The Highlander Is All That (Untamed Highlanders #4)(15)

Anne lifted a shoulder. “It’s not unexpected. This is Almack’s.”

“I know. But it feels . . . wrong.”

“They’re Scotsmen. And hardly members of the ton.”

“Bower is titled.”

For some reason, this annoyed Anne. She frowned. “He’s still a Scotsman.”

“As is our duke,” Elizabeth reminded her.

“This is the world we live in, darling. High Society exists on another plane, like it or not.”

Elizabeth glanced around the ballroom at the glittering dresses, the men prancing in knee breeches and cravats, the upturned noses and patronizing titters. The room was indeed, stuffy, and smelled of sweat and pomade.

Something in her belly tightened. This was the world they lived in. What a pity she didn’t care for it all too much.

Twiggenberry and Blackworth emerged from the crowd and Elizabeth struggled not to cringe as the former’s perfume surrounded her in a cloud. “My lady!” he crowed as he bent over her hand. She was indeed thankful for her gloves as he pressed a long, warm kiss upon her person. “Say you will dance with me.”

Oh dear. A dance was never just a dance. Per etiquette, it also included a perambulation around the room and the obligatory glass of lemonade. She shot a panicked glance at Anne, who merely opened her eyes wide and blinked innocently.

Anne’s lack of support hardly mattered. Before Elizabeth could respond, Twiggenberry pulled her into a reel, dancing her from one end of the ballroom to the other. She was out of breath nearly from the start and not only because of the enthusiasm with which he danced. The room was stifling.

But then, on one round, she caught a glimpse of Hamish’s expression as he stood, arms crossed, at the door. He was glowering. At her.

Who could ever have imagined a glower would make her feel so glorious?

But it did. It was clear he was not happy to see her in another man’s arms.

Was it wrong to play this up? To smile at Twiggenberry and laugh when he said something amusing—or not so amusing? Was it wrong to bat her lashes at him and coo?

Probably. But the effect it had on her protector was worth the effort. By the end of the dance, his expression was tight and his cheeks a ruddy red.

Excellent.

After the dance, she opened her fan and allowed Twiggenberry to lead her around the room. With the music and the laughter and the conversations flowing freely, it was difficult to attend to what he was saying, but Elizabeth made it a point to smile and nod.

It was indeed a relief when they ended at the lemonade table.

The lemonade was warm and not terribly refreshing, but it was something. Elizabeth happily drank it down.

As Twiggenberry prattled on—about what, Elizabeth had no clue—she scanned the ballroom. She saw Anne chatting with a friend on the sidelines and Victoria dancing with Peter Ross, Catherine’s younger brother. Mary was walking with Blackworth. None of them, save Victoria and Esmeralda—who was chattering away with the patronesses on the dais—appeared to be having a good time.

And as far as her future husband being in the room, as her aunt had warned . . . Well, Elizabeth could only hope this was not the case. Not one man caught and held her attention. At least, not for positive reasons.

There were several with clearly overstuffed cods that made her smile, and a creaky older gentleman—clearly wearing a corset—with hair sprouting from his ears, and a young lord whose prancing was just a bit too . . . prancy. But there was not a man here she might want to consider as her life mate.

And then, her gaze landed on him again.

He was watching her, tracking her with a rapier gaze, which made her feel warm and twitchy.

She did a quick comparison.

He was tall. Taller than nearly every man here. And muscular, where the London lords relied on padding beneath their clothes—which was humorous when it slipped out of place. Hamish was tanned. Brown as a nut, while these men were pale and pasty. In fact, they gloried in the fact that they never took the sun.

And then there was his hair, that shock of burnished red.

Oh, he stood out. She could barely tear her gaze away.

“Scandalous, isn’t it?” a harsh voice intoned in her ear.

She turned and forced her expression to remain pleasant. “Lord Tiverton?”

“Lady Elizabeth. I say, it is scandalous having them here.” He nodded toward Hamish and Ranald.

“They are our escorts. In lieu of the duke.”

Tiverton sniffed. “Still. They have no place here.” His gaze narrowed on her. “And where is Catherine?”

Elizabeth barely held back a frown. Tiverton had been unrelenting in his pursuit of her friend. Even now, when Catherine was betrothed, he hovered. No doubt because she was betrothed to a Scot. “She has a megrim this evening.”

He was clearly put out at this news. So he returned to his other complaint. “You would think Lady Esmeralda would know better. Those savages are the only thing people are talking about.”

“They’re quite nice men,” she felt obliged to mention. She did not, however, mention that scandal had been Esmeralda’s plan all along.

“I say, Lady Elizabeth. Shall we dance again?” Twiggenberry, put out that Tiverton had stolen her attention, tugged on her sleeve.

“We really shouldn’t.” The last thing she wanted was to give the signal she’d selected her suitor. More than one dance would do exactly that. Besides, her feet already hurt.