Page 68 of The Devil Wears Kilts
“Much better. In another day or two I daresay no one would ever know I had blisters.”
“I would know.”
“Ah, there you are, dear Lady Charlotte,” a dry voice came from behind him. “Tell me you haven’t given away every dance.”
Thankfully for the sake of his resolve, it wasn’t Berling. But that didn’t actually leave him feeling any better. A tall, fair-haired fellow of about Bear’s age stood there, an easy smile on his face and his body clothed in a well-made dark blue coat that might or might not have had padded shoulders.
“I believe I have a free dance or two remaining, Lord Stephen,” Charlotte replied, then gestured at Ranulf. “Lord Glengask, may I present Lord Stephen Hammond? Lord Stephen, the Marquis of Glengask.”
“You’re the Highlands fellow,” Hammond commented.
“Aye. I am.”
When Hammond offered his hand, Ranulf shook it. That was what gentlemen did. But he didn’t like it, any more than he liked the way Charlotte smiled at the new arrival. The other men with whom she generally danced weren’t much in the way of rivals. This was different. And now that he thought about it, Miss Florence had mentioned something about a Lord Stephen Hammond who’d said she looked like an orange. That didn’t leave him more disposed toward liking the pretty fellow at all.
Back home he would have flat-out asked if this Hammond had done as rumored. And then he would have added some character to his face. It was still tempting; Ranulf could claim to be defending Miss Florence’s honor, while he could at the same time remove Lord Stephen from where he currently stood smiling too prettily at Charlotte.HisCharlotte—whether he could announce that to all and sundry or not.
“Charlotte, that trouncing you gave me in croquet last year still stings, you know,” Lord Stephen went on with a grin as he took her card and penciled in his name. “I want a rematch.”
“I’m willing to oblige you,” Charlotte returned, “if you don’t fear further humiliation.”
Hammond returned her dance card. “Life is a risk. And I believe he who hesitates is lost.” He sketched a bow. “I must go beg a dance from your lovely sister, now. I’ll claim you later.”
Still grinning, Charlotte watched Stephen make his way over to Jane. She, of course, was already surrounded by eager young men. When Charlotte returned her attention to Ranulf, though, he didn’t look nearly as amused.
“Who is Lord Stephen Hammond?” he asked, glancing from her to her dance card.
“He’s the second son of the Duke and Duchess of Esmond. This is their soiree.” She made the statement as matter-of-factly as possible, hoping Ranulf wasn’t about to begin punching people again. Yes, she liked the idea that he might be jealous. No, she didn’t want him to act on it.
She saw him take a breath. “Then I suppose he’s allowed to ask a dance of the bonniest lass in the room,” he said.
Oh, thank goodness.Just when she thought she had him figured out, he surprised her again. “You exaggerate, but thank you for saying so.”
“The only thing I ever exaggerate aboot is the size of the fish I nearly caught. Ye’re Aphrodite,leannan. Ye take my breath away.”
That was very nice of him to say. In fact, she would have been quite content to just stand and listen to the sound of his voice for the rest of the evening. For the rest of her life, really. But then she noticed her father looking at the two of them, his expression less than pleased. “You have to go talk to someone else,” she whispered regretfully. “People will begin to think you’re courting me.”
“Ah. And what if I am?” he returned.
Before she could decipher the explosion of… everything that rattled her insides at his words, he gave her a jaunty grin and strolled over to disrupt the crowd around his sister.Did he mean it?He couldn’t possibly, with what he clearly believed about the unsuitability of English ladies to the Highlands. So was he merely teasing her? And if they were so wrong for each other, why did those few words make her feel so… excited?
“I don’t suppose ye have a jig left fer a poor stranger, do ye?” Ranulf’s brother said, appearing on her other side.
“No jigs, but I do have a country dance,” she returned, looking up into his pale blue eyes, very different from both Ranulf’s and Winnie’s.
“I reckon that’ll do, unless Ran chases me off again.” He wrote his name beside the next dance as the orchestra played the last few notes of a quadrille. “Why do ye think he’d do such a thing, my lady?”
Perhaps Arran MacLawry wasn’t quite as good-humored and easygoing as she’d thought. Ranulf had said the middle brother was the clever one. “You would have to ask him,” she said, then put a smile back on her face. “It was good of you to come down to London. I think your brother feels more comfortable having you here.”
Arran inclined his head. “I think my brother keeps his own counsel, but it’s kind of ye to say it, anyway.” With a glance in Ranulf’s direction, he moved off toward the refreshment table.
Before she could ponder what any of that meant, several of her friends arrived to chat about the crush around them and to compliment her dress and her hair. Elizabeth Martin had come out the same year that she had, and Margaret Cooper the year after. Both of them were married, Elizabeth with three children, and Margaret with a boy and a girl. At times she’d envied them for choosing husbands who didn’t see being laughed at as a murderworthy offense, for finding the lives they’d wanted and managing to hang on to them where she hadn’t.
Now, though, as she looked from Mr. Martin with his self-important preening and Lord Roger Cooper with his too tight waistband to the magnificent Lord Glengask laughing at something his sister said, she wondered for the first time if things didn’t happen for a reason. Yes, she would have been perfectly content with James Appleton, and she would have lived a happy and perfectly predictable life.
Immediately that question pushed into the front of her mind again. Why had Ranulf jested about courting her? Or if for some reason he wasn’t teasing, did she want a life with him when it would entail danger and violence and threats both from her own kind and from his fellow Scots? Charlotte shook herself. Everything she knew about him, both through her own observations and in conversations with Winnie, said he wasn’t serious. Therefore she didn’t need to decide. She didn’t need to choose between him and what was fast becoming a dull, predictable, and yet supremely safe life.
When Lord Berling appeared from the card room and made his way toward her, she wasn’t surprised, but a tangle of uneasiness curled down her spine. Would he push at her to try to antagonize Ranulf? Or would his mere presence beside her be enough to make the marquis break his word and attack?
