Page 91 of The Devil Wears Kilts
“Enough, Arran,” he broke in. “We’re going to a proper soiree, we’re going to behave, and I’ll figure out the rest, if ye dunnae mind.”
“Fine.”
“Fine.”
Well, wasn’t that splendid. The sense of euphoria that had filled him all day flattened. He was still a Highlander, the leader of his clan, and she was still an English lady accustomed to soft winters and warm summers. And whatever she might have said about understanding his use of “bashing,” as she called it, she couldn’t possibly feel easy about it.
“Ran, I didnae mean—”
“Ye’ve helped me quite enough, Arran. I only hope when ye find the woman ye love, she’ll be perfect and ye’ll ne’er have a complaint or worry aboot her. And vice versa.”
“That sounds a wee bit dull, actually.”
“Aye. And dunnae ye forget that.”
Arran blew out his breath. “I wasnae trying to talk ye oot of anything. I’m only… I worry that she’ll be—”
“She’s nae Eleanor,” Ranulf commented, finally understanding. “She’s nae after a title, and damn the consequences. I want her to be happy. Not just… by my side.”
His brother looked out the window for a long moment, much as he had earlier. “Then I think she’s rather bonny. And I think ye look happy when ye’re together. Just… Be certain, Ran. Please. Fer both yer sakes.”
Ranulf had informed Charlotte ahead of time that he would be in full Highlander regalia, giving her the opportunity to scowl or argue with him before he appeared in public. But she hadn’t done either, which at the time he’d taken as a good sign. Now he couldn’t help wondering if she was just… humoring him—and whether he actually embarrassed her. How could he be certain, as Arran suggested? The answer wasn’t in his mind, but in hers. And he couldn’t know it, until she told him. If she told him.
That was a glum thought. When the coach stopped in the street outside Lansfield House he nearly changed his mind about going in. But he’d made his bed, so he might as well wear a kilt in it. Or something like that.
“Lord Glengask and Lord Arran MacLawry,” the butler intoned, as they stepped into the ballroom. He could hear the swarm of whispers beginning at the front of the room and swelling to the back. Whatever the damned fuss over a man showing off his knees, he might as well enjoy it—or at least become accustomed to it.
Now that he considered it, there was another possible solution; he could remain in London. The idea of not seeing Glengask except for the occasional holiday made him ill to his stomach, but he supposed he could do it if by staying in England he could have Charlotte.
Almost as soon as he conjured that idea, though, he discarded it again. Whatever the MacLawry family crest said, it wasn’tanyMacLawry whose presence at Glengask signaled to his people that all was well and they were safe and protected; it was the marquis, the clan chief, who needed to be there. And that, for better or worse, was he.
A swirl of gold caught his eye, and he looked up as Charlotte and her family strolled into the ballroom. She’d chosen to wear a gold silk with an overlay of black lace and beads that made her look both elegant and eminently desirable. He let out a slow breath as he took her in from head to toe and back again. Magnificent.
“Are we going to stand here all night, or—”
Without waiting for his brother to finish, he set off toward his sister and the Hanovers. Tradition said he would have to ask Lord Hest for his daughter’s hand, and he likely should have asked by now. And he knew precisely why he hadn’t. Firstly, the earl would refuse him, and secondly, he still hadn’t been able to convince himself that taking her to Scotland wasn’t utterly selfish.
She smiled as she caught sight of him, and he had to work not to speed his steps. Glorious, she was. All the men who’d looked at her and passed her by, out of courtesy or because they wanted a new debutante or because they only saw her as the betrothed of a dead man—they were all fools.
“Good evening,” he said, inclining his head as he reached the group.
“Glengask,” her father intoned, sending both him and Arran a sour look. “Why do you insist on making a stir?”
“I’m nae making a stir,” he returned, straightening his shoulders. “I’m being the Marquis of Glengask.”
His sister leaned up and kissed him on the cheek. “I think you lookbrèagha,Ran,” she whispered. “You and Arran, both.”
“My thanks,piuthar.”
Charlotte held out her hand, and he lowered his head to kiss her knuckles. “I think you lookbrèaghaas well,” she said with a smile.
“Ye nearly have a proper brogue,” he returned. “Tell me there will be a waltz tonight.”
“There will be two. Which would you like?” She produced her dance card from her reticule.
“Both.”
“Ranulf.”
