The Highlander Is All That Page 10

  “As though she’s never said it before,” Victoria offered, sotto voce, but everyone heard.

  “Enough.” Esmeralda clapped her hands, as though that would have any effect. “We are going to the musicale. No more discussion. For now, a celebratory tea, I think. Jamison!” she bellowed at a passing footman.

  “Yes, milady?”

  “Have Henley bring a tea tray.”

  “Yes, milady.” He bowed and scuttled from the room, but not before Elizabeth saw him glance at Mary, and Mary’s responding blush. When Mary caught her staring, her eyes widened—a sure sign of guilt—and she bent her head to her needlepoint, effectively destroying her prior work.

  “Really, Mary,” Elizabeth said softly, taking a seat at her sister’s side. “I think you’re making a mess.” She nodded at the needlework, but they both knew she referred to something else entirely. Elizabeth worked at pulling out the stitches while she waited for the others to become engaged in a debate on whether or not they should plan a ball at Sinclair House. Then she whispered to her youngest and most flighty sister, “Well?”

  “Well?” Mary’s cheeks were red, but she held her head high.

  “He’s a footman.”

  “He’s very handsome.”

  Was he? Perhaps, in a young, too-pretty kind of way. “Esmeralda will have apoplexy if she notices your flirtation.”

  Mary thrust her chin out. “It’s more than that.”

  Oh dear God.

  “We’re in love.”

  Elizabeth gaped at her sister. Love? “How can you be in love? He’s a footman.”

  “That does not signify. He is a man. I am a woman—”

  “You’re sixteen!”

  Mary sniffed. “The duke wants to marry me off, that makes me a woman. You cannot have it both ways.”

  “You realize the duke would not approve of a footman.”

  “You can’t know that.”

  Yes. She very well could. She sucked in a breath and tried again. “The world we live in—”

  “I hate it.”

  “What?” Elizabeth stared at her sister. “I thought you loved the parties and the balls and the dresses.”

  “I do love the dresses.” She smoothed down her silk skirt. “But I would give it all up for love. Wouldn’t you?”

  Oh dear. There was no answer for that, was there? Especially when that was exactly what Elizabeth had decided to do—should Hamish have her.

  But this was Mary.

  It was different.

  Mary was far too young to make a decision of this magnitude. Did she not see what a foolish mistake this was? Did she not understand—?

  A thought occurred, one that made Elizabeth go hot, then cold.

  She was a raging hypocrite.

  For one thing, she was preaching one truth to her sister and another to herself.

  Did love trump money and social status? Did it truly?

  She knew in her heart that the answer was yes.

  But there was more. She was painting Mary with the same brush Hamish had painted her. As a girl too young to know her own heart. And she’d been furious with him.

  “Elizabeth?” Mary’s quiet call pulled her from her dark ruminations. “Are you going to tell Aunt Esmeralda?”

  Oh, how to answer her? “I’m torn.”

  Mary sighed. “I understand.”

  “Just please be careful. Don’t do anything—” Rash? Silly? Foolish? None of those would work. “Permanent. Not just yet. Please?”

  Her sister smiled, a glowing grin. “Don’t worry. I won’t.”

  Wouldn’t she? Judging from her expression, especially when Jamison came back into the room carrying the tea tray for Henley, she already had.

  She’d given away her heart.

  To a footman.

  It was a tragedy of epic proportions.

  Chapter Twelve

  Though they marched into the Smythe-Winston musicale as though to a funeral, they were greeted with gladness . . . and curiosity. Whenever a household withdrew completely from the season, it was always a matter of intense interest.

  Elizabeth laughed and waved off some of the more ridiculous suppositions, as they had all agreed they would.

  No. They had not succumbed to the plague.

  No. Their home had not been invaded by rats.

  No. There had not been a fire.

  And on and on and on.

  “I heard Tiverton kidnapped her,” Lady Jane Astley whispered over lemonade as they waited for the dreaded musicale to begin. Lady Jane and Elizabeth had attended Miss Welles’s School for Girls together for a time and were friendly, so Jane backed off of that tidbit when Elizabeth chuckled.

  “He was rather fond of her, but no.”

  “He disappeared the same time you withdrew,” Sally Albright said with a hiss to her accusation.

  Elizabeth blinked. “Did he? I wouldn’t know.”

  “She’s been ill,” Victoria responded. “We all had a horrible stomach bug. Haven’t left the house.”

  Sally’s eyes narrowed. “I heard it was a fever.”

  “That too,” Victoria said brightly.

  “So where is Lady Catherine?” Sally asked.

  Fortunately, at just that moment, Lord Twiggenberry approached. For once, Elizabeth was relieved to see him. “My lord,” she said, lifting her hand. He kissed it, all too reverently.

  “Lady Elizabeth. I do hope you are feeling better.”

  “I am. Thank you, my lord.”

  He frowned a bit, probably because she had not called him Twiggy, but honestly, she was not doing that. Especially not in this company.

  “I still cannot believe that you were ill,” Sally said on a titter.

  Twiggenberry pinned her with a rapier gaze. “I assure you, she was.”

  Heat crawled up Elizabeth’s cheeks as she recalled just how ill she’d been. And on whom. “I am . . . so sorry about that,” she murmured.

  “Not to worry. I have more shoes.” He offered a smile and then his arm. “Will you sit with me, Lady Elizabeth?”

  Oh blast. It was the last thing she wanted to do, but he was being so chivalrous, she had to. Besides, it was the polite thing to do. “Of course, my lord.”

  As he led her to the chairs set out in the Smythe-Winston music room, he bent his head closer and she got a whiff of his pomade. “I’ve missed you,” he whispered.

  Egads. “Thank you, my lord.”

  “Have you had time to think about my proposal?”

  Her heart set up a clatter. Would she let him down here? In front of the ton? Oh, she couldn’t. “It is a big decision.”

  Surely prevarication was not a sin.

  He sighed. “That it is. I shall happily grant you more time.”

  Wonderful. That was not what she wanted at all.

  “Tomorrow, you shall have tea with my mother.”

  All of her charitable feelings for him evaporated at his preemptory tone. She’d never liked being bossed around. And tea with his mother was the last thing she wanted.

  She shot a glance at his thick lips beneath her lashes. Perhaps the second last thing.

  Fortunately, Lady Smythe-Winston stood before she could reply and began making her opening remarks. It would be rude to speak during them or the execrable performances that followed. So Elizabeth sat at Twiggenberry’s side, breathing in the perfume of his nauseating pomade, and listened as the Smythe-Winston twins desecrated Haydn and Scottish folk songs in turn.

  While Twiggenberry tried to contain his flinches when a particularly sour note was struck, he failed.

  Elizabeth, who was used to Catherine’s playing, merely sat back with a smile on her face and applauded enthusiastically when they were done, awash with gratitude that her name was not on the program.

  Following the torture, Lady Smythe-Winston rewarded them for their fortitude with sandwiches and cakes. It would have been a perfectly lovely evening had she not been at Twiggenberry’s side.

  He expressed dee
p concern for her health when she refused to eat, but while the sandwiches looked appetizing indeed, her stomach rejected the proposition. All she could smell was that damned pomade.

  Would it be rude to ask a man to change his pomade?

  Probably, so she held her tongue.

  By the time Aunt Esmeralda signaled that it was time to take their leave, Elizabeth was more than ready to go.

  “Thank you for your company, my lord,” she said to Twiggenberry with a nod.

  He took her hand and kissed it enthusiastically. “May I call on you tomorrow?” he asked.

  “Of course,” she said, again because it was the polite thing to say.

  But lord, she hoped he did not.

  * * *

  By the time they got home, Elizabeth was starving. She marched over to the bellpull and gave it a yank.

  “I say,” Esmeralda said. “What are you doing?”

  “Ordering sandwiches. And cake.”

  “We just came from a banquet,” her aunt sputtered.

  Victoria sniffed. “Hardly a banquet.”

  “I couldn’t eat a bite.” Elizabeth glared at Victoria when she sniggered.

  “Too nervous in front of your earl?” her sister said coyly.

  “He is not my earl.”

  “He could be.” There was no need for her aunt to remind her.

  “His pomade makes me ill.”

  “Really?” Esmeralda stared at her. “That is an easy thing to change.”

  “Is it?” But it hardly mattered. It would not be enough.

  Unless there was a magic wand that could turn Twiggenberry into a tall, nut-brown Scotsman with laughing eyes, she would not be interested.

  And even if such a wand existed, she would still want Hamish.

  She couldn’t help it.

  Her sisters and aunt sat with her as she had her tea tray—which had been delivered by Jamison—and she tried not to be annoyed when each of them snagged a sandwich or two.

  They had already eaten.

  She was nearly finished when a voice in the hall captured her attention.

  Captured. It.

  Low and mellifluous. Familiar. Dear.

  Her heart flew into her throat and her head jerked up and . . . ah.

  There he was.

  She wanted to run to him, throw herself into his arms, and kiss him.

  But of course she couldn’t.

  Instead, she sat up straight, fixed a blasé expression on her face, and nodded to him. She probably imagined the hint of hurt on his face at her formal greeting.

  “You’re back!” Victoria cried.

  Apparently she could fling herself into his arms.

  And Mary too.

  Which was patently unfair.

  “Come and sit,” Esmeralda commanded, patting the seat between herself and Elizabeth.

  Ah, God. Even though they didn’t touch, his heat enfolded her. His scent, some glorious and manly fragrance that was purely Hamish, surrounded her in a cloud. She longed to fill her lungs with it.

  “I want to hear everything,” Esmeralda said. “Every. Thing.”

  Hamish shrugged. “Not much to tell,” he said, picking up a cake and wolfing it down.

  This, Elizabeth did not mind in the least. In fact, it was fascinating to watch. Those lips. That throat working. The stubble on his chin. All fascinating.

  She caught Mary’s too-intent attention on her, and she sniffed and looked away.

  “I want to hear nonetheless,” her aunt insisted.

  “Is Bower with you?” Anne asked in a too-desultory manner.

  “He’s coming. He had some business to take care of on the way. But Duncan and Catherine are staying in Scotland for a bit.”

  “So they did elope?” Victoria’s eyes shone.

  “They did indeed.”

  “And Tiverton?” Esmeralda asked.

  Hamish lifted a shoulder. “No idea. Apparently they stranded him somewhere in Cumbria.”

  “No, they didn’t!” Esmeralda cackled at that.

  “Indeed they did.”

  “No less than he deserved. Imagine, kidnapping Catherine.” Elizabeth was still overset about that. She had been so worried and outraged and annoyed.

  “It all worked out for them. Catherine is quite happy,” he assured her.

  “I should think so. She’s loved Duncan for years.”

  “And hated him,” Victoria added, picking up another cake.

  “It is a thin line, my gels,” their aunt warbled.

  “How comforting,” Anne muttered.

  “Well, it’s true. I am glad you are back.” Esmeralda patted Hamish on his knee. Fortunately, he was wearing breeches, or Elizabeth might have smacked her hand away.

  “I am too, truth be told. Hieing about the countryside is tiring.” He shot them all a smile. “If you don’t mind, I shall turn in.”

  “Of course. Of course. We were just heading up as well.” Their aunt leaped to her feet and clapped. “Come, gels. It’s been a long night and we have calls in the morning.”

  They all groaned as they came to their feet, but it was a genial groan. They had their Scottish guard dog back and the season was back on.

  Elizabeth, for one, was delighted.

  * * *

  As tired as Hamish was, he couldn’t sleep.

  Seeing Elizabeth had awoken something in him. Something that felt like hunger.

  He’d done his share of soul searching while he’d been away. The dull ride had allowed for little but that.

  Ranald had cornered him one night at an inn after Duncan had gone to bed and read him the riot act about kissing Elizabeth. But Hamish hadn’t needed his friend to lecture. He’d gone through all that over and over again in his head.

  He knew he was not right for a woman of her breeding and background. He knew she was much younger than he was. He knew she was better off with a wealthy lord who could keep her in silks and diamonds.

  But still, he wanted her.

  He’d ridden straight back, only stopping to change horses.

  And it had been worth it, seeing her again.

  But her small nod had confirmed his assertions and pierced his heart.

  It had let him know she’d made her decision.

  The decision he both hoped for and dreaded.

  She’d chosen Twiggenberry.

  He hadn’t expected it to devastate him as it had.

  With a sigh, he kicked off his covers and plodded to the decanter by the window. He knew better than to use whisky as a buttress, but he deserved a drink after the fortnight he’d had.

  He’d just taken a sip when a scratch came at the door. With a frown, he set down his glass, wrapped a blanket around his hips and crossed the room to answer.

  To his horror, and delight, Elizabeth stood there in the hall.

  The sight poleaxed him. She looked so beautiful and sweet. He could barely move.

  Something moved though. His cock rose.

  A totally inappropriate response.

  “Is something wrong?” he asked.

  “Yes. Let me in.”

  He did, knowing he shouldn’t. “What is it?” he asked. Had someone else been kidnapped? Did he need to ride off again in pursuit?

  Her answer befuddled him. Probably because it came along with a bundle of fragrant, luscious woman launching herself into his arms. “Everything.”

  She peppered his chin with wet kisses and then she found his mouth.

  God. What glory.

  He couldn’t help himself. He kissed her back, savagely, hungrily.

  By the time he found it in him to lift his head, he was breathless. “Elizabeth. We shouldna do this.”

  She held him tighter. “I missed you.”

  “Ach, I missed you too.” She pushed him back until his legs hit the bed, and then she pushed him again and he sat with a plop.

  “Elizabeth—”

  “If you say we shouldn’t again, I may hit you.”

  That made him laugh,
but it was a pained laugh, because she’d gone onto the bed beside him and then—God help him—she straddled him. It took a minute because she had to wrangle her skirts. Certainly enough time for him to return to sanity and stop her.

  But he didn’t want to stop her.

  Elizabeth, on his lap, kissing him.

  It was sublime.

  It was also torture, because Hamish knew they could not continue.

  “Elizabeth, please. We must talk.”

  She looped her arms around his neck and pressed her breasts against his chest. “We can talk like this.”

  “You may be able to, but I—”

  “You, what?”

  “My brain has descended.”

  She tipped her head to the side. “What does that mean?”

  “It means I canna think with you on my lap like this.”

  “Like this?” She made some horrendous circular movement with her hips, one that made his eyes cross.

  “Elizabeth. Do you have any idea what you are doing?”

  Her grin was wicked. “I’m fairly certain.”

  “You are driving me mad.”

  “Excellent.”

  “I thought you chose Twiggenberry. You were supposed to choose Twiggenberry.”

  “Twiggenberry makes me ill. You, on the other hand, you smell like heaven.”

  To his consternation, she nestled her nose in the crook of his neck and licked him.

  Licked him.

  “Darling, please. You have to stop.”

  She chuckled. “It’s just a kiss.”

  “It willna be,” he warned. “And then you’ll be ruined.”

  She leaned back and smiled at him. “Ruined for Twiggy? How awful.”

  Twiggy? “Twiggy?”

  “It’s what he wants me to call him. I think I shall retch again.”

  “You canna be serious.”

  “I am. About both.”

  He tried to hold back a laugh—this was no laughing matter—but couldn’t.

  “Honestly, Hamish. I’ve thought about this a lot.” She stilled and all the amusement drained from her face. Her gaze was clear and solemn. “You are the man I want. You and no one else.” She raked her fingers through his hair and held him still while she kissed him again.

  This kiss, a benediction.

  He could not help but respond.

  What man could?

  This was Elizabeth, the woman he wanted more than breath itself. This was Elizabeth, sweet and innocent and absolute perfection.