Page 15 of The Devil Wears Kilts
“It’s going well,” Lady Charlotte murmured below the sound of her mother reciting the two young ladies’ pedigrees as if they were horses at auction.
“How can ye tell?”
“They’re looking at our girls rather than whispering to each other.”
“Does having two debutantes there diminish the odds of both being accepted, or increase them?”
She glanced sideways at him. “They won’t care that Winnie is Scottish. It’s all about her bearing and her breeding.”
Was he that transparent? After fifteen years as the Marquis of Glengask he was well aware how most English lairds regarded one of their fellows who chose to remain in the Highlands. He knew how the Sasannach in general viewed Scotsmen—scrappers and drunks and ultimately the losers, with hundreds of years of war and disputes finally settled in favor of the English. They weren’t finished yet with asserting their authority, either. “Icare that Rowena is Scottish,” he said under his breath.
Whether by accident or not, her fingers brushed his. It made his gut tingle as if lightning had struck nearby. By the time he’d sorted out that it must have been the luncheon he’d forgotten to eat making him light-headed, one of the patronesses stood and nodded. “Welcome to Almack’s, ladies. And to London, Lady Rowena.”
Beside Ranulf, and despite her statement that everything was going well, Charlotte looked relieved. Perhaps it was a good thing that he remained ignorant of the minute machinations involved, or he might have been tempted to intercede, after all. When Rowena came bouncing up to him, he smiled. “Now ye can have yer waltzes, my heart.”
“Aye. So dance the first one w—” Her eyes widened as she looked beyond his shoulder. “Uncle Myles!”
She released her brother to give their uncle a sound hug. Unsurprising, as she was a warm, kindly, naïve lass—which was, he was beginning to realize, to a great degree his fault. He felt a much cooler wind blowing where their mother’s brother was concerned, but tonight was for his sister. And so he clenched his jaw and kept silent.
“You’ve grown up in three years,” Myles Wilkie, Viscount Swansley, said, taking her hands in his. “You look so much like Eleanor it almost brings me to tears.”
“Do I look like Mother?” she asked, swishing her skirt almost shyly. “My brothers have never said so.”
Because it wasn’t allowed. Myles had the good grace to clear his throat. “You do look very like her, Winnie. Will you dance your first waltz with an old man who adores you?”
Nowthatwas interfering where he wasn’t wanted. Ranulf took a step forward—and felt slender fingers wrap around his arm, slight and gentle and burning through the heavy cloth of his sleeve like a brand.
“That certainly saves your brother from a dilemma,” Lady Charlotte said with her sunlight smile. “I don’t think he realized there would be no dancing until after the presentations, because he asked me to dance the first waltz with him.”
“Oh, splendid!” Rowena towed her chuckling uncle toward the dance floor as the orchestra on the balcony began to play the traditional first waltz. “Ye’re my second dance, Ran. Don’t give it away.”
“I willnae.”
In a moment he found himself standing at one side of the dance floor while his sister took her first official steps into English Society. If he’d been able to overcome his instinct to keep a watchful eye on her, he would have turned away from the sight. How the bloody hell had he allowed any of this to happen? It certainly wasn’t like him; Rowena herself could attest to that.
“Shall we, Lord Glengask?” Brown-green eyes beneath long, curved lashes gazed up at his face. “Don’t make me into a liar, if you please.”
He glanced from her to his sister. “Yearea liar, Lady Charlotte.”
She nodded. “So I am. No one else needs to know that, though, do they?” When he still didn’t move, she tugged on his sleeve. “You’re not worried you’ll make a poor showing and embarrass Scotland before the English tyrants, are you?”
Ah, just the incentive he needed. Keeping his expression still even though he would rather have been shoveling shit in a stable than prancing before the English tyrants, as she named them, in one of their assembly halls, Ranulf took her fingers in his, slid his other hand around her slender waist, and stepped with her into the dance.
If he hadn’t had a younger sister he likely wouldn’t have bothered to learn the waltz, but abruptly he was grateful that she’d nagged him into it. Half the clan’s better-born men and woman all knew the waltz because of Rowena, in fact.
“You dance quite well, my lord,” Lady Charlotte commented in a merry voice. Her pale cheeks had taken on a rosy glow in the warm room. He found it rather attractive, though he would deny it if asked. Nor could he explain why he enjoyed just looking at her, when firstly she was English, and secondly she saw fit to argue with nearly every statement he made.
“Ye may as well call me Ranulf,” he returned, “as ye’ve already stripped me of every bit of dignity and authority I possess.”
She gave him an unexpected smile. “I doubt that’s possible.”
“Well,” he murmured, deciding he felt somewhat mollified. “I’ll take that as a compliment, then.”
Charlotte cleared her throat. “I’m merely attempting to see that tonight goes smoothly for your sister. And for mine.” Hazel eyes studied his, in a direct way most people didn’t dare. “We do have the same goal, I think.”
“I’d rather she fell on her face and returned to Glengask determined never t’leave again.” Ranulf forced a smile at his companion’s shocked look, as if she couldn’t understand why anyone wouldn’t wish to be Society’s darling. “I couldnae bear t’see her slighted or embarrassed, though, so I suppose I’ll tolerate the shenanigans.”
“For a fortnight.”
