Page 30 of The Devil Wears Kilts
With Simms’s assistance Charlotte climbed once more to her feet. “You two will only find beaux if we actually attend the soiree.” Taking a last glance at her hair to make certain it would stay in place, she urged them out her door. With some difficulty they closed Una in Winnie’s bedchamber and then hurried down the stairs.
Her parents were already waiting in the foyer, and had to take a moment to admire each of them in turn. Evidently she generally didn’t dress so fancily, because both of them commented on her attire and her hair, as well. How odd that they and Jane all thought some man must have caught her eye; in the past two years none of them had ever mentioned such a thing when she dressed for a party.
Longfellow helped her with her wrap, and then she took Winnie’s to assist the marquis’s sister. “May I ask you a question?” she murmured, beneath the sound of the chattering around her.
“Of course.”
Charlotte took a breath. It was just curiosity. Nothing more. “I don’t know Highland or clan tradition, but your brother is one-and-thirty, yes? Is there a reason he hasn’t yet married?”
“I think he’s been too busy,” Rowena replied, her expression becoming more thoughtful. “And I think he worried before that I would feel pushed aside if he brought another lass into the house. But I’m eighteen now, so that’ll likely change.” She grimaced briefly. “I just hope he doesn’t decide to marry Bridget Landry. Her family lives the closest, and she’s pretty and all, but when she laughs it sounds like crows are dying.”
Charlotte snorted. “Oh, Winnie.”
“No, it’s true. And she takes all the best bits at dinner for herself. Ran would let her, because he wants everyone to be happy, but sometimes I’m happiest to see him with the last strawberry of the season. I don’t know that Bridget would ever think of that.” Winnie shrugged. “Though worrying over who gets a wee strawberry is a mite silly, isn’t it?”
“I don’t think so,” Charlotte replied, trying to reconcile her image of Ranulf MacLawry with that of a man who enjoyed strawberries and who liked to see everyone around him happy. “I think it’s lovely.”
“Come along, ladies,” her father said abruptly, making her jump. “If we’re late you’ll only have me to dance with.”
“I wouldn’t mind that, Papa,” Jane said stoutly.
He kissed her on the cheek. “Perhaps not, but I would.”
The Evanstone soiree was the first grand ball of the Season. As such, it would likely see guests packed nearly to the high, vaulted ceiling of its two adjoining ballrooms. Luckily the rain held off, and they had only a chill wind with which to contend as they made their way past the crush of carriages to the large house’s main entrance.
Even Winnie had stopped chittering, instead taking in the sights with wide, round eyes. Charlotte couldn’t even imagine how it must all look to someone whose idea of town was a tiny village in the middle of nowhere. “Is this very different from dances at Glengask?” she whispered.
Winnie nodded, barely blinking. “We have two grand parties a year, one down at An Soadh and the other at Mahldoen, but they’re not dances, precisely. More like fairs, I suppose. All the clan comes together, and we set up tents. There’s all sorts of food and drink, and singing and dancing and pipes, caber tossing, shooting, swords. Not nearly as grand as this.”
Shooting and swords? Hopefully at targets and not at each other. Charlotte kept that to herself, though. Tonight was for Rowena and Jane. For a moment she tried to imagine some of the carefully coiffed guests here tossing cabers and drinking ale from mugs and dancing to bagpipes. If not for the accompanying violence, it would likely be… exhilarating.
Once the butler introduced Lord Hest and party in a ringing voice, they made their way to the nearest of the two interconnected ballrooms. They’d opened the folding walls in between them, making one breathtakingly huge space with chairs lining the walls, huge fireplaces at either end, and a dozen floor-length windows leading outside to a balcony with steps down to the garden and pond below. The outside was lit with torches, the inside with eight chandeliers, and everything glittered.
“Oh, glory,” Winnie murmured. Charlotte turned to agree with her, but then realized that the debutante wasn’t looking at the decorations. She was gazing at her brother.
“Oh, glory,” Charlotte echoed, following her gaze.
The Marquis of Glengask stood close by one wall, his gaze moving from man to man as though searching for enemies. But for once it wasn’t his deep blue eyes that caught Charlotte’s attention. Every other male present wore proper coats, waistcoats, and trousers or breeches with either boots or shoes. Like them, Ranulf had donned a coat—his a dark gray with large black buttons edged in silver, and a trio of identical buttons bright on each sleeve. His waistcoat was black with the same black and silver buttons, while his snow white-cravat was pierced by a silver and onyx pin.
From the waist down, however, he was clearly not an Englishman. Instead of trousers he wore a kilt of black and gray, with red thread cutting through the darker squares like blood. In front of his… manhood a silver and black pouch hung from a silver chain that looked like it went around his waist. His knees were bare, while black wool stockings covered his calves. On his feet he wore black leather-looking shoes bound halfway up his calves with more strips of leather.
The effect was… Charlotte swallowed. He looked wild and mad and dangerous and simply mesmerizing. On occasion some of the older statesmen wore kilts to soirees, but no one paid much attention to their quaint ways. This was very different. All around her she could hear the whispers, too, mostly from women. Piercing blue eyes met hers, and then he was walking across the floor, the crowd parting to make room for him as he approached. She felt abrupt heat between her thighs.
“Rowena, ye look very fine,” he said in his low brogue, smiling at his sister.
That smile was dangerous, too, because it made Charlotte’s heart flutter, and made her remember his capable mouth and that extraordinary kiss. Rowena, though, wasn’t smiling back at him. “What are you doing?” she whispered.
“I’m standing here,” he returned coolly.
“Ye’re wearing clan colors. Are you looking for a fight?”
“Nae. I’m Scottish. I’m a Highlander. And this is how a Highlander dresses. Or have ye already forgotten?”
His sister looked at him closely. “No trouble?”
He shook his head. “Nae trouble. Not from me.”
Charlotte didn’t know how he could say that, when every inch of him practically radiated trouble and very male heat. When he turned his gaze to her, she refused to look away, or to lower her eyes to take in his attire. She tried not to blush, but given the warmth of her cheeks she hadn’t managed that feat. “I see that you heard my advice,” she finally said.
