Page 83 of The Devil Wears Kilts
“She was quite a prize to pass by, too—the daughter of an earl with a dowry that was impressive to start with.” Stephen did some calculations on his fingers. “Now, seven years later, it’s probably more than double what she was worth at eighteen, just as compensation for her being five-and-twenty.”
Ranulf took a swallow of weak wine. “I would wager the two of ye are making a point of some kind,” he drawled.
“Just that you have your women and we have ours, and no one likes a poacher.” Lord Stephen angled his glass of wine in Ranulf’s direction, toasting him. “Especially when a man is a visitor. It’s rather like being asked in for dinner and then stealing the silverware.”
Now it made sense. He wasn’t the point of conflict; Charlotte was. That surprised him, though now that he considered it, it likely shouldn’t have. “I have a house here in London,” he said, then realized that he sounded submissive and apologetic. He might be attempting tolerance, but he damned well wasn’t anyone’s whipping boy. “And even if I didnae,” he continued deliberately, “if a lass doesnae have a ring on her finger, she’s fair game.”
Beasley’s left eye twitched. “We’ll just call everything fair game, then.”
Ranulf fiddled with the knife beside his plate. “Ye live in a soft land, lads. Before ye declare the start of someaught, keep in mind that I came here fer polite conversation and a good meal. I can leave that same way, with ye knowing that once I depart London, I’m nae likely to return anytime soon. Or ye can begin someaught that may not end the way ye like.”
With a laugh that didn’t sound at all genuine, Lord Stephen sat back in his chair. “We’re merely conversing here, Glengask. There’s no need for threats.”
“I agree,” Ranulf drawled. “So stop making them.”
Myles leaned in to empty the wine bottle into his glass. “I heard that Sullivan Waring is sending five horses down to Tattersall’s next week. The rumor is they may go for as much as three hundred pounds apiece.”
“That’s ridiculous.” Beasley snorted. “Not even Waring’s horses are worth that much.”
Lord Stephen continued gazing at Ranulf, who coolly looked right back at him. If the fellow thought a good stare would frighten him off, well, Ranulf had overestimated the Sasannach. And his expectations had been fairly low to begin with. Finally the duke’s son turned his eyes to Simon Beasley. “I think it’s safe to say that we all know where we stand here, and that perhaps we began today on the wrong note.”
“Well said,” Myles agreed. “May I suggest we begin again?”
“I dunnae quite see the point.” Ranulf set his utensils down, giving up on the gravy-drowned monstrosity on his plate. “Ye spoke what ye meant—more or less. Anything now, polite as ye may word it, would be a lie.”
“But we all lie to each other, Glengask. I told Simon his new coat could well begin a new fashion, for example, when truly I think it hideous and the color of vomit.”
Beasley brushed at his front. “I say, Stephen.”
“Oh, for God’s sake, Simon, it’s lime green.”
If these two men had been suspicious and hostile, Ranulf could have tolerated it. He would even have respected it, to a degree. But as he listened to the two men debating the merits or lack thereof of a lime-green coat, he realized that every smile he ever gave them, every quip he laughed at, would be a lie. These men and he would never be friends. They came from different worlds, and other than a shared fascination with Charlotte they had absolutely nothing in common.
Because he had a great deal invested in this experiment, he stayed through the end of the meal and even made an effort at nonsensical small talk. It was exhausting, and he’d nearly decided that he preferred anger to boredom when the Englishmen climbed to their feet.
Lord Stephen offered his hand. “I assume you mean to continue your pursuit of Lady Charlotte Hanover, then?”
“I dunnae think that’s any of yer business, Hammond.”
The duke’s son lowered his hand again. “That’s good to know as well, Glengask.”
“Aye. I thought we should be clear.”
Ranulf walked outside with his uncle. Even London air felt welcome after that, and he took a deep breath. “So were they meant to be friends, or did ye have someaught else in yer head?” he asked, as the Swansley coach circled around to meet them.
“You accused me once—and rightly so—of being too trusting. I try not to make the same mistake more than once. And those two make me… suspicious.”
“Aye. My skin’s still crawling,” Ranulf agreed. “Anything particular ye care to share?”
Myles shook his head. “No.” As they climbed into the coach, he sat forward. “I did want you to be aware that that sentiment exists among some of my fellows. But for God’s sake don’t judge every peer by the behavior of those two men. There are good people here, and I would be proud to introduce you to some of them.”
The viscount’s voice shook a little. Was he worried that he would once again be judged by the company he’d elected to keep? Or did he truly want Ranulf to find friendships in London? Either way, it was touching.
“Give me a day or two to get the bad taste oot of my mouth,” he returned, “and I’ll be happy to meet yer actual friends.”
And skeptical as he was about the whole thing, he had one very good reason to give London and Londoners another go—Charlotte liked it here, and he would not make the mistake his father had in keeping an English lass locked away in the Highlands when her heart lay elsewhere. Especially when his heart lay squarely with her.
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