they probably had knowledge of all sorts of useless, inane information.
“How far back does your title go?” Lord Stephen asked, as a waiter came by and took their luncheon orders.
“I dunnae track back to a Henry,” Ranulf drawled, catching his uncle’s warning look.
“Ah. How recent is it, then?” Simon signaled a footman for a bottle of wine.
Bah.Wine might as well be water. “A mite older than that. My ancestors were Vikings and Celts. The first jarl of Glengask was, according to legend, a great bear of a man called Laurec. He took to wife a wild Celtic lass who painted her face blue and danced naked in the moonlight.”
“Ranulf,” Uncle Myles rumbled.
“Well, it’s an old legend,” he conceded. “Quite possibly exaggerated.”
The other two men exchanged a glance. Hm. Evidently stories about Vikings and naked, blue-faced lasses were too scandalous for polite Society. He wasn’t even certain why he’d told the story, except that he’d been drinking for the past ten hours and perhaps it was finally beginning to blunt the edge of his anger and frustration.
“It’s a fascinating tale,” Lord Stephen commented. “With roots so deep in the Highlands, Glengask, what are you doing in London?”
“That’s right,” Beasley seconded. “I’ve never seen you here before.”
Ranulf shrugged. “This is where the parties are.”
Myles laughed, though he didn’t sound terribly amused. “His sister, my niece, turned eighteen a few weeks ago. She wanted her London Season.”
The conversation stopped for a few moments as waiters brought their meals. He’d requested roast venison, but the mess he received was nearly drowned in a gravy so thick and salty he might well have been eating beef. Or even chicken.
“So when your sister’s had her Season you’ll be returning to the Highlands, I presume?”
He glanced over at Lord Stephen. “Aye. More than likely.”
“Are those Highland lasses as bonny as they say?” Beasley asked, chuckling.
“And as wild?” the other one added.
“There are some bonny lasses. And some wild ones. Just the same as there are here, I would imagine.”
“I would imagine a marquis, a descendant of a Viking and a blue-faced Celt,” Lord Stephen said over his glass of wine, “would have his choice of the prettiest and best-bred Highland ladies. Women of a similar breeding and with similar… expectations.”
This was beginning to sound insulting, though it wasn’t the words as much as it was the tone. He glanced over at Myles, and was surprised to see the intent look his uncle sent him before the viscount returned to his pheasant. Was he missing something? With these reduced expectations, he should be able to manage. Being tired and half drunk certainly wasn’t helping, though.
Or perhaps Myles was merely warning him not to tell any more Viking stories. Ranulf frowned inwardly. If this was the path of his life now, he was going to have to at least pretend to be content, if not happy.Shewould be that part of his new life, and that would make him happy.
“Did you know Charlotte Hanover was once engaged?” Lord Stephen commented smoothly.
NowRanulf was interested. “Aye. James Appleton died in a duel, she said.”
“He did.” Stephen nodded. “A damned tragedy, all over a bit of clumsiness. Appleton would eventually have made her a viscountess, with a lovely old house on Charles Street that’s perfect for hosting soirees. And they would have spent the rest of the year in Trowbridge, just outside of Bath.”
“Since they weren’t married,” Beasley took up, “she couldn’t wear full mourning, and she had to be out of black in six weeks. But we all knew, and we let her be.”
“I’m certain she was grateful,” Ranulf said, realizing his jaw was clenching. He forced himself to relax.
