Page 21 of To Defy a Highland Duke

Bloody hell, aye.

His cousin had acted like an arse, and now Keane would have his uncle’s wrath directed at him. Uncle Bothan turned a blind eye to Lorne’s faults, which was partially why his cousin had become an unruly whoremonger. “Nae. I’m still fumin’ about my cousin’s treatment of ye, ’tis all. I still itch to thrash him.”

She offered a nascent smile but didn’t deny her upset. “I confess, I’m rather rattled myself yet.”

Blinding fury had consumed him when Lorne grabbed her. Instead of creating a monumental scene, she’d tried to extricate herself discretely.

If Keane hadn’t been watching her…

His gut flopped over at the ugly thought. Aye, he’d banish Lorne from Trentwick. He’d not welcome a despoiler of women beneath his roof, cousin or not. “’Tis nae wonder. Ye handled yerself with admirable aplomb.”

“Do you truly think so?” she wrinkled her nose. “I think I should’ve been more assertive early on. Nipped Mr. Buchannan’s attentions in the bud, as it were. Instead, I do what I generally do. Retreat into politesse.”

“Aye, I do think so,” he insisted.

She glowed under his praise, her eyes shining with pleasure. “Oh?”

Did no one ever compliment her?

“’Tis nae an easy task wardin’ off a drunkard without drawin’ the eye of every person in attendance,” he went on.

She gave a self-conscious lift of her shoulder. “Ah, but in case you haven’t detected, I’m rather invisible despite this.” She fluttered long, elegant fingers toward the bright red curls topping her head and gracing her left shoulder. Her hair shimmered like lustrous flames in the candlelight.

“I canna fathom it,” he denied.

And he couldn’t. He could scarce tear his eyes from Marjorie.

How could anyone ignore her?

She consumed way more of his thoughts and attention than she ought.

He should be attending to his guests, seeking alliances, monitoring his wards. Looking over the crowd, he spied them happily chatting and—by damn, flirting! Flirting!—with Camden Kennedy and Bryston McPherson.

A scowl furrowed his brow as his protective instincts kicked into full awareness.

Keane didn’t like that. Not one bit.

He blamed those damned new gowns his wards had insisted upon having. When Branwen and Bethea had entered the hall tonight, arm in arm, their faces glowing with excitement and anticipation, he’d bitten his tongue to keep from telling them to return to their chambers at once and don different attire.

Preferably something shapeless and sack-like in a mud-brown or ash-gray.

My God, how was he to endure a week of men ogling them and Marjorie?

Dinna forget Lady Constance’s petulance.

This was exactly why he didn’t entertain or attend social functions.

That last thought brought him up short. At once, Keane smoothed his features. He would manage. He was a duke and a laird. Monitoring his wards and assuring Marjorie wasn’t harassed couldn’t be all that difficult.

The music for the Strathspey began, and he bowed as she curtsied. The dance steps prohibited anything but casual remarks for the next several minutes. Each time he and Marjorie came together and touched hands, a jolt sluiced through him.

He knew it for what it was. Lust.

Keane hadn’t slaked his carnal appetite in a good while, and with each graceful turn and skip of the elegant woman obsessing his thoughts, his hunger to take her to his bed burgeoned. To brush his fingers over her pearly skin and see that splendid mane of coppery hair spilling over her naked body and across his pillows.

He stifled a groan, and she gave him an inquisitive look as the dance steps took her away for a skip and a hop. He ordered the unruly organ at his groin to behave itself, which his cock promptly ignored. It rebelliously throbbed with renewed vigor when he took her hand once more.

A woman like Marjorie expected—deserved—love and marriage.