Page 92 of The Devil Wears Kilts
He narrowed his eyes. “Have I mentioned that the Sasannach are too stiff-spined?”
With a chuckle, she handed him the dance card and a pencil. “Yes, I believe you have.” When he chose the second waltz of the evening, she took a step closer. “Have you heard anything more from Berling or Gerdens-Dailey?”
“Nae. In fact, Debny had word that George left London for Sholbray Manor. I’m to meet him there at the end of the month, but he may have decided to go out looking on his own. I told him the approximate location of the grave.”
“That was a very brave thing you did,” she said, her changeable hazel gaze meeting his.
“Brave? Nae. I will agree that it was the correct thing to do. And I’ll also say that Gerdens-Dailey surprised me a bit. I actually thought he’d be more likely to answer me with a knife to the gizzard.”
Her fair skin paled.Bloody hell.She’d paid him a compliment, and he’d replied once again like a barbarian. Of course he was a barbarian, according to most people. There were times he liked the title. Whether she truly wished to be known as the devil’s wife, though, he had no idea. But he was going to have to ask her. Very soon. Because the only thing worse than having her refuse him would be speculating endlessly over how she would break his heart.
“Charlotte,” he murmured, gripping her fingers. “I need to ask ye a question.”
Charlotte’s breath caught in her chest. Would he do it? Would he finally ask her? She smiled up at him, wishing no one else were around so she could kiss him until neither of them could breathe. “I’m listening.”
A hand slid around her other arm. “Charlotte, people are beginning to stare,” her mother said, favoring Ranulf with an uneasy smile. “And look who’s here—Lord Stephen Hammond.”
Ranulf released her hand as if he hadn’t noticed how long he’d been holding it. She liked that, that he liked touching her. Heaven knew she craved touching him, even if it was just a brush of fingers or her mouth against his. “Ranulf,” she murmured.
“I’ll find us a private moment or two,” he returned in the same tone.
“Ah, Lady Charlotte,” Lord Stephen said, walking up and taking her hand. “Please tell me you haven’t given away both waltzes tonight.”
She fixed a smile as she faced the light-haired duke’s son. In the past he’d been generally polite, if somewhat… patronizing. But over the past year or so his treatment of her had changed. In fact, until he’d appeared at the Esmond soiree and been so pleasant to her, he’d been just as likely to make jokes—ones she was no doubt meant to hear—about spinsterhood and poor shots.
“I—”
He took the dance card from her hand before she could finish. “Ah, I see you haven’t. The first waltz must be mine, then.”
Charlotte cleared her throat, very aware of Ranulf standing like a granite mountain directly behind her. “My apologies, my lord, but I’ve promised that waltz to Lord Arran MacLawry.” It wasn’t perfect, but Arran was standing close by, and he was firmly in the category of ally.
“Nonsense,” Stephen insisted, and she noticed that his good friend Simon Beasley had appeared, as well. “Simon,” he went on, penciling in his name and then handing her card over to Mr. Beasley, “which do you want—the first quadrille, or the last country dance?”
“Lord Stephen, I don’t intend to do much dancing, tonight,” she tried again. “Please give that back to me.”
Stephen laughed. “You don’t want everyone thinking you’ve fallen for a Highlander, do you? Once he’s gone, and I’ve been assured he will be gone soon, likely never to return, you’ll have no hope at all of netting a husband. Who in his right mind wants to think he’s lapping up after a Scot? Especially when you’re already, well, on the back of the shelf.”
A hand darted out from past her shoulder, retrieved her dance card, and smoothly handed it to her. “Feel free to cross those off,” Ranulf drawled. “Ye were more polite than I would’ve been.”
Her sudden alarm became relief. He evidentlyhadfound a way to use his brain rather than his muscles—though both were exceedingly fine, and even more dear to her. “Thank you, my lord,” she said, doing precisely as he suggested.
“You’re making a mistake, my dear,” Simon Beasley commented, leering at her. Good heavens, he was drunk. And that meant Stephen more than likely was, as well. “If we wished it, we could see that you never have a partner for a dance ever again.”
“That hardly seems likely, gentlemen,” her father put in, his jaw tight but his expression uneasy. If anyone disliked a scene more than she did, it was the Earl of Hest. “I suggest you go somewhere and recover yourselves.”
“And I suggest you—”
“Why is it,” Ranulf interrupted, just the sound of his voice shutting the duke’s son up, “that when ye have some difficulty with a man, ye instead go to insult the people standing close to him instead of saying what ye mean?” He moved up to stand beside Charlotte.
Stephen snorted. “Because a fool is a fool, and has no idea how very poorly he shows, even if you try to make thatburninglyobvious to him. Those standing around him, though, should know better.” He narrowed his eyes, gazing at Charlotte again. “You’ll be lucky if you don’t have to pay someone to—”
Ranulf’s hand shot out again. This time it was coiled into a fist, and it struck Lord Stephen Hammond flush on the jaw. Stephen staggered backward, flailing his arms. In the next moment Simon Beasley leaped forward and threw a punch at Ranulf’s head. Then three more men charged in, all swinging at the marquis.
They weren’t drunk, she realized in the horrified second after she deciphered what Hammond had meant. He’d been the one to set fire to Ranulf’s stable. Since that hadn’t stopped the marquis, they’d done this. And now they’d merely been waiting for Ranulf to strike first. And then they would no doubt beat him half to death and claim they were only attempting to subdue the devil. “Stop it!” she shrieked, batting at Beasley with her reticule.
Arran MacLawry appeared and dove into the melee—so at least Ranulf wasn’t alone. Everyone else… could all go to the devil. They stood well out of the way, pretending to be appalled and at the same time jockeying for a better view and making wagers on the outcome.
From somewhere else the gray-haired Viscount Swansley arrived, swearing, and dragged someone off Ranulf. Was it truly to be the MacLawrys against the rest of Mayfair? Why? For heaven’s sake, Ranulf had made every effort to fit in. They wouldn’t let him. And if it was because of her, because some stupid aristocrat didn’t like that a Scotsman might win over an Englishwoman when none of them had done so…
