Page 3 of Rogue with a Brogue
It likely wasn’t a coincidence that she’d several times now decided to comment on the most barbed portion of his various statements. She was needling him—and on purpose. He liked it. “I’m a very polite lad,” he said aloud, “except to those who dunnae deserve a kind word.”
Amused green eyes looked up to meet his gaze again. “And where do I fall in this hierarchy?” she asked.
Whoever this lass was, she was no timid flower. “Ye’ve some Highlands blood in yer veins, do ye nae, lass?”
She lowered her head for a heartbeat. “I do, at that. But what makes you say so?”
With a crescendo the waltz ended. Arran stood there for a moment, briefly wishing he hadn’t named himself the designated watchdog of his family. Then he would have been free to continue this conversation somewhere more intimate. “Save me a quadrille or someaught, and I’ll tell ye,” he offered instead.
She belatedly untangled herself from his arms. “I would, but there are enough men here that that wouldn’t be… seemly. Another time, perhaps?”
“Aye. Another time. But at least tell me yer name, lass.”
A slow smile curved her attractive mouth once more, and this time the muscles across his abdomen tightened in response. For God’s sake, he hoped she would say Deirdre Stewart. Then he could put this odd heightened awareness to instinct. Taking a step closer again, she put a hand on his shoulder and lifted up on her toes. “I think, Sir Fox,” she murmured, her warm lips brushing his ear, “that you should call me… Lady Vixen.”
With that she moved back, then turned and walked away. She sent him a single glance over her shoulder before she vanished into the sea of sparkling masks.Hm. Whatever the devil that had been about, he felt in need of a cold swim in the nearest loch. His nether MacLawry felt nearly at half-staff, just from having his ear nibbled on. In public. Striding to one side of the room, he captured a glass of vodka from a footman and downed it.
“Who was that, Arran?” his sister asked, appearing beside him to grip his left arm.
He shook himself. If Winnie was here, then Jane Hanover would be directly on her heels. “An old friend,” he improvised, inclining his head as the swan hurried up behind the peacock. At least he’d avoided waltzing with her. “Did anyone write his name on yer wee card fer this quadrille, Lady Jane? And do ye have a country dance left fer yer own brother, Winnie?”
Jane flushed beneath her ornate mask and yellow hair. “Well, I—yes, but—Actually, I… was hoping you—”
If he didn’t stop her floundering, she was likely to injure herself. “Hand over yer card, then, and I’ll scribble doon my name,” he offered, trying to decide to whom he would say he’d promised the damned second waltz when she asked about it—and shewouldask.
With an audible sigh the younger Hanover sister handed him her card and pencil. She’d been claimed for nearly every other dance, he noted, including the second waltz. Thank Lucifer. No wonder she’d been in such determined pursuit of him earlier. Evidently he owed Lady Vixen more of a debt than he’d even realized.
Stifling a sigh of his own, he wrote down his name and returned the card to her, then did the same with his own sister. Rowena still wore the excited smile she’d donned almost from the moment she’d handed him his fox mask yesterday. She had to know that he wasn’t interested in her young friend. Why, then, did she seem to be encouraging Jane’s pursuit of him? He was going to have to have a chat with her—and soon. The last thing he needed was two of his siblings throwing women at him, especially when he felt obligated to favor Ranulf’s selection.
“I still don’t understand howshecould be an old friend,” Jane said, her voice a touch shrill. “Winnie said the MacLawrys don’t like the Campbells.”
Arran jolted back to attention.What was this? “What are ye talking aboot, lass?” he demanded.
Jane took a half step backward. “The… your friend in the vixen mask. You said you were friends.Yousaid it. Not me.”
“I—”
Winnie nudged him in the ribs with her sharp elbow.“Bràthair.”
He ignored that. There was a time for him to be polite, and then there was the Campbells. “Do ye know who she is, Jane?”
“Everyone knows that’s Mary Campbell. Her grandfather is the Duke of Alkirk.”
Rowena gasped, but Arran clenched his jaw against the roar that wanted to erupt from his chest. The charming, intriguing Lady Vixen wasn’t Deirdre Stewart. She was a Campbell. And not just any Campbell, either. She was the granddaughter of William Campbell, the chief of clan Campbell.TheCampbell.
No wonder she hadn’t given her name.
But shehaddanced with him, and jested with him. From her point of view, the petite thing likely thought she was making fun of him. She’d certainly made a fool of him.
“What’s afoot?” Ranulf’s deep voice came, as he and Charlotte Hanover walked up behind them. “The Stewarts have just arrived. Who was the vixen, Arran?”
Arran took a breath. “If ye cannae be bothered to be concerned over the Campbells,” he returned, unwilling to be called a fool by his brother, “ye leave it to me to keep an eye on ’em. The vixen was the Campbell’s granddaughter.”
He’d rarely seen Ranulf surprised, but that did it. The oldest MacLawry sibling shoved his panther half-mask up over his forehead. The face beneath was perhaps more agreeable, but at least as fierce. Dark blue eyes narrowed, and he lifted his hand as if he meant to seize Arran by the lapel. “I told ye to behave,” he said evenly, his voice low and hard.
Arran held his brother and clan chief’s gaze until Ranulf lowered his hand again. Neither of them was known for backing down, but this felt more like a mutual decision not to make a scene—another scene—in the middle of a Mayfair ballroom. “Ye told me to be polite,” he countered, “and so I was.”
“I dunnae recall giving my permission for any of my kin to dance with a Campbell,” Ranulf retorted.
