Page 27 of Rogue with a Brogue
He grinned. “At least ye admit to it.”
“I insist on it.”
While Lord Addent charmed breathy Lady Constance Overton, Arran spent most of the dinner chatting with the sharp-tongued dowager countess. He knew precisely where his brother was seated, close to the head of the block-long table with Uncle Myles only a few chairs away. He’d found Mary’s parents, flanking her on the opposite side of the table, likely as watchful for MacLawrys as he generally was for Campbells. And Deirdre sat closer to him than he liked, and only one seat down from Roderick MacAllister—two unwanted pawns in an unwanted game.
“You’re unmarried, I hear,” Lady F—as she’d insisted he call her—commented.
“I am.” For the moment, anyway. “Why, do ye have a granddaughter to set after me?”
She slapped her hand on the table. “Heavens, no. The girl’s a complete imbecile, just like her parents. I plan on having her marry Lord Pettigrew. That’ll show him.”
Arran laughed. “Ye’re a cruel woman, Lady F.”
“Indeed, I am. So who is she?”
He lowered an eyebrow. “Beg pardon?”
“You’re young, unmarried, sitting beside one of the Season’s beauties, and you’re chatting with me. Either you fancy the bearded set, or someone’s got your attention.”
If it was that obvious to a complete stranger, he was going to have to be more cautious. Turning now to flirt with Lady Constance would be far too obvious, so he kept the grin on his face. “I’m a Highlands lad. Only a Highlands lass will do fer me.”
“Then you are in the wrong place, Arran MacLawry. You won’t find any of those here.”
There were two, actually, even if they’d been raised English. But only one had the Highlands spirit. One of them he had no wish to engage in conversation, and the other he was forbidden to approach. “Hence me chatting with ye, my lady. And ye’ve kept me from nodding off into my onion soup.”
“Likewise. It’s only a shame I’m not fifty years younger, or I’d show you the merits of English ladies.” She put a hand over his, but the gesture felt friendly rather than amorous. “I was at the Lansfield soiree when you and Glengask wore your full Scottish regalia. Evenmyheart went pitter-patter, I think. My great-grandmother was a MacDonald. You made me proud of that.”
Arran wasn’t certain anyone should boast about being a MacDonald, but he understood the sentiment, and nodded. “Alba gu bràth.” Scotland forever.
A few years ago just saying that might’ve seen him thrown in prison, but Lady F only smiled and nodded. Very well, not every Sasannach was a fool. He did have friends among them—men like William Crane, Viscount Fordham, with whom he’d served in the army. But outside of that, he hadn’t even bothered to consider he might find a friendly face. Much less an interesting one. Of course she was part Scottish, which could explain it.
Beyond that, he did his best not to rush through every course. He couldn’t force everyone to eat more quickly so he could go strolling in the garden. Whoever said that anticipation was the best part of a reward deserved a clout to the back of the head. Both he and Mary had already skirted rules and orders. They would be outright defying their family patriarchs if they went out to meet by the pond—and whether she appeared or not was the only thing that concerned him. And he knew what that meant. He was becoming obsessed with the last woman in the world he should ever be approaching, and he was willing to risk his own safety and that of his clan just to see her.
***
Deirdre Stewart looked from Arran MacLawry, as close by her as she could manage to sit, to Lady Mary Campbell, halfway down the table. It didn’t make any sense. She’d done everything right, just the way she’d been taught. Let a man know of her interest, smile and laugh, flirt and be nothing but pleasant and mild.
In addition, her father had said that her marriage to Lord Arran would gain the Stewarts more ships for trading, more crops to sell, and more stability in the Highlands without them having to be there. It should have been her he’d been whispering to behind the crowd tonight. It should have been her meeting him down by the pond for… whatever it was they meant to do there.
She could imagine, of course. He would kiss her, and she would smile at him and tell him how handsome and wicked he was—at least that was how she’d imagined it would be when he askedherto meet him somewhere private. Oh, she could almost swoon just thinking of it.
Except that it wouldn’t be her. From the way he’d looked at Lady Mary when he thought no one else noticed, he might agree to marry someone else—her—but it would be a misery. Her, being made to look foolish by a Campbell and a MacLawry. The Stewarts and the MacLawrys were supposed to be forming an alliance, through her and Arran. How could they do that when he was sneaking off to see someone who was supposed to be his enemy?
If Lord Fendarrow discovered that they were somewhere together, Mary Campbell would likely be sent home to Fendarrow for the rest of the Season. And then perhaps Arran would do as he’d been told, and turn his gaze to her. She was one of the Season’s beauties, after all. Everyone said so. And Mary Campbell had been out for three years, and Deirdre couldn’t recall if anyone had ever called her a beauty.
As the ladies finally rose to leave the table she found Lord Fendarrow, seated several chairs away. Lord Glengask had been so adamant that nothing happen to disturb this truce they’d somehow arranged so she could tellhim,of course, but then he might send Arran away. All the MacLawrys would vanish back into the Highlands, and would have no need of the Stewarts. No, the Marquis of Fendarrow would know just what to do—and she would be helping the Stewarts, the MacLawrys, the MacAllisters, and the Campbells, all at the same time. And when had anyone ever accomplished that?
Chapter Seven
Mary followed her mother out of the dining room as all the ladies left the gentlemen behind to their brandy and cigars. Servants had opened the double doors at the far end of the drawing room to reveal an additional sitting room. Why they hadn’t done that earlier when everyone was crowded together like potatoes in a sack, she had no idea. Of course she didn’t intend to spend much time in there, regardless of whether there was room to exhale or not.
“Mother,” she said, touching the marchioness’s powder-blue sleeve, “please excuse me. I’ll be back shortly.”
Her mother nodded, most of her attention on Lady Penrose and the story she was telling about the massive dining room table. “I’ll save a seat for you, dear. Don’t be long.”
With her heart pounding, she retreated downstairs and left the house through the servants’ entrance across from the stable yard. She would be insomuch trouble if her parents discovered what she was doing and who she was seeing. It thrilled and terrified her all at the same time. A heady combination indeed, and that wasn’t even adding in Arran and his intoxicating voice and kisses.
Torches lined the garden paths, and she found the pond with no difficulty. Golden scales flashed orange in the firelight, and she sat on a bench in the shadows to watch. Crawford had been convinced that Arran meant to wait until she was alone and then set half of clan MacLawry on her like wolves. Well, she was alone now, and he knew it. If he did mean trouble, she would much rather know it.
