Page 26 of Rogue with a Brogue
“There’s a fish pond in the garden,” she returned, her voice barely more than a soft breath. “I’ll attempt to take a stroll there after dinner.”
Thank God.“Then ye’ll find me there, as well.”
“I hoped you’d say… Your brother’s coming. And, oh, dear, so is Lord Delaveer.”
“Go then, lass. There’s naught fer ye to worry over.” He, on the other hand, had to fight the abrupt urge to punch mild Roderick MacAllister in the face. Shifting the curtains aside with his fingers, he took another drink. For the first time he realized the glass was vodka. He generally detested vodka. Whisky at least had some character.
“What’s so interesting oot there in the dark?” Ranulf asked, stopping beside him.
“There’s air oot there,” Arran replied. “More than I can find in here.”
His brother nodded. “Nights like this do make me long fer the Highlands.”
Arran faced him. “Then let’s go home. Bring yer Charlotte with ye—all the Hanovers, fer that matter—and let’s be gone from here, before someaught happens,” he returned, sudden desperation thinning his voice. Disaster loomed from every direction, and most especially from where he most wanted to turn. Toward a Campbell, of all people.
“I’m nae having this discussion here,bràthair. And I’ll nae flee trouble.”
“What trouble? There’s a truce. And we shouldnae be so far from Glengask when it ends.” And he had the distinct feeling that if they didn’t leave London, hopefully tonight, he would be the one to end that truce. Because he couldn’t seem to stay away from Mary Campbell, even after knowing her for only a week. Because he wanted more than kisses. He wanted her.
“I’m nae ready to leave yet,” his brother responded coolly. “If ye’re homesick, then go. I dunnae need ye here if ye’ve nae a mind to do as I ask ye. But dunnae think that leaving excludes ye from yer duty to clan MacLawry.”
“Fer the devil’s sake, Ranulf, have ye spoken to Deirdre?” Arran asked, sotto voce. “She has the brains of a rock. A wee rock.”
A gong rang at one end of the room, loud as the bells of doom. “Dinner is served, ladies and gentlemen,” Lord Penrose said grandly, as if no one had ever eaten before. “We do not stand on ceremony here, so take a seat where you like. The only rule is that you not sit beside a spouse or family member.”
For some reason the guests seemed to find that amusing. In Arran’s limited experience with Sasannach dinners, though, it wasn’t uncommon. Evidently at a to-do where everyone was supposed to be clever, laughing at the host’s humor was a way to be invited again next year. He didn’t plan to be in London next year whatever happened with the Stewarts, and he’d only come here tonight to see Mary, so he didn’t bother to pretend a laugh.
As the guests flowed from the drawing room to the dining room with its yards-long table, Ranulf put a hand on his shoulder. “Dunnae even think of sitting near the Campbells,” he whispered. “I’ll nae have ye making a stir to overturn this agreement with the Stewarts. A wee rock fer brains, or nae. Mayhap I’ll inquire if the Stewart has a brighter niece fer ye.”
Arran shrugged free. “Mind yerself. There’s more than one way fer a man to be a fool.”
“Ye and I are going to have a discussion when we get back to Gilden House tonight.” This time Ranulf’s voice was flat and toneless—a certain sign the marquis was not amused.
“I look forward to it.”
Without a backward glance Arran walked around to the far side of the table and claimed a chair between a pretty blond lass and an ancient-looking lady with white hair pulled into a bun so tight its purpose seemed to be to keep her eyes open. Good. He didn’t feel like engaging either his wits or his patience over roasted duck and summer pudding. All of his attention focused on the autumn-haired lass two-thirds of the way down the table and seated between a round, bald fellow and a hatchet-faced older man. If she’d been joined by Lord Delaveer he wasn’t certain what he would do—but he knew he wouldn’t have liked it. At all.
“Are we supposed to introduce ourselves?” the younger lass asked, her voice high-pitched and breathy. She actually lowered her head to gaze at him through her eyelashes.
“I shouldn’t bother, dear,” the tight-faced woman replied, leaning her ample bosom in front of Arran to do so. “You’re here to be gazed upon. Leave the cleverness to the ugly people.”
“But—”
“Never mind her,” the fellow past the lass countered, then offered his hand. “Thomas, Lord Addent.”
“Oh.” Looking mollified, the blond lass shook his fingers. “Lady Constance Overton.”
Arran returned his attention to the white-haired woman. “I’m nae inclined to introduce myself,” he drawled, “because I reckon ye’ll call me ugly.”
She barked a laugh. “You can be the exception, young man.” With a baleful glance at the chinless fellow on her other side, she held out her hand, wrist limp.
Taking her pale fingers, Arran bowed over them. “Arran MacLawry,” he intoned.
“Ah. Glengask’s brother. Why notLordArran?”
“It sounds pretentious. I’ve nae anyone I need to impress tonight.”
Retrieving her hand, she cackled again. “I like you. Lady Forsythe-Hendley, and Iampretentious. If people don’t bow and scrape before you, what’s the point of being titled and paying all those taxes?”
