The Devil Wears Kilts (18 page)

Charlotte looked from one of them to the other. Not for the first time she felt old, or at the least, jaded. Each year seeing the same people, some of them pairing off in marriage, but others—like her—simply growing older and smiling the same forced smiles and talking about how very young and silly the new crop of debutantes seemed to be, felt as heavy as lead in that moment. And she’d driven off the only man who’d showed any interest in her, even if his aim had been for the bed rather than the altar.

“Char?”

She shook herself. “Firstly, you need to ask Mama and Papa if there’s an evening event they particularly want to attend—or to avoid. And then look to see if you’re attending other events that same day or week with the same people, and choose which one you prefer.” Bending down, she picked up a luncheon invitation. “This is a picnic with Lord Harold Onless,” she said, stifling her scowl.

“Yes. He’s very handsome,” her sister said, fanning her face with one hand.

“And his second cousin is Donald Gerdens.”

“What does that signify?” Winnie returned, her cheeks reddening. “There’s Parliament that day, so Berling won’t be at the picnic.”

“Rowena, your brother wouldn’t like it.” Evidently she’d become a nanny after all, and to both young ladies.

“I don’t care what my brother thinks,” Winnie said, too shrilly. “I haven’t even seen him for a week.”

Charlotte hadn’t, either, but she’d been listening. And she’d heard rumors, rumblings that didn’t make much sense. “You said you didn’t want to see him. He’s honoring your wishes. That doesn’t mean you should disregard his, does it? This is a matter of your safety.”

“Well, he won’t know, and I’ll be fine, so that doesn’t signify.”

“Winnie.”

A tear ran down Rowena’s fair cheek. “How am I supposed to ignore him and be mad at him if he won’t even show himself?” she managed, sinking onto the couch. “No one cares that I’m here all alone in London!”

Oh, dear.
Charlotte had no idea how to answer that, especially when she’d been the last one from the household to speak with Ranulf. Or to speak
at
him, rather.

“You’re not alone in London, Winnie,” Jane said briskly. “And that Lachlan MacTier doesn’t deserve your affection if he can’t even be bothered to send you a note. As for Lord Glengask, you know he adores you. It’s as Charlotte says; he’s honoring your wishes.”

Actually, Charlotte had more than a suspicion that
she
was the reason Ranulf had made himself scarce. But he’d made her so angry, and even jested about the brawl at the Evanstone party—a brawl the wags were still gossiping about, for heaven’s sake. And the kiss, then suggesting they simply … become lovers, because of course they were all wrong for each other otherwise—
not
giving him a piece of her mind would have been wrong of her. She’d actually said more than she’d intended, but once she’d begun she hadn’t been able to make herself stop. Oh, he aggravated her.

And then he’d vanished from public view for a week. Not completely; evidently he’d gone riding in the early mornings and had taken several meetings with various people, but he hadn’t attended any parties at all. Of course she wasn’t certain he’d been invited to any, after what had happened last week.

But as for this picnic, if she allowed something to happen in his absence that endangered his sister, then all her talk about how he was the one making trouble and how Rowena was safe among the English aristocracy would become a lie. And if that caused him to discount her words, then she would have ruined the most interesting … friendship she’d ever had, and for no good reason. “Yes, he does adore you. So you can be mad at him and not risk your safety at the same time, can’t you?” she persisted. “You have two other overlapping invitations for that same day.”

“Two so far,” Longfellow intoned from the doorway. The butler produced a silver salver laden with still more invitations and correspondence.

All the doldrums forgotten, the girls dove into them, laughing and squealing as they recognized a name here or an address there. Charlotte supposed she couldn’t begrudge them their excitement; she’d had a splendid debut Season, herself, culminating with her betrothal to very pretty James Appleton.

“This one’s for you, Char,” Janie said, handing over a folded missive.

She didn’t recognize the address, but broke the plain wax seal and unfolded the note, anyway. As she read the brief paragraph her heart skittered to a stop and then unsteadily resumed again. Taking a breath, she read it again, to make certain she hadn’t missed anything. Then she cleared her throat. “Winnie, you should read this,” she said, holding it out with shaking fingers.

Rowena took it from her and read it, then looked up again. “He … he bought a house?” she whispered, tears glistening in her eyes again. “He
bought
a
house
? In London?”

“I only know as much as you do, Winnie. It does lend some sense to a few odd rumors I’ve been hearing.”

“Well, what does it say, for heaven’s sake?” Janie asked.

Winnie didn’t look capable of answering, so Charlotte did so. “Ranulf—Lord Glengask—purchased Gilden House on Market Street. He’s invited our family to dinner there tomorrow evening, if we are available.”

“My goodness,” her sister exclaimed. “I thought he hated London.”

“He does,” Rowena finally put in, wiping her eyes. “I don’t understand.”

Charlotte thought perhaps she did, but she had no intention of telling either of the young ladies that she’d taken the marquis to task about his unfounded prejudices. Not ever. “Do you want us to accept the invitation?” she asked, rather surprised at how desperately she wanted Rowena to say yes. Had her arguments had an effect on him? Had he listened to what she’d said? It seemed that he had, but she wanted to know for certain. And she wanted to know what that meant.

“I suppose we should,” Ranulf’s sister said slowly. “It would be rude to ignore a direct invitation after all, wouldn’t it?”

“Yes, I think it would. And we don’t wish to be rude.” Not when she’d already exceeded her quota for that particular behavior to that particular man.

She should barely have noticed that he’d been absent for a week, a mere seven days. The Season was in full swing, and she attended dinners and soirees and recitals nearly every night. But she
had
noticed. And she didn’t want the last words they’d exchanged to be the last words they ever exchanged. No, she didn’t seem to be finished with the Marquis of Glengask just yet. Whether that was a good thing or not, though, she had no idea.

Chapter Eight

Ranulf paused at the top landing of the main staircase—his staircase, now—and took a deep breath. In the foyer, below, Owen and Peter seemed to be having the same trouble accepting the move to Gilden House as he was.

“… more Sasannach servants traipsing aboot,” Peter was saying in his hoarse whisper. “I might as well have stayed on at Hanover House.”

“Ye are staying on at Hanover House,” Owen returned. “Ye’re here tonight to help us look civilized. So stop bellowing about Sasannach and move those posies into the drawing room.”

“But why’d the laird go and buy this place? Do ye think he means to abandon Glengask?”

“Nae. Never. There’ll always be a MacLawry at Glengask.”

This was the gossip Ranulf had been hoping to avoid. Pushing upright from the railing, he descended the staircase. “Everything ready for tonight, lads?”

“Aye,” Owen returned, sending his partner a sharp look. “We’ve nae done much in the way o’ formal dinners, but I’ve been reading them etiquette books. We’ll do ye proud.”

“I know ye will.” Deliberately he clapped Peter on the shoulder. “The English look at us as barbarians and devils because they don’t know us or our ways. I’ve caught myself making some broad assumptions about them, through the same ignorance.” He gave a brief grin. “I’m knowing my enemy.” And if some of them proved to be other than enemies, well, all the better for him, he supposed.

As Peter hurried upstairs with the flowers, Owen peered around the edge of the narrow foyer window’s curtain. “Coach coming up. Ye should be in the drawing room, m’laird. Sas—Englishmen—dunnae greet their guests in the doorway.”

With a nod, Ranulf retreated back up the stairs. When he’d begun this, he’d been angry and resentful—mostly at Charlotte Hanover. Now that he’d moved past the point of no return he remained half convinced that the evening would be a disaster. At least, though, it was likely to be an interesting one.

In the drawing room, he poured himself a glass of whisky and took a generous swallow. He’d been drinking the stuff practically since he was five, and a glass or two would leave him more sober than a preacher, but he did hope it would settle his nerves some. He wasn’t accustomed to being nervous, and he didn’t like the sensation.

Owen stomped into the doorway and stopped, standing ramrod straight. “M’laird,” he intoned, “Laird Swansley.” With that he ducked a step backward. A moment later an amused-looking Myles walked past him and into the drawing room.

“Ranulf,” he said, continuing forward and offering his hand. “Thank you for inviting me. It was … unexpected. And exceedingly welcome.”

Ranulf shook his uncle’s hand, then released him again. “Ye’re family,” he said slowly, full knowing he was reversing the decree he’d made three years ago. “And Rowena will expect to see ye here.”

Visibly swallowing, Myles nodded. “This is a fine house. Should I say I’m surprised you’ve brought a property in Mayfair, or are we avoiding those discussions?”

“I’m walking a mile in English boots,” Ranulf returned. “They’re wee and they pinch, but I’m still doin’ it. Let’s leave it at that, shall w—”

“M’laird, I’m pleased to present Laird Hest, Lady Hest, Lady Rowena MacLawry, Lady Charlotte Hanover, and Lady Jane Hanover.”

“Thank ye, Owen.”

The footman did his backward step and gestured. He’d donned white gloves, Ranulf noticed; Owen
had
been reading etiquette books. As Hest stepped into the room, though, Ranulf set aside his … wariness over what Owen might have in store for them next.

He walked forward to shake the earl’s hand and bow over the countess’s. All his attention, though, remained on the doorway. Yes, he’d missed his sister, missed seeing with his own eyes that she was safe despite the twice-daily reports from Peter Gilling, but Rowena wasn’t the lass about whom he’d dreamed for the past seven nights. No, a golden-haired, hazel-eyed beauty continued to torment his thoughts as much as she’d tormented him in person a week ago. He remained uncertain how he felt, and even less so about how
she
felt, except that he knew he wanted—needed—to see her.

Rowena walked into the room, an uncertain smile on her face that widened as she caught sight of Uncle Myles. True to her bold self, she continued directly up to Ranulf. “Is it true ye’ve bought this house?”

“Aye.”

“Why?”

He shrugged. “I can’t very well judge London from the outside looking in, now can I?”

She looked up at him searchingly for a moment, then closed the distance between them to fling her arms around his chest. “Whatever’s gotten into ye, Ranulf, thank you.”

Ranulf hugged her back tightly. “What are ye thanking me fer, lass? I know ye havenae forgotten the brawl at the Evanstone soiree.”

“I don’t know,” she returned with a short laugh, straightening again to wipe at her eyes. “I suppose because you’re still here, at all. And because I’m still here.”

“I gave ye my word,
piuthar
.” He refrained from reminding her that she’d sworn never to leave damned London; one thing at a time.

A figure in a yellow gown entered the room, but he let out the breath that had caught in his throat. Jane was pleasant enough, but she wasn’t the Hanover sister he wanted to see. And then there she was, in a simple green silk with a gray pelisse over it, her hazel eyes taking in the tasteful décor of the tasteful room. And he knew it was tasteful, because he’d bought it fully furnished.

Resolutely he returned his gaze to the younger sister. It wouldn’t do to be rude, after all. “Lady Jane,” he said, taking her hand and bowing over it.

“Lord Glengask. You have a … very nice home.”

“My thanks, lass. I’m still awaiting a heavy rain to see if the roof leaks, but I believe it to be sound.”

Only then did he face Charlotte. “Well, my lady, what do ye think?” he asked, putting his hands behind his back. It seemed the best way to keep from grabbing her for a kiss—especially when he was just as likely to be greeted with a slap.

She kept her gaze on his face. “I think I’m surprised.”

“Ye shouldnae be,” he returned in a lower voice, as the rest of her family went to greet Myles. “Ye’re the cause of it.”

Her brow lowered. “I didn’t suggest you purchase a house.”

“Nae. Ye told me to stop judging where I have nae knowledge. I’m gaining knowledge.”

Twisting her fingers together, she glanced away. “That’s good, then.”

“Aye. I think so. I’ve also bought one o’ those barouches. Not very practical fer the Highlands, but I wondered if ye’d care to go fer a drive with me tomorrow. I’ve been wanting to take a look inside the British Museum.”

She took a step closer. “I don’t understand. You—”

“I handed ye an insult to yer sensibilities, and ye pierced me to the bone with yer response,” he interrupted. She’d done it in a way that no one else he’d ever met would even have attempted, but that had only made it more forceful. “So might it suffice to say this is a new day? A new beginning, perhaps?”

After a moment she shook her head. “No new beginnings.”

A muscle in his jaw clenched. He hadn’t expected sunshine and roses, to be sure, but to be denied a chance when he’d done all this … A thought struck him. Had he decided to make a better acquaintance with the English for himself, because it was a wise thing to do? Or had he done it to erase the look of disgust from a pair of kind, wise hazel eyes? And what the devil did that mean? “Well, then,” he forced out. “I thank ye for being honest with me.”

“Then you may collect me at ten o’clock tomorrow,” she said.