Page 12 of Hit Me With Your Best Scot
Her deep green eyes narrowed just a touch. “You found an Englishwomansometime between the theater last night and breakfast this morning?”
“Aye, I did. I’m off to see her now.” He swung Nuckelavee around to face the street.
“And does this mysterious woman have a name, then?” she asked, skepticism in every line of her body.
“She does. Mrs. Persephone Jones. She’s a widow. And I’m her protector, until I make her my wife.”
Kicking his heels into the black’s ribs, he headed into the street at a fast trot.Ha. Aden might claim that Coll had a far greater chance of winning an actual brawl over a verbal one, but he didn’t have to be a damned debater to know he’d scored a blow just then.Let her stew on that for a while.
It only took a few minutes to reach Hyde Park, and he reluctantly bypassed Rotten Row for the more civilized pathways deeper in the park. Nuckelavee pulled hard on the reins, clearly wanting to stretch his legs, but Coll heldhim back to a staid and hopefully unthreatening walk. As Aden had said, trampling lasses and wee dogs wouldn’t win him a bride.
Neither would his continued insistence on wearing a kilt to traverse civilized Mayfair, he imagined, but there were some things a man had to insist on if he wanted to keep that title. And this man wore a damned kilt. If he gave that up, next they’d all be telling him he talked funny.
A barouche approached up the path toward him, and he pulled Nuckelavee to one side. “Good morning, ladies,” he said, inclining his head, as he’d decided not to wear a hat.
“My lord,” the tall blonde one said, dipping her parasol. What was her name? Petunia or some other flower, as he recalled. Half the women in London seemed to be named after flora, though, so that didn’t narrow it down by much.
The smaller one sitting beside her blushed bright red. “Lord Glendarril.”
He turned to stay even with the barouche as the driver continued along the path at a walk. “I believe we met at the Gaines ball, did we nae?” he asked.
“Yes. And the Spenfield ball,” the wee one returned.
He remembered the Spenfield ball, for damned certain. Half of Mayfair’s men had been invited with only a handful of lasses, all so Mrs. Spenfield could find husbands for her five daughters. The desserts had been delicious, but he’d felt like a trapped bull the entire evening. “Aye. The Spenfield ball. I didnae even win the horse they were raffling off.”
The tall blonde one gave a wail and collapsed, her head in her hands.
“What the devil did I say?”
The small one ignored him. “Don’t fret, Polymnia,” she said, putting her arm around the weeping one’s shoulder. “You wouldn’t want to marry him, anyway.”
Polymnia. That was her name. Polymnia Spenfield.Damn it all. “I only meant I put my name in the bowl for the horse, and it wasnae drawn,” he said, scowling. “I didnae insult her.”
“You remembered the drawing rather than Polymnia,” the other lass accused. “We must return home, Robert. Good day, Lord Glendarril.”
The driver nodded the back of his head, turning the coach toward the boundary of the park. Coll pulled up Nuckelavee and watched them go. “Did ye hear that, Nuckelavee?” he muttered, patting the horse on the neck. “I recalled the drawing but nae the lass, and that’s an insult.”
The big black tossed his head, just in time for a trio of young ladies strolling past to squeak and dodge out of the way in a tangle of muslin and bonnets.
“Begging yer pardon, lasses. He means ye nae harm.”
“He’s a monster! You shouldn’t be allowed to ride him in the park with civilized persons.”
Coll pulled in a breath. “Aye. Ye’re correct about that.”
Turning the stallion, he headed east. His mother wanted him to wed one of these damned women, when he couldn’t even manage two sentences of conversation with any of them without fighting the urge to lift his kilt and show them his Highlander arse. Hothouse flowers. That’s what his father had said they would be, and evidently Niall and Aden had found the only decent two in all of London.
Mentally, he went down the list of marriageable ladies to whom he’d been introduced, hoping for a stir of interest—or anything but deep dread. He’d met some fair ones, aye, but not one with whom he cared to awaken every morning for the rest of his life.
He’d arrived in London and insulted Amelia-Rose on his first night here. Even if the other lasses hadn’t been aware of the circumstances, they knew that his mother had arranged for him to wed Miss Baxter when he’d nevereven set eyes on the lass, and that he’d been angry—not at Amy, but at his mother, and at himself. So Amy had gone to Niall, thank God, buthe’dbeen left with the reputation for being… well, who he was at his worst, he supposed.
It was nothing he didn’t deserve, but it made finding a bride even more difficult than it would have been under other circumstances. If he took fondness and affection out of the equation, then any of the lasses would do. But even with the noose tightening around his neck, he wasn’t quite ready to close his eyes and point at one of them. Not yet.
“We’d best go back,” he said to Nuckelavee, and looked up to find himself in front of the Saint Genesius Theatre. “Damn me,” he mused, and swung down to the ground. He would go back to Hyde Park. Later.
“Smythe! Send a footman to my office in five minutes!”
“Yes, my lady. Is something am—”
