Page 77 of The Devil Wears Kilts
His uncle clearly remained skeptical, but as long as the viscount did as he was asked, Ranulf could tolerate Myles’s doubts. God knew he had them, himself. The quadrille seemed to last forever, but when it finally ended he watched Henning return Charlotte to her parents, then moved in as the pretty lad likewise relinquished his sister.
“Introduce me, why don’t ye, Rowena?” he suggested smoothly.
She blushed. “Lord Glengask, this is Mr. Harold Myers, Viscount Chaffing’s brother. Harold, my brother, the Marquis of Glengask.”
From her expression she expected him to run the delicate fellow off with a boot to his arse. But Charlotte and her family were right there, so Ranulf smiled and offered his hand. “I’m glad to see my sister making the acquaintance of proper young men,” he said.
“Thank you, my lord.”
Perhaps this was how the English conducted themselves; a smile and handshake on the outside, and bored disdain on the inside. Was that all it was? He needed to learn to be a better liar? It seemed… wrong, unworthy, but Charlotte was smiling. She wasn’t a liar, but then she was also one of the few truly good-hearted people he’d ever met. It was the sour ones who lied, then. The ones who were rotted on the inside and trying to keep their decay a secret.
Well, he didn’t think he was that far gone, but neither was he as pure as Charlotte. All of which had the effect of making this business of not speaking his mind, of not taking the action his heart told him to, that much more difficult. But he would do it. He would learn to do it, for Charlotte.
“That was very nice of you, Ran,” his sister said, looking at him like he’d sprouted wings from his forehead.
He inclined his head. “Who are ye dancing the waltz with?” he asked, keeping his tone light and unconcerned.
“Sir Robert Mason,” she returned, practically bouncing on her toes. “He’s a war hero.”
“Did he tell ye that himself, then,piuthar?” Arran put in as he joined them again.
“He did not. Jane’s friend Susan told me. And he has a limp.”
Arran laughed. “Tom MacNamara has a limp, too, but he got his from drinking too much and trying to milk a bull.”
Rowena slapped Arran’s arm. “Sir Robert did nothing so foolish.”
“Well, I wouldnae admit to that, either. It’s a tale everyone else tells.”
“Never mind that.” What Ranulf wanted to say was that Sir Robert Mason had likely never attempted to milk anything in his entire soft life, but that definitely wouldn’t help anything.
“I happen to know Sir Robert,” Myles put in. “He’s a very pleasant fellow.”
That sounded somewhat like damning with faint praise, but again he kept his thoughts to himself. Keeping his own counsel, at least, was something to which he was accustomed. Even so, when the orchestra struck up the fanfare for the waltz, he was more than ready for a moment to have Charlotte in his arms once more.
Stepping forward, he offered his arm. “I believe this is my dance,leannan,” he drawled, using the word intentionally and catching the stunned look Arran sent him. Even Rowena looked surprised, and she’d tried a bit of matchmaking on his behalf.
She wrapped her hand around his sleeve, and he walked her out to the dance floor. Stunning as she was, a handful of other men turned to watch her pass.Let them look;he was the one who’d been inside her thirty minutes earlier. She belonged to him, whether he could yell it to the sky yet or not.
“Tell me something,” she said, as he placed a hand on her waist and stepped into the swirling, twirling waltz with her.
“Aye?”
“You’ve called meleannantwice tonight in front of your family, and Arran, especially, nearly had an apoplexy. What does it mean, truly?”
He smiled. Of course she would notice his family’s openmouthed reaction. “Love,” he returned. “Lover, sweetheart—all of those things.”
“You might have told me that before.”
“I didnae want to scare ye away, lass.”
Charlotte grinned back at him. “Words don’t frighten me.”
She had the right of that. “What aboot a blizzard so harsh the snow falls sideways?” he asked. “Would that frighten ye?”
“That depends,” she replied “Am I inside by a fire or at least wrapped in a warm coat, or am I standing in the middle of the snow in nothing but my night rail?”
“A roaring fire in a fireplace tall enough fer a man to stand upright in. And a warm blanket and mulled ale, besides.”
