Page 5 of Rogue with a Brogue
“I do, Walter. The MacLawrys are dangerous beasts. Didn’t you see that brawl they caused at the Evanstone ball? They nearly killed Lord Berling. Your own cousin.”
“My second cousin,” Lord Fendarrow amended. “And a fool. But yes, you are correct, my dear. You didn’t need to insult him, but you shouldn’t have danced with him, either, Mary.”
Mary nodded. “There is a truce, though, is there not? Arnold and Charles and all my other cousins aren’t going to murder Arran MacLawry for dancing with me, are they? Because I don’t think he had the slightest idea who I was.”
And she’d rather enjoyed that, actually. To him she’d been Lady Vixen, and they’d simply chatted. Yes, she’d needled him a bit, but then he was a MacLawry. He hadn’t become flustered or annoyed or defensive at her barbs, though. Rather, he’d shown more wit and humor than she’d expected—after all, she’d grown up on tales of the goat-faced, hairy-knuckled MacLawrys.
She wished she could have seen more of his face, because his mouth with that cynically amused quirk of his lips, the way the lean fox visage seemed to fit his features—he didn’t seem remotely goat-faced. In fact, he intrigued her, just a little.
“To be perfectly clear,” her father said, shaking her out of thoughts of black, wind-blown hair and a lean, strong jaw, “you aren’t to dance with Arran MacLawry or Ranulf MacLawry, or Munro MacLawry if he should venture down from Glengask. Nor are you to befriend Rowena MacLawry. Or the Mackles or Lenoxes or MacTiers or any other of their clan or allies.”
“I—”
“I know you’re aware of your place, Mary,” he continued over her interruption. “I know you’ve been told a hundred times that as my daughter, as your grandfather’s granddaughter, you have a value to both allies and enemies. It wasn’t as… vital when the MacLawrys kept to the Highlands, but they’re here in London now. And simply because my father decided we should at least pretend some diplomacy with the Marquis of Glengask doesn’t meanyouneed to do so.”
“I understand, Father,” Mary said hurriedly, hoping to avoid being bombarded by the entire speech. Because she hadn’t heard it a hundred times; she’d heard it a thousand times. “Truly.”
“Good. Because the present circumstances have provided us with an opportunity we don’t mean to let pass by.”
“An opportunity that hinges on you,” her mother put in, finally taking a seat. “Even though I was married by one-and-twenty, it seems your… stubbornness and your grandfather’s indulgence have now actually benefited us.”
“Indeed,” the marquis resumed. “Your previous reluctance to marry hasn’t helped ease any clan tensions. But your grandfather agrees that this truce can be used to our advantage.”
So far it didn’t seem to be much of an advantage for her, except for one waltz with a man she would otherwise have been forbidden to look at through a spyglass. Then she realized just which opportunity they must be referring to. “You’re setting me after Roderick MacAllister,” she stated, her heart bumping into her throat.
“This truce won’t last,” her father returned matter-of-factly. “The Campbell’s favorite granddaughter marrying the MacAllister’s son will give us the numbers to challenge the MacLawrys, and the MacAllisters wouldn’t make that bargain, sweet as it is, without this cease-fire. We must strike now.” He leaned forward, putting a hand over her teacup before she could lift it for another sip. “And that is why you are not to risk upending this truce by waltzing with Arran MacLawry.”
Ice trailed down her spine. Yes, she could have avoided a dance with a MacLawry—if she’d wished to do so. When she’d realized he had no idea who she was, she’d felt… excited, as if she were doing something forbidden and dangerous. As opposed to something… disquieting. Roderick MacAllister was pleasant enough, and she supposed at the back of her thoughts she’d known he was one of her beaux, along with every male cousin in the Campbell clan. But that didn’t erase the fact that there had been something stirring about waltzing with a rogue.
Her father released the cup of tea and sat back again. “We likely should have had this conversation three years ago when you had your debut.”
“We did,” the marchioness countered, a fine line appearing between her brows. “But who would ever have expected the MacLawrys to come down from the Highlands? Not I, certainly.”
“Not to argue,” Mary said slowly, “but if we are attempting to keep this truce with Lord Glengask and his clan, should we not be more… friendly toward them? Perhaps with a dance or two we can avoid any future bloodshed. Surely that would be worth the risk.”
“Didn’t you hear your father? If Charles Calder or Arnold Haws sees you partnered with a MacLawry, you’ll be causing a fight. If you’re seen favoring that rogue over Lord Delaveer, you will be jeopardizing the most significant alliance of the past hundred years.”
There had already been a fight—several of them, actually—between the Campbells and the MacLawrys this Season. In fact, she had no idea how Lord Glengask and her second cousin George Gerdens-Daily had managed to converse long enough to decide they should attempt to avoid killing each other. But they had, and now no one seemed to know quite what to do. Or rather, her family had decided to use the few moments of peace to nearly double their strength in anticipation of when the truce fell apart. And she was the linchpin.
She pushed to her feet. “So I am not to dance with a MacLawry, and not to be rude to a MacAllister. I believe I can manage that.” Mary came around the table to pat her father on the shoulder. “I’m off to find a new hat, then, and I will be going to luncheon with Elizabeth and Kathleen.”
“Oh, give my best wishes to Kathleen for her mother, dear,” the marchioness said. “I do hope she’ll be recovered enough to attend the Dailys’ recital on Thursday.”
“I’ll tell her.” Mary kissed her mother’s cheek, then made her way out to the foyer to collect her maid, Crawford, and the blue bonnet that matched her walking dress.
“Are you certain you don’t want to take the coach, my lady?” Gerns asked, as the butler helped her with her matching blue shawl.
“We’re only walking to Bond Street,” she returned with a smile, deciding she could use a few moments to clear her head. Because if her parents couldn’t stop talking about one silly waltz with Arran MacLawry, her friends would wish to discuss nothing else.
Of course she knew that logically she shouldn’t have danced with that lean, dark-haired fox half-mask. But for heaven’s sake, to say that she wasn’t allowed to waltz with a gentleman she’d never even met before simply because some man she hadn’t yet agreed to marry might be angry? Ridiculous.
Of course marrying her would be a political coup, a way into clan Campbell’s higher echelons. She’d known that for what seemed like forever. Just the same way she knew that her male cousins and the potential Campbell allies paid her special attention because of her bloodline and not because she was particularly charming or lovely. But Arran MacLawry had danced with her for the simple reason that they’d worn matching masks. It was utterly… mad that everyone had begun roaring and stomping because of a coincidence of costume.
Perhaps next her father would decide she couldn’t waltz with anyone dressed in blue. Or black. Or would it be her husband who dictated that? For heaven’s sake. She hoped she would at least have the chance to chat with Roderick before her family dragged her to a church. All she knew about him at the moment was that he danced tolerably and had a weakness for stinky cheeses. There was a vast difference between amiable chatting and attempting to discover whether a man would make a husband.
“Lady Mary, are we late?” Crawford panted from beside her, her skirts clutched in one hand.
Mary immediately slowed her pace. “I’m so sorry, Crawford. My mind was elsewhere.”
