Page 25 of Rogue with a Brogue
Time, then, either to confess that he’d struck up a friendship with Mary Campbell, or to lie about it. “Ye’re the clan chief. Ye figure it out.” If Ranulf hadn’t unilaterally decided that they were to alter their way of life based on who his in-laws would be, Arran might have answered differently. As things stood, he met his brother’s gaze squarely, his fists coiling for the inevitable brawl. Before one of them could throw the first punch, though, their uncle Myles stepped between them.
“Good evening, lads,” the Earl of Swansley said with a warm smile. “I wanted to warn you that Lady Penrose is particular friends with Lady Fendarrow, so the Campbells will likely be in attendance tonight. I seem to be tardy in that.”
Ranulf sent Arran a last, annoyed glance. “Aye. Next time ye might warn usbeforewe agree to attend. Arran shook Fendarrow’s hand.”
Myles lifted both eyebrows. “You—you did?”
“Aye. Ran says we’re civilized now.”
“Well. Speaking of which, Ranulf, I managed to arrange that meeting you wanted with Kerns-Stanley and Dryden. We’re to lunch together on Tuesday, so if you can bring Allen to the table, we may have that agreement you’ve been after. The…”
Arran took the moment to slip into the mass of milling Sasannach. Ranulf would be safe with Uncle Myles beside him, and the two of them could discuss their strategy for befriending English bankers and anglicized Scotsmen to their hearts’ content. There were basketfuls of other weak-chinned, round-shouldered Englishmen for them to flirt with tonight, if bankers weren’t enough for them.
At least Rowena had had other plans; she and Jane Hanover had asked half of London’s debutantes to Hanover House for an evening of dinner and charades. It sounded like a lace-covered nightmare. Even Ranulf had looked relieved when Charlotte had informed him that men were not invited.
Whether that would keep his brother from going out later and climbing the trellis beneath Charlotte’s bedchamber window was another matter entirely. Privately he hoped it would keep Ranulf home, because he was growing tired of sleeping with one eye open so he could hear his brother slip out of the house. If Ranulf had known that his clandestine evenings were anything but a secret, much less that he was being shadowed whenever he left the house at night, he would have been furious. Disagreeing or not, though, they were brothers. And whatever else happened, he would still protect his brother with his last breath.
A footman edged his way by, a tray of drinks in his hands. Arran took one and downed it without tasting it. He wanted to go see where Mary might be, if her father was far enough away that they could risk a moment of conversation. It was ridiculous, of course; any of half a dozen lasses present tonight would be happy to find a private room with him. And none of them were Campbells.
Whatever madness had seized him, he didn’t feel inclined to fight against it. He liked being in her company, and as far as he was concerned, he hadn’t spent enough time there. A bit of a tease, a taste, every morning had only served to whet his appetite. Beyond that—well, no damned body seemed inclined to give him a moment to figure that out.
“Good evening, Lord Arran,” a soft coo of breath came, barely audible over the din of the room.
He tried not to flinch as he turned around. “Lady Deirdre,” he returned, inclining his head. Her dark hair was pulled up into a knot, her pale skin nearly translucent above a deep blue gown. “You look lovely,” he continued, forcing himself to stop searching the room for Mary.
She curtsied. “Thank you. I’ve heard there may be music later. Will you sit with me to listen?”
That seemed like one of Dante’s lower levels of hell. Arran hid his frown. None of this was her fault. He supposed he owed her an attempt at congenial conversation. “What do you think of the two of us being pushed together?”
Large brown eyes almost met his, then lowered again. “You’re very handsome, my lord, and of course we must do as our families think best.”
“Aye, but what aboutyou?” he asked, emphasizing the last word. “Do ye have other wishes?”
She offered him a demure smile. “I wish to do my best,” she returned.
“At what?”
“At… whatever my family and my husband require, of course.”
Of course. And now he felt ready to stab himself with a fork. “Will ye excuse me fer a moment?” he bit out.
“Oh, certainly, Lord Arran.”
Good God. A mere five minutes of that could well kill him. A lifetime was unimaginable. For the first time it wasn’t annoyance and frustration digging at him as he thought of being leg-shackled to that. It was dread, and a fair bit of horror. He turned around, making for the far side of the room.
Finally he spied Mary, standing with a small group of young people all chatting loudly about something, and the knot in his chest loosened. Unlike her friends, she wasn’t gabbing. Instead, her moss-green gaze roamed the room like she was looking for someone. Looking for him, he hoped.
Snagging another drink, he rounded the fringe of the room until he was close by one of the windows overlooking the street below. A step behind him stood Mary, facing in the opposite direction. He took a breath. “This is nae what I had in mind fer tonight,” he murmured.
Silence. From her, at least; the room fairly vibrated with the cacophony of voices. He drew another breath, wondering how loudly he could speak to the window before people began to notice. Or if shehadheard him, and decided she wasn’t willing to risk anyone seeing them speaking to the air in the same vicinity.
“It’s very crowded this year,” Mary’s voice came softly, a sweet note amid the chaos. “Lord Penrose acquired a Donatello sculpture last month. I think he wants to make certain everyone sees and admires it.”
“So he’s showing off? Do all these people know it?”
“Most of them do. But an invitation to this dinner is generally very difficult to come by. So when someone is invited, they accept.”
“I didnae come here to see a piece of marble.” A lordling close by sent him a sideways glance, then abruptly found somewhere else to be when Arran looked back at him.
