Page 29 of The Devil Wears Kilts
The second footman arrived quickly enough that he must have been listening by the door. “M’laird?”
“Owen, ye are going to show Ginger how to dress a man in a kilt.”
“Ginger? Who’s Ginger?”
***
Charlotte picked up the hand mirror and twisted around to view the back of her ornately piled hair in the large dressing mirror. “It’s lovely, Simms. I would never have thought of weaving a pearl necklace through my hair.”
The maid dimpled. “Lady Newsome’s maid showed me the trick of it. But I thought of using the matching earbobs.”
Shining pearls peeking through her blond curls and then matching ones dangling from her ears—added to the dark green silk and lace of her gown and the pearl buttons on the dark green elbow-length gloves, the effect really was quite dramatic. More so than she generally cared for, but tonight was special. The first grand ball for both Jane and Rowena.
It was fortunate that she felt put together on the outside, because her insides were something else entirely. And she knew precisely who to blame for that. Glengask had stomped off quite regally this afternoon, but it still left the question of how he meant to behave tonight. Would he dance? Would he ask her to dance? If he did, what would she say? After all, she was angry with him. More than likely, he was just as angry with her, too.
Oh, he was like a great bear growling his way through London and upsetting people’s equilibrium. Everyone knew everyone in Mayfair. That was simply a given. Having Lord Glengask stride onto the stage with his unruly black hair and fierce blue eyes therefore turned everything on its head. Every other man who went riding with her in the park, for instance, knew that she’d lost James three years ago. They knew that she danced and chatted, but that she didn’t flirt, that she wasn’t looking to make another match in the foreseeable future, and that she didn’t kiss. Ranulf MacLawry clearly knew none of these things—and she wasn’t certain it would make a difference if hedidknow.
Her bedchamber door opened, and Jane waltzed into the room with Winnie, the waist-tall deerhound padding behind them. “Oh, Char, you look stunning!” her sister exclaimed, parting from her friend with a flourish. “Has a gentleman finally caught your eye again?”
Charlotte felt her cheeks warm. “Why in the world would you say that? Do I generally look so shabby?”
“No! Of course not. It’s just… Well, you look exceptionally nice.”
“That, I will accept. And thank you.” With a grin, Charlotte took in the two excited young ladies. “Blue is definitely your color, Winnie,” she said after a moment. “It lights up your eyes. And I’m jealous of all that hair you have.”
Winnie swept an elaborate curtsy. “Thank ye, Charlotte. Mitchell nearly had to tie me to my chair, I was so nervous about how high she was piling my hair.” The marquis’s sister gave the black, lustrous mass a careful pat. “We’ve been practicing London styles for weeks, but this time it’s not just for fun.”
Janie bounced on her toes. “Say something flattering about my gown too, Charlotte,” she urged, chuckling.
“You are a vision in violet, Janie,” Charlotte offered obediently. The girls’ enthusiasm must have swept her up, as well, because otherwise she couldn’t explain the tingling in her fingers and all the way down her spine. “I wouldn’t be at all surprised if some gentleman asked for your hand in marriage tonight.”
“He can ask,” her sister returned with a laugh, “but I’m not marrying anyone yet. There are far too many parties yet to come this Season.”
With a loud sigh, Winnie plunked herself down onto the floor to scratch Una. The portrait of young despondence almost made Charlotte smile, but she refrained from doing so. “What’s amiss, Winnie?”
“It’s only the talk of marrying,” Rowena said, sighing again.
“You did mention something about a beau back at Glengask. Do you miss him?”
“Aye. Lachlan MacTier. I miss him dreadfully. But I’ve been here for nearly five days and been gone from home for nearly twice that, and he still hasn’t sent me a single letter.”
“Have you written him? Perhaps he doesn’t know your address here.”
“I’ve written him every day.”
Charlotte hid her grin behind her hand. Had she ever been that young? “Perhaps that’s the difficulty, then,” she said aloud, sinking to the carpet and joining in on scratching the wiry-haired hound.
“What do you mean?”
“Just that a man can’t miss you if you’re always about.”
“But I’m not about. I’m hundreds and hundreds of miles away.”
“Your letters aren’t. They’re there to greet him, every day. And if he isn’t writing to you, then it’s because you’ve answered all of his questions.”
Gray eyes much less fierce than her brother’s blue ones gazed at her for a long moment. “You’re absolutely brilliant!” Winnie chirped, hugging her. “I’m not going to write him another letter.” She frowned. “Unless… Should I write to say that I’m not writing him? I don’t want him to think I’m angry with him—though I am, a bit.”
“No,” Janie chimed in. “Let him wonder. Perhaps he’ll think you’ve found a beau here in London. And you might, because you do look very pretty tonight.”
