Page 47 of To Defy a Highland Duke

He put Lady Constance’s elaborate ensemble to shame.

Bewigged, several large stones glittering on his long fingers, he was attired entirely in emerald, green, from his jacket to his ridiculous heeled shoes. Bowing low over Lady Constance’s hand, he gave her ladyship a devoted smile. “As always, you outshine the sun, the moon, and the stars, dear lady.”

Lady Constance preened as if it were her due, and it struck Marjorie: the man was sincere. In truth, she’d hazard to guess he was madly in love with the woman. From the smoldering, seductive glances her ladyship sent Keane, she didn’t return Mr. Brixtone’s affection.

Brixtone swung his regard to Keane, and his eyes cooled several degrees in the manner of a male protecting his mate. Only in his case, his gloriously plumed mate had set her sights on another.

“Your Grace.” Brixtone’s gray-eyed glance gravitated to Marjorie and lingered appreciatively. “Might I beg an introduction?”

Seemingly with a great deal of hesitancy, Keane gestured to Marjorie. “Lady Marjorie Kennedy, may I introduce Mr. Samson Brixtone?”

“Mr. Brixtone.” Marjorie inclined her head, aware Lady Constance’s agreeable expression had slipped and she now pursed her lips.

Ah, so she didn’t want Mr. Brixtone for herself, except to use the man, but she didn’t want him regarding any other women with favor either.

At once, a delighted smile wreathed his thin but handsome face. “Do my ears deceive me, or do we share a homeland, Lady Kennedy?”

“You are, indeed, correct. I also hail from England.”

“Yes, well, we’ve established that triviality, haven’t we?” Lady Constance said in a rush, stepping forward and claiming Keane’s arm. “Your Grace, why don’t we permit them a few moments to chat about their homeland, shall we? Sampson was there only last month, and I’m quite certain Lady Kennedy would very much appreciate hearing news of home.”

A mere fortnight ago, Rebecca had written Marjorie and she was quite up to snuff on any news of England she cared a whit about.

“Here, Samson, darling.” Lady Constance thrust her mulled wine at Brixtone, a bit of the beverage sloshing over the rim and onto his glove. “You may have my mulled wine.”

Keane furrowed his brow, giving the gloved hand clutching his arm a disgruntled scowl. “’Tis time for me to light the bonfire, Lady Constance.”

“Oh, wonderful. I shall accompany you.” The thin-lipped smile she leveled Marjorie might’ve held a tinge of gloating, but, in the flickering torchlight and with the lack of a moon, she couldn’t be certain.

It was as apparent as rouge on a pig, however, that the woman hoped to portray herself as Keane’s hostess for the evening.

Jaw flexed, Keane speared Lady Constance another steely look, everything about his countenance shouting she imposed upon him. Nonetheless, either as dense as a turnip or ruthlessly determined, she blinked up at him, all coy femininity.

Another giggle threatened, and Marjorie took a deep drink of the delicious, spiced wine, drowning her humor with the spirit.

“I’ll only be a few minutes,” he told Marjorie. “Unless you’d care to accompany me?”

Lady Constance formed her mouth into a pout that put a spoiled toddler to shame, and Brixtone glanced away, a muscle flexing in his jaw. Frustration and chagrin rolled off his stiff form in palpable waves.

Poor man.

Marjorie had no desire to spend additional time in Lady Constance’s tiresome company. Besides, she hadn’t expected Keane to stay at her side and entertain her all evening. After all, he had duties as laird. She’d chat with Mr. Brixtone for a few moments and then go in search of Berget and Graeme. Perhaps she’d have a bite to eat as well.

“No, thank you, Your Grace.” Her gaze slid to the woman clinging to him with the tenacity of ancient ivy vines on an equally ancient wall.

“Verra well,” Keane said, a knowing glint in his eyes. He’d read her reluctance and gleaned the reason for her hesitation. “I willna be long.”

He strode away, making no attempt to shorten his long, rippling strides, thereby forcing Lady Constance to trot alongside him.

Grasping her skirts, she hopped over a particularly muddy patch now and again, nothing the least dignified in her hasty scampering. Had she known she rather resembled a devoted hound, she might’ve tempered her pace.

“So, my dear Lady Kennedy, what part of England are you from?” Mr. Brixtone asked conversationally, interrupting her wry musings. His chipper tone couldn’t disguise the woebegone glint in his eyes.

To love a woman such as Lady Constance could only mean perpetual heartache.

Marjorie had almost forgotten he still stood beside her, so absorbed in Keane’s departure had she been. Debating whether to pull her cloak’s hood over her head to block the increasingly bitter breeze, she curved her mouth. “My familial home was in Manchester, and you?”

“Lancaster as a youth, and Westmoreland these eight years past. When I’m not in London, that is. I do like the hustle and bustle, the entertainments, and, most especially, watching the gentry prance about full of haughty self-import.” He raised his chin, looking down his nose in a pretentious manner before a rakish, crooked smile ruined the effect.