“I believe I have a free dance or two remaining, Lord Stephen,” Charlotte replied, then gestured at Ranulf. “Lord Glengask, may I present Lord Stephen Hammond? Lord Stephen, the Marquis of Glengask.”
“You’re the Highlands fellow,” Hammond commented.
“Aye. I am.”
When Hammond offered his hand, Ranulf shook it. That was what gentlemen did. But he didn’t like it, any more than he liked the way Charlotte smiled at the new arrival. The other men with whom she generally danced weren’t much in the way of rivals. This was different. And now that he thought about it, Miss Florence had mentioned something about a Lord Stephen Hammond who’d said she looked like an orange. That didn’t leave him more disposed toward liking the pretty fellow at all.
Back home he would have flat-out asked if this Hammond had done as rumored. And then he would have added some character to his face. It was still tempting; Ranulf could claim to be defending Miss Florence’s honor, while he could at the same time remove Lord Stephen from where he currently stood smiling too prettily at Charlotte. His Charlotte—whether he could announce that to all and sundry or not.
“Charlotte, that trouncing you gave me in croquet last year still stings, you know,” Lord Stephen went on with a grin as he took her card and penciled in his name. “I want a rematch.”
“I’m willing to oblige you,” Charlotte returned, “if you don’t fear further humiliation.”
Hammond returned her dance card. “Life is a risk. And I believe he who hesitates is lost.” He sketched a bow. “I must go beg a dance from your lovely sister, now. I’ll claim you later.”
Still grinning, Charlotte watched Stephen make his way over to Jane. She, of course, was already surrounded by eager young men. When Charlotte returned her attention to Ranulf, though, he didn’t look nearly as amused.
“Who is Lord Stephen Hammond?” he asked, glancing from her to her dance card.
“He’s the second son of the Duke and Duchess of Esmond. This is their soiree.” She made the statement as matter-of-factly as possible, hoping Ranulf wasn’t about to begin punching people again. Yes, she liked the idea that he might be jealous. No, she didn’t want him to act on it.
She saw him take a breath. “Then I suppose he’s allowed to ask a dance of the bonniest lass in the room,” he said.
Oh, thank goodness. Just when she thought she had him figured out, he surprised her again. “You exaggerate, but thank you for saying so.”
“The only thing I ever exaggerate aboot is the size of the fish I nearly caught. Ye’re Aphrodite, leannan. Ye take my breath away.”
That was very nice of him to say. In fact, she would have been quite content to just stand and listen to the sound of his voice for the rest of the evening. For the rest of her life, really. But then she noticed her father looking at the two of them, his expression less than pleased. “You have to go talk to someone else,” she whispered regretfully. “People will begin to think you’re courting me.”
“Ah. And what if I am?” he returned.
Before she could decipher the explosion of … everything that rattled her insides at his words, he gave her a jaunty grin and strolled over to disrupt the crowd around his sister. Did he mean it? He couldn’t possibly, with what he clearly believed about the unsuitability of English ladies to the Highlands. So was he merely teasing her? And if they were so wrong for each other, why did those few words make her feel so … excited?
“I don’t suppose ye have a jig left fer a poor stranger, do ye?” Ranulf’s brother said, appearing on her other side.
“No jigs, but I do have a country dance,” she returned, looking up into his pale blue eyes, very different from both Ranulf’s and Winnie’s.
“I reckon that’ll do, unless Ran chases me off again.” He wrote his name beside the next dance as the orchestra played the last few notes of a quadrille. “Why do ye think he’d do such a thing, my lady?”
Perhaps Arran MacLawry wasn’t quite as good-humored and easygoing as she’d thought. Ranulf had said the middle brother was the clever one. “You would have to ask him,” she said, then put a smile back on her face. “It was good of you to come down to London. I think your brother feels more comfortable having you here.”
Arran inclined his head. “I think my brother keeps his own counsel, but it’s kind of ye to say it, anyway.” With a glance in Ranulf’s direction, he moved off toward the refreshment table.
Before she could ponder what any of that meant, several of her friends arrived to chat about the crush around them and to compliment her dress and her hair. Elizabeth Martin had come out the same year that she had, and Margaret Cooper the year after. Both of them were married, Elizabeth with three children, and Margaret with a boy and a girl. At times she’d envied them for choosing husbands who didn’t see being laughed at as a murderworthy offense, for finding the lives they’d wanted and managing to hang on to them where she hadn’t.
Now, though, as she looked from Mr. Martin with his self-important preening and Lord Roger Cooper with his too tight waistband to the magnificent Lord Glengask laughing at something his sister said, she wondered for the first time if things didn’t happen for a reason. Yes, she would have been perfectly content with James Appleton, and she would have lived a happy and perfectly predictable life.
Immediately that question pushed into the front of her mind again. Why had Ranulf jested about courting her? Or if for some reason he wasn’t teasing, did she want a life with him when it would entail danger and violence and threats both from her own kind and from his fellow Scots? Charlotte shook herself. Everything she knew about him, both through her own observations and in conversations with Winnie, said he wasn’t serious. Therefore she didn’t need to decide. She didn’t need to choose between him and what was fast becoming a dull, predictable, and yet supremely safe life.
When Lord Berling appeared from the card room and made his way toward her, she wasn’t surprised, but a tangle of uneasiness curled down her spine. Would he push at her to try to antagonize Ranulf? Or would his mere presence beside her be enough to make the marquis break his word and attack?
“Lady Charlotte,” the earl said, inclining his head. “Mrs. Martin, Lady Roger.”
“My lord,” she returned with a curtsy, as her friends swiftly made their excuses and backed away. No doubt they’d at least heard about the incident at the Evanstone soiree, and wanted no part of an encore performance.
“I never got the chance for our dance at the last soiree,” he drawled, “and I wondered if we might give it another try.”
Her mouth was getting tired from the number of forced smiles she’d already used this evening. It was much simpler to be pleasant when she didn’t know any better, she realized. “I’m afraid my dance card is full tonight, Lord Berling. Thank you so much for the kind thought, though.”
Moving as quickly as a snake, the earl snatched the dance card from her gloved fingers. “You’re mistaken, Lady Charlotte,” he said, looking down at the thing. “You have several dances available.”
Oh, dear. She’d made Ranulf a bargain: no dancing with Berling in exchange for him not brawling with the earl. If the cad wrote his name down—or if Ranulf saw the exchange now—she didn’t want to know what might happen. Taking a breath, she offered Berling a genuine frown. “Is this how a gentleman reacts when faced with a lady who doesn’t wish to dance with him? I was attempting to be polite.”
“You’ve danced with me before, my lady. We’ve even waltzed a time or two.”
“Yes, we have. And there are other parties where we didn’t dance at all. I believe you to be looking for trouble, and I want no part of it.”
The earl moved a step closer to her. “And yet I see here that Glengask has a waltz with you. And the other one has a dance, too, whoever he is.”
Charlotte held her ground, praying that Ranulf and his brother both were otherwise occupied. “His sister is our family’s guest. Do I owe you some additional explanation?”
&
nbsp; “No. But a dance would still be nice, to demonstrate that we’re all friends here.”
“No, my lord. My card, if you please.” She didn’t hold out her hand; that would make it too obvious to everyone looking that she’d made a request and he hadn’t answered it.
“You haven’t developed a tendre for the Scottish devil, have you? He isn’t at all civilized.”
“I don’t think it’s my behavior being called into question, Berling,” Ranulf’s low brogue came, as he moved in from one side. “The lady asked fer her dance card back.”
Berling’s face went as pale as Charlotte felt. “And if I refuse?”
Ranulf pulled a blank dance card from his pocket. “Then ye can wander aboot carrying that wee bit of paper like a fool, and she’ll use this one,” he replied coolly.
“Bah. You dog; pick it up off the floor.” With that Berling dropped her dance card to the ground and walked away.
“Good thing I’m not as stiff-arsed as he is,” Ranulf mused, squatting down and retrieving the card. Pocketing the blank one, he dusted hers off and handed it back to her.
She looked up, studying his lean face for any sign of the anger she expected. What she saw was a perfectly level expression that should have reassured her, but didn’t. “You kept your word,” she murmured.
His gaze lowered briefly to her mouth. “As did ye.” Ranulf offered his arm. “Let me show ye to yer dance partner.”
Arran moved in from the other direction. “No need. I’m her partner.”
It actually shook her a little that both men had been so near and yet neither of them had struck. If Berling had moved a touch closer to her, or if she had been an ounce less firm … But nothing had happened, and all was well.
Before Arran took her arm, Ranulf leaned in and whispered something to his brother. Then with a nod at her, he went to collect his partner for the country dance. Arran offered his arm, and together they took their place on the dance floor. Once the music began he bowed and she curtsied, and they joined hands to step in a wide circle around their fellows.
“What did Ranulf say to you?” she muttered as they parted and then moved up opposite sides of the line.
“If he’d wanted ye to hear, he wouldnae have whispered it,” he said, stepping back up the center with her again.
Stubborn Scotsmen. “Lord Berling called you ‘that other fellow,’” she commented, deciding to try again. “Have you never met?”
They did another set of steps and turns, facing each other, before they joined hands again. “I met him today at luncheon, actually.”
“What?” She stifled her overloud comment with a cough. “Then why—”
“I might’ve given him a different name,” Arran returned with a cynical grin.
The MacLawry men didn’t seem to be timid about much of anything, Charlotte decided, looking for Ranulf and catching sight of him walking up the second line of dancers, a pretty redheaded lady holding his hand. Thank goodness he was making an effort to fit in, to become acquainted with his peers. And whether English or Scottish, or Welsh or Irish, the aristocrats here were his peers.
At the same time, though, as she caught a glimpse of the redhead’s face when she smiled at him—good heavens, was that Madeline Davies?—for a brief, selfish moment she wished other ladies didn’t look at him in the same voracious way, as if they all wanted to take him on sightseeing tours of London.
Perhaps her wish wasn’t so selfish really. If ladies didn’t view him so … lustfully, then perhaps their husbands and beaux would look at him as a potential friend or an ally rather than as an uncivilized rival.
“Ye aren’t going to ask me why I gave Berling another man’s name, then?” Arran said as he circled around her. “I thought ye’d be more curious, considering ye ask aboot everything else.”
Charlotte shook herself. “I’m extremely curious,” she replied. “I have noticed, however, that you’re even worse at answering questions than your brother is.”
He gave a short laugh. “I mean to take that as a compliment. And this is likely a conversation best had at another time and in a different setting, anyway.”
Annoying as it all was, she had to agree with his assessment. In a way it was odd that she was so interested in all the subterfuge and machinations; a few weeks ago she wouldn’t have wanted to hear that one man seemed to be baiting another into any sort of confrontation. But she knew things, now. She knew that Lord Berling had done some things for which he likely should have been arrested.
She didn’t like that he’d walked up to her and tried to use her to start a fight—twice now. The first time it had worked, though he couldn’t have been pleased with the outcome. Only arrogance could convince him to try the same approach again and expect a different outcome—and yet there had been a different result. Ranulf hadn’t risen to the bait. In fact, he’d taken steps to avoid fighting. And that was a very good thing.
When the dance finally ended she half expected Ranulf to appear and suggest they go out to the balcony for some fresh air. The yearning to kiss him again, to hear his low voice saying things meant only for her, left her shaky and feeling exceedingly wicked.
She looked about for him, but before she could spot his tall, broad figure, Jane appeared. “Hello, my dear. What are—”
“This way,” her sister hissed, and half dragged her through a hallway, around a corner, and into the dark, empty library beyond.
“Janie, what—”
Jane put a hand over her mouth. “Shh. Come here,” she mouthed, and led the way to the window.
Alarmed, Charlotte followed. The room overlooked the front of the garden, and while the curtains were open, the window was not. Jane squeezed one eye closed and very slowly pushed the glass open an inch or so.
“—humiliated me twice,” Berling’s low, angry voice came. “Who the devil does he think he is, anyway?”
“The Campbell says he’s dangerous.”
“In the Highlands, yes. He’s the king of his own little army of cotters and drovers and fishermen. But we aren’t in the Highlands, are we? Where’s his army now?”
“Aye,” a third voice agreed. “You called him a dog, and he just stood there. Picked up the card you threw down, as well.”
“I tell you, he’s afraid of us,” Berling insisted, excitement raising the pitch of his voice. “And not just us. Unless that fire was accidental, Glengask has more enemies than most people have friends.”
“I thought that was you, set the fire,” a fourth voice murmured.
“Only if you can prove it, George.”
“That other big fellow he’s brought here is his brother. Arran MacLawry. I heard it from Hest.”
“You know he took in two dozen Campbell cotters when we pushed ’em off Glen Helen. Makes ’em think they don’t have to jump when we say so.”
The fourth voice gave a low laugh. “His father was the same damned way. Didnae do the Seann Monadh much good, did it?”
“That’s no laughing matter,” Berling retorted. “Both my uncles vanished after that.”
“Ye think I dunnae know that, Donald?”
“The Campbell said old MacLawry made a pact with the devil and had ’em dragged below to join him.”
That prompted the sound of spitting, followed by speculations about what had happened to the two Gerdenses. Charlotte exchanged a glance with Jane, pressed wide-eyed against the wall. They should go before someone noticed the window open and came looking to see who might be listening to their conversation. She had a dance with Francis Henning starting any moment. And yet these men were talking about Ranulf. And if she learned something that could help him …
But then it might also send him after these men. And it would be on her head. When had all this become so complicated? At eighteen, love had been simple and straightforward.
Charlotte took a sharp breath, putting a hand to her heart. Love? Was it love that twisted her insides and made her think that dropping a vase or two out the window and onto
someone’s head would be a good idea? Love that made her hate the men below just for speaking their minds, because they spoke against Ranulf? Her Ranulf?
What a stupid female she was. He wanted a lover for London; he’d made that perfectly clear, and she’d agreed. A mutual physical attraction. But, oh, it was so much more than that. For her, anyway. Of course, they would never suit, and nothing would come of this … infatuation of hers, but for goodness’ sake. Her own silly fault or not, she loved him. And her heart would shatter into a hundred million pieces the day he bid her good-bye.
It was all wrong, wrong, wrong. And even knowing that, she leaned closer to the window so she wouldn’t miss a word. Anything that could harm Ranulf needed to be stopped. At once.
“I’m not going toe-to-toe with him,” the second voice was saying.
“I already did. If I confront him again tonight, everyone will see me as the antagonist, and we’ll gain nothing.”
“I’ll do it,” the fourth voice drawled. “Havenae had MacLawry blood on my hands for a good three years, now. It’s an itch needs scratching.”
“Just keep in mind that you have to make him look like the aggressor, or it’s for nothing.”
“Ye don’t have to remind me of that, cousin.”
The music for the quadrille began, drowning out any remaining conversation. Very carefully Charlotte pulled the window closed, then sagged against the back of a chair. “Good heavens,” she whispered. “How did you know about this, Janie?”
Her sister had a hand to her chest and looked pale as moonlight. “I was leaving the dance floor and heard someone say they needed a quiet place to discuss Lord Glengask, and Lord Berling suggested the garden by the front wall.” She took a ragged breath. “My goodness. They were talking about hurting people. And worse than that.”
Charlotte straightened, sweeping forward to embrace her sister. “You were so brave,” she said feelingly.
“But what are we going to do?”
The Devil Wears Kilts Page 22
