Page 43 of The Devil Wears Kilts
“My goodness,” her sister exclaimed. “I thought he hated London.”
“He does,” Rowena finally put in, wiping her eyes. “I don’t understand.”
Charlotte thought perhaps she did, but she had no intention of telling either of the young ladies that she’d taken the marquis to task about his unfounded prejudices. Not ever. “Do you want us to accept the invitation?” she asked, rather surprised at how desperately she wanted Rowena to say yes. Had her arguments had an effect on him? Had he listened to what she’d said? It seemed that he had, but she wanted to know for certain. And she wanted to know what that meant.
“I suppose we should,” Ranulf’s sister said slowly. “It would be rude to ignore a direct invitation after all, wouldn’t it?”
“Yes, I think it would. And we don’t wish to be rude.” Not when she’d already exceeded her quota for that particular behavior to that particular man.
She should barely have noticed that he’d been absent for a week, a mere seven days. The Season was in full swing, and she attended dinners and soirees and recitals nearly every night. But shehadnoticed. And she didn’t want the last words they’d exchanged to be the last words they ever exchanged. No, she didn’t seem to be finished with the Marquis of Glengask just yet. Whether that was a good thing or not, though, she had no idea.
Chapter Eight
Ranulf paused at the top landing of the main staircase—his staircase, now—and took a deep breath. In the foyer, below, Owen and Peter seemed to be having the same trouble accepting the move to Gilden House as he was.
“… more Sasannach servants traipsing aboot,” Peter was saying in his hoarse whisper. “I might as well have stayed on at Hanover House.”
“Ye are staying on at Hanover House,” Owen returned. “Ye’re here tonight to help us look civilized. So stop bellowing about Sasannach and move those posies into the drawing room.”
“But why’d the laird go and buy this place? Do ye think he means to abandon Glengask?”
“Nae. Never. There’ll always be a MacLawry at Glengask.”
This was the gossip Ranulf had been hoping to avoid. Pushing upright from the railing, he descended the staircase. “Everything ready for tonight, lads?”
“Aye,” Owen returned, sending his partner a sharp look. “We’ve nae done much in the way o’ formal dinners, but I’ve been reading them etiquette books. We’ll do ye proud.”
“I know ye will.” Deliberately he clapped Peter on the shoulder. “The English look at us as barbarians and devils because they don’t know us or our ways. I’ve caught myself making some broad assumptions about them, through the same ignorance.” He gave a brief grin. “I’m knowing my enemy.” And if some of them proved to be other than enemies, well, all the better for him, he supposed.
As Peter hurried upstairs with the flowers, Owen peered around the edge of the narrow foyer window’s curtain. “Coach coming up. Ye should be in the drawing room, m’laird. Sas—Englishmen—dunnae greet their guests in the doorway.”
With a nod, Ranulf retreated back up the stairs. When he’d begun this, he’d been angry and resentful—mostly at Charlotte Hanover. Now that he’d moved past the point of no return he remained half convinced that the evening would be a disaster. At least, though, it was likely to be an interesting one.
In the drawing room, he poured himself a glass of whisky and took a generous swallow. He’d been drinking the stuff practically since he was five, and a glass or two would leave him more sober than a preacher, but he did hope it would settle his nerves some. He wasn’t accustomed to being nervous, and he didn’t like the sensation.
Owen stomped into the doorway and stopped, standing ramrod straight. “M’laird,” he intoned, “Laird Swansley.” With that he ducked a step backward. A moment later an amused-looking Myles walked past him and into the drawing room.
“Ranulf,” he said, continuing forward and offering his hand. “Thank you for inviting me. It was… unexpected. And exceedingly welcome.”
Ranulf shook his uncle’s hand, then released him again. “Ye’re family,” he said slowly, full knowing he was reversing the decree he’d made three years ago. “And Rowena will expect to see ye here.”
Visibly swallowing, Myles nodded. “This is a fine house. Should I say I’m surprised you’ve brought a property in Mayfair, or are we avoiding those discussions?”
“I’m walking a mile in English boots,” Ranulf returned. “They’re wee and they pinch, but I’m still doin’ it. Let’s leave it at that, shall w—”
“M’laird, I’m pleased to present Laird Hest, Lady Hest, Lady Rowena MacLawry, Lady Charlotte Hanover, and Lady Jane Hanover.”
“Thank ye, Owen.”
The footman did his backward step and gestured. He’d donned white gloves, Ranulf noticed; Owenhadbeen reading etiquette books. As Hest stepped into the room, though, Ranulf set aside his… wariness over what Owen might have in store for them next.
He walked forward to shake the earl’s hand and bow over the countess’s. All his attention, though, remained on the doorway. Yes, he’d missed his sister, missed seeing with his own eyes that she was safe despite the twice-daily reports from Peter Gilling, but Rowena wasn’t the lass about whom he’d dreamed for the past seven nights. No, a golden-haired, hazel-eyed beauty continued to torment his thoughts as much as she’d tormented him in person a week ago. He remained uncertain how he felt, and even less so about howshefelt, except that he knew he wanted—needed—to see her.
Rowena walked into the room, an uncertain smile on her face that widened as she caught sight of Uncle Myles. True to her bold self, she continued directly up to Ranulf. “Is it true ye’ve bought this house?”
“Aye.”
“Why?”
