Page 46 of To Defy a Highland Duke

He sketched a half-bow, and Marjorie forced herself not to watch him stride away. Instead, she watched a rather good juggler entertaining a small crowd.

“We’ve not been formally introduced,” Lady Constance said with only the merest inflection of a Scottish brogue in her refined voice. “I’m Lady Constance Abercrombie. My father, the Earl of Newville, owns the lands adjacent to Roxdale’s western border.”

Ah, and did papa want those lands merged via a marriage between two noble houses? Lord Newville would find himself sorely disappointed should Marjorie accept Keane’s offer. As would her ladyship, Marjorie warranted.

Lady Constance’s smile widened a fraction as her deprecating gaze took Marjorie’s measure from her uncovered hair to her simple woolen cloak. Though not so much as an eyelash flickered, Marjorie had the distinct impression that despite the woman’s amiable demeanor, she found her lacking and inferior in every regard.

It mattered not. Marjorie didn’t give a beggar’s curse what Lady Constance Abercrombie thought of her. She’d never been comfortable spending Graeme’s hard-earned coins on fancy garments and fripperies. It was difficult enough knowing he provided for her and her daughters’ every need without being a spendthrift too.

Her expression expectant, Lady Constance plainly awaited Marjorie’s deferential curtsy.

She’d wait a very long time. Until the blazing torches about the grounds transformed into flames of ice.

As the widow of a chieftain, Marjorie outranked the woman, but she’d learned long ago those with noble titles generally held very high opinions of themselves.

Instead, she inclined her head. “I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Lady Constance. I am Marjorie Kennedy, of the Killeaggian Tower Kennedys.”

“Your accent suggests you’re English.” One of Lady Constance’s finely plucked, midnight eyebrows arched skyward. In judgment? “Am I correct?”

“Indeed,” Marjorie agreed, determined to be cordial to the difficult woman. “Although I’ve lived in Scotland many years now and consider her my home. I don’t think I could ever leave.”

Where would she go anyway?

To her cousin in England?

They still corresponded regularly, but Marjorie hadn’t seen Rebecca since marrying Sion. Besides, she wouldn’t deny her daughters their heritage or a relationship with their doting uncles.

“Hmm.” Lady Constance made a noncommittal noise in her throat. “I should think you’d want to be with your own kind.”

What the devil did she mean by that?

Ire raised her ugly head and, with considerable effort, Marjorie tamped her indignation down. It took several firm raps to subdue the offense burbling behind her ribs.

She contrived a smile so false she truly feared her cheeks might shatter from the supreme effort to keep it in place. Nevertheless, she refused to voice the retorts parading through her mind, one stinging insult after the other in rapid procession.

Thankfully, Keane returned bearing three steaming cups of mulled wine and saved her. Or saved Lady Constance. After dispensing the wine, he took a deep swallow.

Marjorie forced her focus from the corded lines of his throat. The man was muscle layered over taut muscle everywhere.

He gave Lady Constance a hard stare. “Where’s Brixtone? He rarely ventures far from ye.”

Was that the handsome man hovering about her ladyship that first night?

Lady Constance’s expression turned brittle for an instant, but then she tilted her head and laughed, fluttering her elegant fingers flirtatiously. Naturally, her laugh was dainty and musical. She probably practiced before her looking glass for hours until she’d perfected the melodic tinkle.

Probably practiced that graceful neck tilting and fluttering finger thing too.

“He’ll be along shortly, I’m sure,” she murmured, giving Keane a sultry look. “As you surely know, Your Grace, Samson is only a good friend.”

A very intimate friend, if Marjorie didn’t miss her mark.

Lady Constance batted her lush eyelashes so rapidly Marjorie hid a smirk behind her raised cup. She inhaled the fragrant steam. The wine was tasty and a perfect remedy to help stave off the evening’s chill. And dull one’s senses to conniving harpies.

“There you are, Lady Constance,” came a male’s breathless, slightly nasally voice. “I’ve been searching everywhere for you.”

“Speak of the devil,” Keane muttered out the side of his mouth for Marjorie’s ears alone.

She checked a giggle as she took in the fop’s attire.