What a Highlander's Got to Do

by Sabrina York

  “It’s no’ romantic in the slightest.”

  “Why?”

  “Don’t you see? He’s British!”

  “It occurs to me he was British when you kissed him.”

  “He kissed me.”

  “Regardless. You liked him enough to allow it.”

  “You doona understand. He’s no’ just British. He’s a British lord. The verra kind of man I have vowed to eschew like the plague.”

  “It occurs to me one doesna kiss the plague.”

  “Oh, do be quiet. The point is, there can never be anything lasting between us.”

  Cat blinked. “Whyever not?”

  “Because, do you no’ see? He’s a British—”

  “Lord. Aye. But I fail to see why, if you truly love each other, why that should be a barrier.”

  “I doona love him!” What a horrifying thought.

  “Of course no’. But still—”

  “He’s going to be a duke one day.”

  “Many would see that as a boon.”

  “Dukes have to live in London.”

  “Your uncle doesna.”

  Isobel opened her mouth to respond, but couldn’t. She hadn’t thought of that. Uncle Lachlan spent as little time as possible in London. There were, perhaps, many lords who chose to live outside the capital. “You are missing the point.”

  “Am I?”

  “Aye.” Probably. If only Isobel could remember what it was.

  Catriona shrugged. “If you find him attractive and he finds you attractive—”

  “There’s no evidence of that—”

  “Other than him mooning over you today.”

  “He wasna mooning.”

  “How would you know? You refused to look at him.”

  “Nonsense.”

  “At any rate, if you find him attractive and he finds you attractive, you should explore it. At least give him a chance.”

  “I did give him a chance. He lied to me.”

  “Did he?”

  “What?” Why was Cat so annoying today?

  “Did he say, ‘Hallo. I am a stable lad’?”

  Isobel scowled. Had he? Not precisely.

  “Or did you make an assumption? You do have such tendencies.”

  “I most certainly do no’.”

  “Well.” Cat fluffed her skirts. “It seems to me that this house party is an excellent chance to get to know him better. To decide if there could be . . . something between you. However . . .”

  “What?”

  Cat batted her lashes. “Let me know if you choose to remain indignant over a lie he dinna give you. I find him handsome indeed and I could overlook his title, even if you canna. I wouldna mind giving him a go.”

  And with that, she sashayed from the room.

  Sashayed.

  Isobel glared after her.

  How on earth had they remained friends for so long? At the moment, she had no clue.

  But one thing she did know.

  Catriona was not giving Nick a go.

  Not in any way shape or form.

  In a flurry she stormed to her armoire and started pulling out one outfit after another.

  She had a house party to pack for and there was no time to lose.

  * * *

  It took a day to prepare the household for the journey to Brighton, but most of that was finding appropriate oversight for the children who, it had been decided, would stay in London with their nannies, lest they terrorize Brighton.

  There was some discussion about this, because the first plan was to have the fathers stay with them as well.

  This was, of course, decided by their mothers.

  The fathers were horrified at the prospect—not that they weren’t the most excellent fathers; they were. But everyone knew that in these families, the mothers were the true authoritarians, and without them, the Hellions might well burn down the house.

  Then Uncle Lachlan made the salient point that there was business the men needed discuss with the Duke of Moncrieff and this house party was the perfect opportunity.

  He also pointed out that Henley had had wartime experience and, given his head, should be able to keep things under control.

  Following that, there was a long and ominous lecture to the older ones that they would be held responsible should anything—anything—go awry. Lachlan did not stop lecturing until their expressions were sufficiently cowed.

  Naturally Alexia and little Lileas were put out to be left behind with the boys, but their mothers were firm in that the house party was an adult entertainment for the sole purpose of finding husbands for Catriona and Isobel and they were far too young for such pursuits. That explanation seemed to work.

  On everyone but Isobel.

  She was not amused in the least.

  She wasn’t amused by the coach ride, either.

  Though the duke’s coaches were plush and grand, with velvet seats and comfortable headrests, there were nine of them crammed in for a ride that took most of the day, including Aunt Esmeralda who insisted her leg must be elevated the entire way. Isobel and Cat could have opted to ride with the servants, but that would have been no better, as that coach was filled with luggage as well.

  Catriona, wedged between Papa and Aunt Esmeralda, busied herself by reading a gothic novel, which inspired occasional gasps and groans that appeared to arise apropos of nothing.

  Isobel sat next to Mama on the horsey end of the coach and stared out the window at the passing landscape, trying not to be annoyed that it was passing backward.

  They stopped for lunch in the charming village of Pease Pottage, which was a relief in so many ways. Isobel enjoyed the shepherd’s pie that was on special, but she enjoyed walking around the small town even more.

  She wasn’t used to such inactivity, and her legs were complaining.

  She tried not to think about Nick, and the fact that they would be spending several days together, but it was always hovering there on the edge of her consciousness.

  Catriona was right in one thing. She was attracted to Nick—more than she had even been to any man—and she needed to decide what she wanted to do about it.

  Her choices seemed clear.

  She could continue to ignore him. Write him off and pretend none of that Newcastle passion had ever occurred. But even when she was denying the truth to herself, she still knew she could not ignore him for long. Her body refused, even when her mind commanded.

  Another choice would be to give him that chance. The chance to explain himself. The chance to tell her what he wanted from all this. He had brought her daisies. As declarations went, it was hardly definitive, but it was something. She could not deny that this option had a danger of its own. Her feelings for him, even when wrapped in annoyance and fury, were undeniable. She wanted him.

  She didn’t want to marry him. Certainly not. She had always planned to return to Scotland as a free woman. But maybe there was some middle ground they could strike.

  Perhaps there was a third option.

  She would have to think on it more.

  Fortunately, she had at least four more hours before they reached Brighton.

  “Darling!” Mama called from across the square. “We’re ready to leave.”

  “Coming.” Isobel picked up her skirts and hurried to the carriage, not because she was anticipating crawling back in, but because it felt good to run. How she wished she’d brought her mount. And worn her habit. But Mama had insisted she arrive as the lady she was.

  It was almost as though, now that she’d reached a marriageable age, her mother had forgotten who she was.

  Still, she smiled at her as they hooked arms and made their way to the stable yard.

  “Are you all right?” Mama asked, smoothing a tendril of windblown hair from Isobel’s cheek.

  “Of course.” What other answer was there?

  “You’ve been so quiet lately.”

  Isobel sighed. “I guess I am just the quiet sort.”

  Mama snorted. �
��I think we know better. It seems as though something is bothering you. Is it the Season? Are you not enjoying yourself?”

  “We haven’t done much yet,” Isobel reminded her.

  “I know. I’m sorry about that. I promise we’ll do all of London before we return home.” She was silent for a moment, then said, “Your brother said you’ve made a vow not to consider any British gentlemen.”

  Blast. “Which one?”

  “Alexander, of course.”

  “You should have taught him not to listen at doors.”

  “I did try.” Mama speared her with a sharp look. “With all my children. Is it true?”

  Isobel shrugged. “You know I doona want to leave Scotland. My family. Everything I know. Why would I consider a British husband? A man who will, in effect, own me. And why would you want me to?”

  Mama stopped short and turned Isobel to face her. “All I want is for you to be happy. To find a good man who will love you as you deserve. I most certainly doona want to lose you. It would break my heart if you moved to London. But I doona want you to limit your options because of an assumption that he willna respect your desires.” Her expression firmed. “If a man really loves you, he would want you to be happy. That is the most important thing to me.”

  “So you doona mind if I decide not to marry an English lord?”

  “I doona mind if you marry a stable lad.” A shiver racked Isobel at how closely her mother had hit the mark. “As long as you love him and he loves you.”

  “And what if I never fall in love?”

  Mama chuckled. “You will. You’re a passionate girl.” They resumed their walk.

  “Passion is not love.”

  “I’m so relieved you recognize the difference.” This in a teasing tone.

  Isobel bent her head to hide her blush as she thought of Nick and his passion. And hers. She rarely blushed, so it would tip Mama off that something was different with her. “It would take a man of tremendous consequence to convince me to marry,” she said, trotting out her old familiar argument against the bonds of matrimony.

  “I would expect nothing less for you.” Mama stopped again and turned Isobel to face her. “Darling. I understand how you feel. I resisted giving myself fully to your father for a long time.”

  “Why?”

  Mama shrugged. “I dinna want to be vulnerable. I dinna want him to have the power to hurt me.” And yes. Isobel recognized the validity of the sentiment. She’d had the same thoughts herself.

  “When did that change?”

  “It wasna until—” Her mother paused, and her expression went wan.

  “Until what?”

  “Until I almost lost him. You remember. When we rescued you from Scrabster—”

  “I remember rescuing myself.”

  “You know what I mean. He was shot. For a moment, I thought he was dead. And . . .”

  “And?”

  “And my world crumbled. I realized I couldn’t bear living without him.”

  “Is that how you know you love a man? Truly love him?”

  Mama scraped back her hair when the breeze tugged it across her face once more. “I sincerely hope you never have to experience something like that. I hope love comes to you gently and sweetly and I pray that you will be willing to surrender to it when it does.”

  “I’ve never been much of one to surrender.”

  She laughed again. “Aye. But this surrender is worth the cost. I promise.” She pressed her lips to Isobel’s forehead. “Now stop brooding over this and enjoy yourself, will you?”

  “Yes, Mama,” she said. And she meant it.

  That was her decision. Nothing grand or life changing. Nothing serious or forever. Simply to enjoy herself.

  It was as though a weight lifted from her shoulders.

  And it was glorious.

  Chapter Thirteen

  They arrived at Moncrieff House in Brighton, a gorgeous stone mansion on the hill overlooking the sea, just as the sun was setting. The view was breathtaking as hints of pink and orange bathed the grand facade. A beautiful peacock strutted on the lawn.

  “Oh, it’s lovely,” Aunt Lana said on a sigh.

  “Magnificent,” Mama agreed.

  As for Isobel, she said nothing. She couldn’t. Despite her decision to simply enjoy herself this week, the moment she saw the mansion, the moment she realized he was in there somewhere, her heart started to pound and her throat locked. What would she say to him? What would he say to her? Would it be awkward? Probably. How would she respond to that? Who else would be there? Would there be a horde of strangers? How would they react to the fact that she was a Scotswoman? Would she have to defend her heritage? How could—

  “Isobel.” Mama covered her hand, and Isobel realized she was shaking. “It will be fine.”

  “Of course it will,” Catriona said with a smile. It was a wicked smile because, naturally, Cat knew why she was nervous.

  The Duchess of Moncrieff was there to greet them as the carriage rolled up to the grand entrance, a sweeping marble staircase leading to large double doors.

  “Ah, you’ve made it!” she called, coming down to give each of them a hug. She hooked arms with Aunt Lana and Aunt Hannah and led them to the house as everyone else followed behind, with Papa helping Aunt Esmeralda up the stairs.

  “Do come in,” the duchess said. “We have an informal supper waiting for you. The others will be arriving tonight and tomorrow, so you’re the first here, other than family.”

  “Ah, who else is coming?” Isobel asked.

  The duchess herded them into the foyer and Isobel promptly forgot her question as the grandeur of the mansion hit her head-on. It was incredible. A double marble staircase curved up each side of the foyer to the second floor, leaving a large airy space for their welcome. There were two beautifully appointed rooms on either side, one obviously a library and the other a parlor. Magnificent stonework urns stood on either side of the staircase, with peacock feathers sprouting from them. A sparkling chandelier dominated the ceiling.

  Mama, bless her, set two fingers to Isobel’s chin and closed her mouth.

  The duchess chuckled. “It is grand, isn’t it?” she asked. “But doona fret. We are completely casual here. I’ve only invited our closest friends. The Tullys, the Penningtons, and my sister-in-law Violet St. Andrews will be here with her husband, Ewan. And the boys, of course.”

  With a shock, Isobel realized that by the boys, she meant Nick and his contemporaries.

  They were hardly boys.

  “Well, do come in and get settled. No doubt you’re famished.” She led them into the parlor, which was decorated in a soft shade of blue, and pulled the bell tug. Almost immediately an army of servers came in with trolleys cluttered with covered trays. “A simple collation,” the duchess said, and with a flick of her hand the servants, with a flourish, removed the domes as though in concert.

  The most dizzying scents flooded the room.

  Isobel’s knees went weak as a sudden hunger gripped her.

  She had no business being hungry, because she’d done nothing but sit all day, but her body didn’t seem to understand or care. Especially not faced with such a gastronomic array.

  “Please help yourselves to a plate,” the duchess commanded, and Isobel was happy to oblige.

  Everything was delicious, from the braised beef, to the selection of mouthwatering puddings, to the dazzling dessert tray.

  If this was a casual meal, she couldn’t wait to see the duchess’s idea of a formal one.

  The men, as men do, took their plates and withdrew to the library, probably so they could indulge in whisky without their women commenting. Or probably so they could talk about manly things.

  As Isobel ate—hoping she wasn’t appearing too feral—the other ladies plucked elegantly at their plates and talked about plans for the party. It was the usual rubbish, so Isobel tuned out. But as she was just finishing her third dessert, something snagged her attention. Something subtle and eviscer
ating.

  A scent? A sense? A knowledge?

  She turned her head and stilled as she saw him, standing there, in the doorway, watching her.

  He was so handsome, dressed in shirtsleeves and muddy boots. His hair was a wild, windblown tousle, and his cheeks were ruddy from exertion.

  Her heart thudded. Her throat locked.

  She reached for a glass of lemonade to wash down the lodged bite, but it wasn’t a bite that was lodged there. Not really.

  He smiled at her, tentatively, and then, when she smiled back, a more confident offering.

  “Edward!” the duchess called. “Where have you been? Our guests have arrived.”

  From the doorway, he bowed. “My apologies. I’ve been out walking.”

  “Do join us,” his mother commanded.

  He gestured to his person and shook his head. “I’m not in appropriate attire, Mother.”

  Isobel’s mother cleared her throat. “I do believe you said we are going to be casual this weekend,” she said to the duchess.

  “So I did. Come in, darling, and have some food.”

  “It does smell tempting.” He stepped into the room and set his walking cane against the table at the entry.

  Isobel watched him as he filled his plate, soaking him in like a starving woman. She definitely was not starving, after this meal, but it appeared she had some kind of hunger left unfulfilled. It boiled low in her belly.

  How was it that he could be even more fascinating in common clothes? Was it the fact that his neck, long and tanned and muscled, was visible in the vee of his undone shirt? She could see his veins gently pulsing there, and she longed to suck them. To taste his warm skin.

  The thought shocked her. But only at first.

  When he came to her side, gestured at the open seat on the divan, and said, “May I?” she could only nod her assent.

  She was utterly speechless.

  But it was even more profound when he did sit and his heat engulfed her. His heat, and that intriguing scent of musky man and outdoors and . . . Nick.

  Her mind spun. She tried to focus on her plate, but struggled to do so.

  How could a man, a mere man, have this effect on her? She was a logical girl. She was educated and independent and had never so much as lusted after a man—though she had kissed a few, just to see what it was like.