Page 24 of Hit Me With Your Best Scot
“Precisely. She’ll wish to go home and consult with her mother or sponsor, discover your reputation and income, and then decide whether to give you a quadrille, a country dance, or a waltz. If she grants you a waltz, then you can be fairly assured she’s amenable to making a match. A country dance would signify that she’s being polite but isn’t interested. A quadrille or a cotillion, I imagine, could go either way for you.”
“What about a Scotch reel?”
“As you’re a Highlander, if she grants you a Scotch reel, then she’s a fortune hunter and you should claim a bad knee and run the other way.”
Coll snorted. “Too bold, then?”
“Definitely.”
“Let’s try this again, then. But on my feet, nae with a sandwich in my damn hand.”
He stood, the motion quick and graceful, and held a hand down to her. “Ah, a dress rehearsal, then,” she mutteredwith feigned reluctance, and allowed him to help her to her feet.
“Aye. I’m a tall man with a wide pair of shoulders, and that factors into how I approach a lass, and how she views me.”
That made sense. “Do you prefer tall or petite women, then?”
“Yer size is about right, I reckon.”
“Ah, it is, is it?” she returned, hoping the heat running beneath her skin didn’t show on her face. He’d been trouble from the moment she’d first spied him, and that wasn’t likely to change. She needed to use her head, not her… other parts, where he was concerned, because he could also be very useful.
“Aye. Now ye stand there in the shade, and I’ll come make yer acquaintance.”
Persephone straightened her bonnet and pulled a fan from her reticule. A retiring young lady, pampered and just out of the schoolroom, she decided. Yes, that particular young lass would be his largest challenge, no doubt. “Gavin, you must come over here and be my maid,” she told the groom.
“I will nae,” the large Highlander returned, crossing his arms over his barrel chest.
“Gavin. Be a maid,” Coll instructed. “It’s for the good of Aldriss Park.”
Muttering under his breath, the groom seemed to collapse into himself. Shoulders slumped in utter defeat, he stomped over to stand beside her. “I dunnae ken how to be a lady’s maid,” he grumbled.
“Just be protective of my reputation, and far too aware of etiquette and propriety for anyone to be able to tolerate,” she suggested.
One of his eyes twitched. “Just remember, m’laird,” he called out. “Ye ordered me to do this.”
“Shut it. Ye’re a maid.”
Coll strode away, pacing back and forth in the clearing for a moment as if rehearsing lines in his head, then bent, picked a lone white daisy from the grass, and strolled in her direction.
Good heavens, he was magnificent, his hair ruffling in the wind, his kilt brushing the top of the tall grass, and the proper coat and cravat only accentuating the wildness of the rest of him.
Pushing those thoughts out of the way so she could be useful rather than flinging herself on him, Persephone half turned away. “I’m thinking perhaps I should wear my blue satin gown to the Runescroft soiree, Mary. Do I still have those silver hair ribbons?”
The groom shifted. “Oh, miss, I do think pearls woven through your hair will be magnificent,” he uttered in a high-pitched voice, his London accent horrible and barely understandable. At least he was trying, though.
“Yes, pearls might be just the thing. Well-done, Mary.”
Gavin curtsied in his kilt. “I live to serve ye, miss.”
A great shadow crossed over her, a deeper shade beneath the leafy trees. She looked up, lifting her fan to cover all of her face but her eyes. “My goodness.”
“Good morning to ye, lass,” Coll rumbled. “I’m Glendarril. I saw this wee flower and admired it, but now I reckon it pales in comparison to ye. Tell me yer name, if ye will.”
Oh, that was nice. “Charlotte,” she decided. “Miss Charlotte Rumpole.”
“That’s enough, big man,” Gavin stated, stepping between them. “Miss Charlotte, your mama will be expecting ye.”
“Will ye be attending the Runescroft ball this week, Miss Charlotte?” Coll persisted, sparing a glare for his groom. “I reckon I’d like to have a dance with ye there.”
