The Highlander Is All That (Untamed Highlanders #4)(11)

“Lady Smythe-Winston does not allow card tables,” Esmeralda told Ranald in a conspiratorial tone.

“Is that a good thing?” Ranald asked.

“A very good thing.” Esmeralda’s eyes glimmered. “The beasts cannot escape, you see.”

Hamish couldn’t help that ping of pity for the poor beasts who could not escape. Considering they were British beasts, he wasn’t altogether sure why.

They worked through the afternoon for quite some time—much more time than an activity like this should command—but Hamish was able to bear it on account of the fact that Henley had procured whisky. In fact, by the end of the ordeal, he was feeling quite mellow.

So mellow, in fact, that when Elizabeth breezed through the door, looking lovely and rested, his heart only gave a little jump.

“Well, that was perfect timing,” Anne said with a small smile. “We’ve just finished.”

“Finished? Finished what?” Was it his imagination or did her gaze linger a little too long on his lips?

“We’ve drawn up our plans for the season.”

Elizabeth’s smile faded. “But I wanted to help.”

“Tut,” Esmeralda warbled. “Cannot be helped. We’re all done.”

Elizabeth sighed and dropped onto a Hepplewhite, holding out her hand. “Let me see it.”

Esmeralda handed over her hastily scratched list and Elizabeth scanned it. “Oh dear,” she said with a glance at Catherine. “Tiverton’s?”

Her friend smiled blindingly. “I’m not going to that one.”

“He is rather . . . insistent.”

“He is.”

Esmeralda glowered. “You gels are missing the point.”

“Which is?” Anne drawled.

“We are not going to Tiverton’s party to consider Tiverton, but to consider his friends.”

“Preeble is his friend,” Elizabeth reminded her.

“It goes without saying we are not considering Preeble either,” the matron responded in stentorian tones.

“Thank heaven for small favors,” Anne said, sotto voce.

Hamish grinned and took another sip of his whisky. Though he had not liked Henley terribly this morning, this afternoon he was fast becoming a dear friend. When he held up his glass, the butler was right there with a refill.

As he took a sip, his gaze clashed with Elizabeth’s, and the little wench smiled. It was a wicked smile, one that brought to mind his assertion of earlier that she would drive him to drink.

Well, she would. She did. She was.

He took another healthy drought.

“Don’t get pickled,” Lady Esmeralda said, and it occurred to him that he needed to mind himself because others were watching.

But still, his gaze was drawn to Elizabeth again and again and his mind floated back to that kiss . . . and what might have happened, what could have happened . . . until he became quite uncomfortable in the trousers.

He set his glass on the table and adjusted his seat.

It did not help.

“So will you be dancing with us at the balls?” Elizabeth asked. That she asked it of Bower annoyed the hell out of Hamish.

Ranald chuckled. “I dare say we will no’.”

“Do you not know how to dance in Scotland?” Anne asked, a trifle too acerbically.

The baron stilled and his gaze locked with Anne’s. “Aye, lass,” he said in a low tone. “We do indeed.” It was duly noted that Anne shivered and then pointedly looked away. “But during this season, we will be present as chaperones only.”

“A reminder, if you will, to all and sundry that we have the duke’s blessings,” Esmeralda added.

“To that end, we shall be wearing the Sinclair kilt,” Ranald said.

His timing was unfortunate, as Anne had just taken a sip of tea. Which now spewed forth. “What?”

“Och aye.” Ranald held her gaze again and then winked.

How interesting that a blush arose on those alabaster cheeks.

“I think that is a wonderful idea,” Elizabeth said.

Anne’s brows rose. She sputtered for a moment and then managed, “What nonsense!”

“Kilts are verra attractive.” Elizabeth affected a brogue.

“They are savage.”

Hamish could tell the moment the words escaped, Anne regretted them. Her face turned beet red.

“I mean . . .”

“We know what you mean, lass,” Ranald said. “And if it’s the truth you’re wanting, savagery was our intent.”

“Oh yes,” Esmeralda said, clapping her hands in delight. “Just so. An excellent way to remind the members of the ton that our duke is a Scot through and through. And what better way to begin as we mean to go on than to attend Almack’s tonight?”

Hamish swallowed heavily. Tonight?

Oh. Perhaps he shouldn’t have had that second whisky.

“Almack’s?” Anne frowned. “But we have not received vouchers.” It was a well-known fact—even in the far reaches of Scotland—that without the approval of the patronesses, one would be barred at the door.

Esmeralda’s smile was wicked. “Of course we have received vouchers. Are we not connected to the Duke of Caithness?” She winked. “It doesn’t hurt that Lady Jersey is a friend.”