The Highlander Is All That (Untamed Highlanders #4)(28)

“No. I canna imagine you are.”

“I don’t even want to kiss him. The thought makes my stomach churn.”

“Um . . .” He took a step back. “Don’t think on it, then.”

“There’s more.”

“Is there?”

She took a long sip, then sucked in a breath. “You’re the only one I want to kiss, Hamish.”

Why did his heart soar? This was utterly inappropriate and indecent and wrong.

And wonderful.

“Elizabeth, you are drunk.”

“Not really. This stuff just makes people tell the truth. I know you don’t feel the same, and that’s all right. I know I’m not the prettiest sister and I am young and a little fanciful. But I do know what I want. I want to kiss you and only you.”

A lump formed in his throat. He swallowed it down. “Where did you get the idea I dinna feel the same, lass?”

Her gaze met his. He felt it to the core of his being. “It’s obvious, isn’t it?”

“Is it?” He stepped forward, took the glass from her hand, and set it on the table.

And then he pulled her in his arms and did what he’d been wanting to do all day. All night. Every moment since he’d held her last.

He kissed her.

She tasted of whisky and woman—his two favorite flavors.

It was a glorious moment.

Until, behind him, Bower cleared his throat.

Blast.

Hamish released Elizabeth and stared down at her for a long moment. Her eyes were lovely and damp and she gazed up at him with an expression that tightened his breeches.

Lord, she was lovely.

“Is she fainting again?” Bower snapped. “Because if she is not, I suggest you unhand the woman before her aunt arrives, lest you find yourself in a compromising position.”

Hell.

Reality was hell. He nodded to Elizabeth and settled her on the divan and then he whispered, “Only you as well.”

Foolish and inane and utterly inappropriate, but he had to say it. She deserved to know.

And God in heaven help them both.

Her responding smile sent a raft of shivers up his spine. And he couldn’t help smiling back.

*

Elizabeth felt wonderful as they arrived at the Daltry’s masquerade. There had been a touch-and-go moment there when the whisky had threatened to repeat upon her, but Hamish—bless his heart—had asked Henley for a platter of finger sandwiches while they waited for the other girls to come down.

The sandwiches had been inspired.

The three of them sat around the tea table and downed one after the other. Hamish plied her with tea, and when he told Bower that she’d been tippling, the baron plied her with more.

“You need to keep your head about you while on the marriage mart, or you might find yourself betrothed to a wart,” he said, at which she and Hamish exchanged a glance and a grimace.

“I see your point,” she said and vowed to eschew strong drinks before parties in the future.

But, for the moment, she felt wonderful.

It could have been the kiss, or Hamish’s expression after it, or his whisper.

Hardly a declaration of love, but it was enough.

She was delighted to discover that Twiggenberry was not in attendance at Daltry’s, which allowed her to relax and enjoy herself. She danced and flirted and ate—more finger sandwiches and delicious cakes—and kept her eye on the behemoth in a kilt standing at one end of the ballroom with his arms crossed, watching all with an eagle eye. Women ogled him and men anxiously skirted around him.

He was so utterly adorable she could barely stand it.

Before long, the heat and the sweat and the weight of her domino threatened to overcome her. When Catherine found her by the lemonade table and suggested a walk in the garden, Elizabeth jumped at the chance.

As they stepped through the garden doors, Catherine drew in a deep breath. “Oh, much better,” she said.

“It is.” Elizabeth linked arms with Catherine, then tipped her head up to stare at the sky. “Pity there is no moon.”

“It’s behind the clouds.” The garden was shadowed, but for the occasional torches on the path. They made their way past several other couples and down the stairs and wandered slowly through the shrubbery. “This is so much pleasanter,” Catherine said.

“I think so too.”

They chatted a bit more, but Elizabeth was hardly paying attention. Her mind was beset with what to do about Twiggenberry. When she gusted a maudlin sigh, Catherine squeezed her arm. “What’s wrong?”

She frowned and faced her friend. If anyone should know, it was Catherine. “There’s been an offer for my hand.”

“But Elizabeth,” Catherine cried. “That is wonderful. Who is it?”

“Lord Twiggenberry.”

Catherine’s mouth dropped open. “Twiggenberry? He’s . . . quite a catch.”

“I suppose.”

“You suppose? Isn’t it the dream of every debutante to catch a husband like him?”

“I suppose.”

Catherine cupped Elizabeth’s cheeks and held her gaze. “What is wrong then?”

“I don’t know. I just don’t . . .”

“Don’t what?”

She leaned in and whispered, “I just don’t . . . like him.”