What a Highlander's Got to Do

by Sabrina York

  “Come in. Come in.” The duchess waved them through the door.

  Isobel glanced around the room, surprised to see these children were fully grown.

  “You remember my daughter, Sorcha, the redhead playing the piano? And the lovely blonde who is singing is the Earl of Darlington’s daughter, Eloise Tully. The three of you are of an age. I do hope you get on.”

  “Of course.” She did adore Sorcha, and Eloise seemed just as nice. Indeed, she smiled and waved from her station next to the piano.

  “And there, leaning against the mantel looking supremely bored, is my brother-in-law Malcolm. The boys playing chess as though it is a pitched battle are Sean, Tay, and Hamish Wyeth. Do avoid them all. They are nothing but trouble.” But she said so with an adoring smile.

  “And in the far corner, embroiled in a battle of wits I doubt they are, either of them, equipped to fight, are the Edwards.”

  The neck on her nape prickled. “The Edwards?”

  “Aye. I believe you met them at morning calls. Edward Tully is the handsome blond there; the dark-haired fellow behind him is Edward Pennington. And of course, you know my Edward.”

  My Edward.

  To her, he would always be my Nick.

  “Are they trouble, too?” Catriona asked.

  The duchess laughed. “Indubitably. Well, I will leave you youngsters to it. I’m going to give your mother and aunts a tour of the conservatory.”

  Isobel made an attempt at a smile. It was a challenge because Nick had noticed her and was heading her way, which made her body hum. “Mama would like that,” she managed.

  “Excellent,” the duchess said. “We shall see you all for lunch on the lawn.”

  She left then, but Isobel barely noticed, because Nick was approaching. Her heart thudded. Her skin prickled. Her mouth went dry.

  “Oh, look,” Catriona said, in a strange tone—one that made clear she’d seen Nick. “They have cakes. I think I shall explore the offerings.” And just like that, she was gone. Leaving Isobel alone, utterly alone.

  With him.

  He did not touch her, thank God, though he was close enough for her to draw in his scent.

  “Good morning,” he murmured.

  She sucked in a breath and tipped up her chin. As nervous, or shy, as she was—or whatever the hell this was—she was bound and determined not to give him the satisfaction of knowing. “Good morning. Did you sleep well?”

  It was out before she considered the words, and the shift in his expression sent a wave of heat up her cheeks. Blast.

  “Not a wink. And you?”

  In response, she frowned.

  “I am very sorry about that,” he said.

  “About what?” She didn’t intend to snap, but something about him just made her want to snap. At something.

  “Why, the interruption, of course. I’ve thoroughly rebuked William and Penny for intruding.”

  “No doubt it couldna be helped,” she said with a sniff.

  “No doubt.” He fell silent, and stepped closer. “No doubt I owe them a vote of thanks.”

  Fury rose. She glared at him. “Why?”

  “I nearly got carried away.” A whisper.

  Och.

  That sent a river of heat through her.

  Carried away. Aye. She’d nearly been carried away as well.

  “Do you regret that they stopped us?” she asked on a choked voice.

  He laughed, a harsh chuckle. Then he scrubbed his face. “I don’t know, Isobel. I wish I did.”

  Well. That was not an acceptable response. So she sniffed and looked away, though she saw nothing.

  “On the one hand, I want you. Like I’ve never wanted a woman.”

  Better. But not ideal. “Humpf.”

  “Yet I feel the need to respect your—”

  “My what?”

  “Your . . . station.”

  “My station?” Seriously? That was the most ridiculous thing she’d ever heard. She had no station.

  “You deserve better than a hard, hot, surreptitious coupling.”

  The way he said it made her hot.

  It was probably irritation.

  She’d wanted that hard, hot, surreptitious coupling. She’d wanted it a lot.

  “When a woman like you gives yourself—”

  “A woman like me?”

  He frowned at her ferocity. “You deserve better.”

  “What I choose to give to a man, or not give to a man—when, where, and how—is my decision.”

  He went red to his ears. “To a man? What do you mean to a man?”

  “To a man.” She waved at the company milling about the room, thankfully out of earshot. “Any man. And there are so many to choose from.” It was probably wrong to prod him, but she’d never met a man so sanctimonious and infuriating. “Him, for instance.” She nodded to the tall man by the mantel. What had the duchess called him? “Malcolm.” He was far too old for her, thirty-five at least, but that hardly signified. He was a man and he was handsome enough to suit her purposes.

  Nick sputtered. “You can’t be serious. Malcolm is a known profligate.”

  “He canna be too bad or the duchess would not have him here.”

  “He’s here because he’s a relation. Seriously, Isobel. You must not engage him.”

  “Must I not?” She tossed her head and did just that, making her way to Malcolm, who greeted her with a charming smile—a smile that only widened when he noticed Nick’s scowl.

  Och. This party might actually be fun after all.

  * * *

  This. Was. Hell.

  Hell unlike anything Nick had ever experienced. Not only was Isobel talking to Uncle Malcolm—talking to him and smiling and fluttering her lashes—the other Wyeths, Don Juans to a man, had been attracted to her beauty and were buzzing about. Penny and Tully and William as well. All drooling over her.

  And Penny and William knew damn well that Nick had laid his claim. They’d witnessed it. Beyond that, they had raked him over the coals this morning endlessly, regarding that witnessed kiss.

  Nick wanted to charge into that cluster like a bull and sweep her away. He straightened his spine and tightened his fists and prepared to do just that—

  “My lord?”

  Oh, bloody hell. What now? He whipped around and glared at Mrs. Billings. “What?”

  Damn it. He shouldn’t have snapped. She lurched back with a wounded look on her face.

  “I’m sorry, Mrs. Billings.” He forced a smile at the housekeeper. “What is it?”

  “I’m sorry to interrupt you, my lord, but there is a question of the layout of the picnic.”

  The picnic? He tried not to scowl. “Please address it to my mother.” She was in charge of the bloody picnic. This whole damn thing had been her idea.

  Mrs. Billings wrung her hands. “Yes, my lord. I asked her. She, ah, told me to ask you.”

  It took all his fortitude not to snarl in annoyance. He had things to do, here in the music room. The last thing he wanted to do was tromp around outside and direct the servants on an event he hadn’t wanted to attend in the first place.

  But—since his mother had apparently abandoned her role as hostess, and his father was God-knew-where with the other men—it fell to him. So with one last glower at his uncles and his erstwhile friends, he followed the housekeeper from the room.

  What then transpired was an hour of sheer exasperation as he oversaw the layout of the picnic. Tables here. Croquet there. Seats beneath the shade trees for the older guests. For the men, some archery, and punting on the lake for the ladies.

  By the time he was finished and returned to the music room, everyone was gone.

  He stormed to the parlor to find his mother and her friends enjoying a rollicking conversation—but of Isobel, there was no sign.

  “Edward, dear.” His mother turned up her cheek for a kiss, which he bestowed.

  “May I speak with you for a moment?”

  She blinked at him with a to
o-innocent expression on her face. “Of course.”

  All heads turned toward them, like expectant baby birds.

  “In private.”

  A pout. “Oh. Yes. Of course. Excuse me, ladies.” She stood, smoothed out her skirts, and followed him to the door. She tipped up her chin and looked at him down her nose, as she had his entire life when she knew he was about to be quarrelsome—even since he’d grown far taller than she. “Yes?”

  “What was that all about?”

  “That? Whatever can you mean?”

  “Mrs. Billings said you told her to have me arrange the picnic.”

  “Oh. That.”

  “It took better than an hour. And as the lady of the house, you should have done it.”

  “But I was visiting with my friends.”

  “As was I.”

  “Besides which,” she said, as though he hadn’t spoken, “it’s time for you to learn these things.”

  These things? “What things? How to set a table?”

  “Well, yes, but in the greater sense, it’s time for you to learn to be a good host. You’ll be duke one day, and since it’s clear you have no intention of marrying, you willna have a duchess to make all these arrangements for you.”

  He stared at her for a moment. Ye gods. Had that just been another underhanded swipe about his bachelorhood? “Perhaps not,” he said. “But I will have servants. And they will capable enough that I won’t need to attend them every moment.”

  She laughed, his mother. Threw back her head and laughed. Then she patted him on the cheek. “You are so naive. It’s adorable.”

  He bristled. He was hardly naive.

  She gave him no time to respond to such insanity. “I do hope you’ve done a good job, because we’re all famished. Come, ladies,” she warbled to the room. “Let’s go enjoy the picnic dear Edward has arranged.”

  What could he do but follow them out?

  It was exceedingly irritating to see that everyone else was already on the lawn. Tully, Penny, and William were skipping rocks in the lake. His uncles, save Malcolm, were playing some kind of croquet that apparently required them to hit each other. For his part, Malcolm stood beneath one of the larger shade trees, surrounded by the young ladies—Elizabeth Pennington, Penny’s younger sister, Sorcha, Ellie, Catriona, and Isobel—no doubt filling their heads with all manner of depredation.

  This was, of course, where the mothers headed, like bees who’d noticed a bear about to ravage their carefully constructed hives.

  Nick shoved his hands into his pockets and strolled after them.

  He was the host after all.

  “Malcolm,” Mother said, with a tight smile. “Do go play with your brothers.”

  Uncle Malcolm glanced over to the croquet game, which had devolved into mallet swordfights. “Too violent,” he said with a smirk. “I’d much rather spend my day with these lovely flowers.” At his smile, all the young ladies flushed.

  “Oh. Flowers.” Lady Helena sighed. “I didn’t realize you were a fan. Come.” She hooked her arm in his and literally towed him away from the girls, back toward the house. “Let’s tour the conservatory.”

  Malcolm shot a panicked look over his shoulder but Nick ignored it. Honestly. What had he expected? No doubt Mother had invited him to act as a chaperone—a fatal flaw in her thinking, but in her defense, who would ever imagine a thirty-six-year-old man would want to flirt with girls just making their come-out?

  Now he had been marked as a predator, and no doubt the combined forces of all these matchmaking mamas would keep him away from their daughters.

  Which suited Nick just fine.

  He smiled at Isobel and was taken aback by her frown.

  “I thought he was interesting,” she said in complaint.

  “As did I,” Catriona agreed.

  Sorcha laughed. “He is, indeed, the most interesting of all my uncles.”

  “He certainly has taken after the duke,” Ellie said with a grin.

  Nick’s mother frowned. “Now, now. The duke has been reformed.”

  “But he was a rake once,” Sorcha said.

  Isobel’s mother sniffed. “Most men are. Until they’re well trained.”

  Nick tried not to blanch. Well, at least he knew where Isobel got her ideas.

  It set his teeth on edge that all the mothers tittered at this.

  Even his own.

  “I say,” he said, as discomfort crawled up the back of his neck. He felt a sudden urge to escape this milieu of feminine bombardment. “I should see about having the meal served.”

  “That would be lovely, Edward,” her mother said.

  But before he could signal to Mrs. Billings, there was a burst of activity from the back stairs of the mansion as two men and a delicate, dark-haired woman appeared. He couldn’t hold back his smile as he recognized his aunt Violet and his twin cousins.

  “Hooray,” Sorcha cried. “Robert and Declan are here!” She took Isobel and Catriona by the hand and tugged them toward the newcomers. “You must meet them. They’re Scottish!”

  And that easily, Nick’s mood plummeted.

  Blast. He’d forgotten.

  Well, he’d not forgotten that Robert and Declan had spent most of their lives in Scotland, but somehow, he’d forgotten to remember that they were both exceedingly charming and handsome and would, no doubt, be alluring to Isobel.

  Without a word, he steeled his spine and followed.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Was it wrong to enjoy Nick’s disgruntlement as she greeted his two—very handsome—cousins?

  Robert and Declan were adorable. Both tall and dark with intriguing dents on their identical chins, they were quick to laugh, teased adeptly, and, best of all, spoke with a familiar brogue she missed so much.

  Beyond that, they both found her and Catriona fascinating.

  Or at least they had the good grace to make it seem so.

  Isobel enjoyed chatting with them very much, and made it a point to sit between them at lunch.

  It was easy to ignore Nick, because he was busy coordinating the meal and because, thanks to his position in the ton, he was required to sit at the head of the very long table, surrounded by the ranking ladies.

  His glowers, though, were not so easy to disregard.

  A pity it was for him, that they amused her.

  She went to great lengths to engender them. Laughing louder than she should. Touching one of their arms when she shouldn’t. Appearing absolutely besotted.

  At one point Robert—or was it Declan?—leaned closer and whispered, “Why do you keep looking at him?”

  Isobel blinked. “I . . . Ahem. At whom?”

  He chuckled. “At The Third. You canna think I dinna notice.”

  “The Third?”

  “Aye. Edward the Third.” He nodded in Nick’s direction.

  Her cheeks went red. “Nonsense. I’m no’ looking at him.”

  “Ah! You just did again. You can tell me, lass. Do you have an eye for the Viscount Stirling?”

  “Pffft.”

  “Nothing to be ashamed of. Many lasses do.”

  Well, that was annoying. She frowned. “Many?”

  “Aye.”

  “How many?”

  He threw back his head and laughed.

  Her skin prickled. “How many?”

  “All of them, I imagine.”

  Bluidy hell.

  “But to be honest . . .”

  That he trailed off and left the sentence dangling there in the wind was vexing indeed.

  “About what?”

  “I’ve noticed something interesting.”

  She frowned at him. “What?”

  “Ach.” He leaned back in his chair and rearranged his napkin in his lap. For far too long.

  Contravening everything she’d ever been taught about etiquette and decorum, she gouged him with her elbow. “What?”

  His grin was wicked. “I’ve noticed he’s been watching you, too. And with more interest than I�
��ve noticed from him before.”

  “Interest?” While interest paled next to what she wanted, it was something.

  “That is to say, he’s been scowling at us.”

  For some reason, this made her smile. She leaned closer. “Is that a good thing?”

  “I daresay it is. If, indeed, you’re interested in him.” The question in his nonquestion was evident.

  Isobel affected a blasé mien and lifted a lazy shoulder. “Perhaps.”

  “I see.” His eyes danced. “If you want to catch him, you’ll need to be sly.”

  “I dinna say I wanted to catch him.”

  “Of course not. But be aware, my cousin has long pronounced he has no wish to marry.”

  “Perfect. Neither do I.”

  This took him aback. His mouth dropped. “Nae? But you’re a lovely lass.”

  “How does that signify?”

  He shrugged. “Lovely lasses tend to be married.”

  “I doona want to be some man’s property. Certainly no’ if he’s an English lord.”

  Robert/Declan chuckled. “Edward is as English as I am.”

  Isobel blinked. “What do you mean?”

  “We’re both half and half. You’ve met his mother?” He nodded at the duchess, who sat by her son’s side. Her lovely laugh rose among the trees.

  “Aye.”

  “She’s from Scotland, like my father.”

  Isobel swallowed heavily, digesting this. Och, she’d known the duchess was Scottish, but she simply hadn’t put two and two together. “He acts like an English lord,” she muttered.

  “Only because it’s what he’s used to. I can attest, when he comes up north, he behaves more like a civilized man.”

  “Does he wear a kilt?” she asked. The words escaped before she could hold them back.

  “Aye. And he speaks in a brogue.”

  “Well, that is good to know. It’s a pity he canna behave like that all the time.” Then again, she would probably become utterly lost in him if he did.

  Whatever-his-name-was grinned. “Do you know what I think?”

  She turned to him and blinked. “What?”

  “I think we need to give dear Edward a nudge.”

  “A nudge?”

  “Aye. Let’s go punting after lunch and pretend to be having a wonderful time . . . just to see how he reacts. What do you think?” It was clear Robert/Declan was enjoying this conversation immensely, as well as the prospect of annoying his cousin.