The Highlander Is All That (Untamed Highlanders #4)(27)

“Are you really going to wear that?” an amused voice wafted to him. He stilled. His heart thudded. He turned, slowly.

How could he not have seen her? Smelled her? Sensed her?

She sat in the chair on the other side of the room, in the shadows, with a glass in her hand.

Hamish threw out his arms and twirled for her. His kilt belled about his knees. “Do you like it?”

“Well, I do, of course, but the ton does not approve.”

“Lady Jersey approves, apparently, and where goes Lady Jersey, goes the ton.” He winked.

“You shall either start a riot or a trend.”

“May we hope and pray for the latter.” He grinned and strolled toward her. “It would do me well to see the ton in kilts.”

She wrinkled her nose. “Not I.”

“Nae?”

He was close enough now that she could lean forward and whisper conspiratorially, “They have knobby knees.”

“Do they?” He glanced at her glass. It was empty. But there was whisky on her breath. “You seem to be feeling better.”

“Extraordinarily!” She lifted her glass in a mock toast. Or perhaps not so mock. She took a sip and realized there was nothing there and her lip pushed out.

“How much have you had?” he asked.

“Just the one,” she said.

Ah. Good—

“And the one earlier.”

“Two whiskies?”

She glanced up at him with a woebegone expression. “I’ve had a difficult day.”

“Aye. I heard you went shopping.”

“That was a trial. Tiverton was there.”

“And who, may I ask, is Tiverton?” He felt proud that he’d had not one niggle of jealousy at the other man’s name, but then, given her tone, there was no reason.

“Preeble’s friend.”

“And who is Preeble?”

She made a face. An adorable, crumpled-up face. “They’re both Catherine’s suitors.”

“I thought Catherine and Mackay are betrothed.” Hamish had caught hell this afternoon for nearly bollixing up that love affair. But how was he to have known Catherine was the same Wee Cat Duncan had been mooning over for years?

“They are betrothed. But Tiverton and Preeble cannot believe she would lower herself to marry a Scot.”

“Really?” Anger and a familiar pain swirled in his gut. He was used to British superiority—oh, God, was he—but he didn’t like it. And he didn’t like it coming from her lips. “Do you think that would be lowering?”

She glared at him. “You know damn well what I think.”

“There is no call for such language.” Good gad. Was he starting to sound like Lady Esmeralda? Now that was lowering.

“There most certainly is.” She stood and strode across the room. He was captivated by the swing of her hips . . . until he realized where she was going. She’d already poured another whisky before he got to her. “You don’t need this.”

“Yes,” she huffed. “I do. My life is a dismal charade.”

“Doona be melodramatic.”

“I’m not,” she said sharply. “I’m being fanciful. And childish.”

“Elizabeth—”

She whirled on him and her drink sloshed. “Oh, don’t Elizabeth me.”

“It is your name.”

Her glare darkened. “I know why you said those terrible things about me. And I know you didn’t mean it.”

Hadn’t he?

No. He hadn’t, actually. “I don’t think you childish at all.” It was difficult to say, but he liked the effect it had on her, her softening, so he added, “I’m sorry.”

Tears welled in her beautiful eyes. “I’m sorry too, Hamish. It would have been wonderful if you could have loved me.”

“Elizabeth, I think you’ve had too much to drink.” He tried to collect her glass, but she held it out of reach.

She sucked in a deep breath and blew it out slowly. “Tell me, Hamish. What do you think of Twiggenberry?”

Something hard and sour lurched in his gut. “He is . . . an earl.”

“That is a fact, not an impression. Don’t prevaricate.”

All right. “I think he’s an ass.”

She tipped up her chin. “Would you like to marry him?”

“Certainly not!”

She caught his gaze and held it. He could not deny there was a hint of desperation in hers. “If you were in my position, would you marry him?”

His blood went cold. “Has he, um, asked?”

Her nod was nearly imperceptible.

Oh God. Horror screamed through him with cold strafing claws. His nerves prickled and his left eye began to twitch.

Had he ever had a more miserable moment in his life?

Never.

“What, ah, what did you say?”

She issued forth a small, wet snort. “I believe I vomited on him.”

He couldn’t have stopped his smile if his life depended upon it.

“Aunt Esmeralda says a girl can marry for money and position and then have affaires.”

“Does she?”

“But I don’t think I am that kind of girl.”