Page 33 of The Devil Wears Kilts
“Aye. She said if I didnae’t like being looked at sideways, I shouldnae try so hard nae to be English.” He finished off the second whisky. “Acted like a poor-mannered schoolboy, I did.” And the why of it all continued to elude him. God above, she aggravated him.
Beside him, his uncle stood very still. Likely he worried that a cross word would have him drummed from the family permanently. How odd that Myles chose his words so carefully, when the lass with the sunshine hair didn’t seem to feel the need to curb her tongue at all. Of course he would never strike a woman regardless of what insult she handed him, but it was more than that. It was something abouther,in particular, that sent him spinning off balance.
“Are you dancing this evening?” Myles asked.
“Aye, with Rowena and the Hanover lasses.”
“Ah.”
Ranulf glanced at his uncle. “‘Ah,’ what?” Yes, he was the chief of Clan MacLawry and a marquis, but it would be… pleasant on occasion not to have to pull words out of people like teeth.
“It’s only that if you dance with a select few ladies, you may start the wags thinking you’ve a particular… affection for one of them.”
“Well, I do! Rowena’s my blasted sister.”
“I mean the other two. And you may also give the impression that you have a certain disdain for this Society.”
“Which I d—”
“Which could affect which other young ladies are willing to or are permitted to befriend Winnie.”
That nonsense again. With a brief curse in Gaelic that would have had the ponsy blue bloods around him blushing if they’d understood it, Ranulf left the refuge by the wall. A few delicate lasses tried to catch his eye, but their eagerness made him shudder. Finally he spied the round girl from the dress shop, standing close by her worried-looking mother.
“Miss Florence?” he intoned.
She turned scarlet as she faced him. “Yes, my lord.”
“Would ye care to finish off this dance with me, lass?”
“I… Yes. That would be splendid.”
Ranulf held out his hand, and she placed her fingers in his. They shook a mite, but hopefully she was sturdy enough to make it through the remainder of the boisterous country dance. He moved them smoothly into the loose line, let her go, bowed and turned, and caught her up again.
“This is splendid of you, Lord Glengask,” she said as they stepped through the middle of the dance and down to the end again.
“Why is that?”
“I… I don’t seem to be a favored dance partner, is all,” she returned, ducking her head. “Mama says it’s my freckles. I scrub them with lemon juice every night, but it doesn’t seem to make any difference.”
“In the Highlands we say a lass with freckles is sun-kissed. It’s a blessing, and naught to be ashamed of.”
Light green eyes gazed up at him hopefully. “Truly?”
“Aye.” He nodded, hoping he hadn’t somehow gotten himself betrothed by being kind to her. “Truly.”
“That’s so nice. Lord Stephen Hammond said I had the shape and skin of an orange.”
Well, that was a dastardly thing to say to any woman. “I’d wager this Hammond has the brains of an orange,” he retorted, and she chuckled.
Thankfully the dance ended before she could begin telling him that she would enjoy seeing the Highlands and would he show her about. Ranulf joined in the applause and returned her to her mother, then escaped as swiftly as he was able.
Charles Calder, the Campbell’s grandson, still stood by the fire, as if he couldn’t catch enough heat to warm his bony frame. Berling had been dancing, but luckily for the earl it had been in the other line of dancers. If the man had so much as touched Rowena’s hand, he would lose his own.
“That was a very nice thing you did,” Charlotte’s voice came, and she wrapped a hand around his sleeve.
Ranulf looked down at her, ignoring the skitter in his chest. “I beg yer pardon?”
“Dancing with Florence Breckett. It was very nice of you.” She angled her chin back to where he’d parted from the stout lass. When he followed her gaze, a half-dozen young ladies, including two of her yammering cousins, surrounded her, all of them talking excitedly and sending glances in his direction.
