The Highlander Is All That (Untamed Highlanders #4)(46)

“Or horns?” Victoria added.

Anne chuckled. “You might as well ask if the other rumors about him are true.”

Three heads whipped around. “What other rumors?” Victoria breathed.

Mary plopped down on the bed. “Oh, do tell.”

Anne frowned. “I am not spreading gossip.”

“Too late. You have to tell us now,” Victoria said, “or we might stare at him.”

Their eldest sister shook her head. “One does not stare at a duke.”

“They do if he has horns.”

Elizabeth grinned at Victoria. “Come, Anne. You must share.”

“Oh, all right,” she huffed, but there was a glimmer in her eye. “There was one rumor that he is an author.”

Mary gasped. “Never say it.”

Victoria humphed. “Imagine that. A duke of the realm involved in something as vulgar as publishing.”

“It is only a rumor.”

“And the rest?” Clearly, Mary was out for blood.

“Well . . . Some say his cousin is actually his sister.”

Mary and Victoria gaped at each other. “How can that be?” they asked in tandem, but Elizabeth had figured it out. Apparently illicit affaires ran in the Moncrieff family. “That is scandalous.”

Anne shrugged. “Perhaps. But there is no doubt he is the heir—the family birthmark, don’t you know—so no one really cares.”

“Is there more?” Mary pressed.

“A bit. Here and there. About his association with known criminals and pirates—”

“Oh!” Victoria threw herself back on the bed into a pile of crinoline and lace, in a paroxysm of scandalized delight. “I cannot wait to meet this man!”

“Do you suppose there will be pirates in attendance?” Victoria asked, fluffing her hair.

“It is a good thing he’s married, or our dear aunt would never allow us to go tonight,” Mary said.

“She might,” Elizabeth responded. “Word is, everyone who is anyone is going to be there.”

“He’s been completely accepted by the ton,” Anne reminded them. “Despite his spotty past.”

“Of course,” Mary said.

“Of course,” Victoria parroted.

Elizabeth had to smile at their enthusiasm. It was clear her younger sisters were over the moon for the festivities, and to be honest, she was excited as well.

Who knew what delights this evening could hold?

*

Of all the hideous evenings Hamish had had to suffer through in London, the Moncrieff ball was by far his favorite. For one thing, Lady Jersey attended . . . with her husband, who kept her on a short leash.

For another, the Duke of Moncrieff was a damn fine fellow, who shook his hand as though he were an actual human. Hamish was delighted when Moncrieff introduced him to his brother-in-law, Ewan McCloud, a bona fide Scotsman—even though he was from Perth. Then the duke himself stood with Ranald and Hamish and McCloud and they critiqued the company.

It was all subtle, and offered in code, but they all knew what they were saying and it was enjoyable indeed.

For once, Hamish felt like he fit in with a group of men in London.

Also, there was whisky.

And it was a fine sort that Moncrieff had delivered to them in champagne glasses so no one would know.

The only fly in the proverbial ointment was the fact that Twiggenberry was in attendance and he insisted on dancing with Elizabeth.

As he watched the two round the ballroom, with a glower on his face, Moncrieff grunted. “I never liked that one,” he said. “Something about his piggy eyes.”

Hamish blinked. “He has piggy eyes? I didn’t notice.”

“Definitely piggy,” McCloud grunted. Then he took a sip of his “champagne.”

“Never got past the stench, myself,” Hamish murmured.

The duke barked out a wet whisky-laden snort. He yanked out his handkerchief and dabbed his mouth. “That was wicked, Robb. And he does indeed have an odd . . . odor about him.”

“He’s courting Elizabeth,” Hamish said before he fully processed the thought. Both the duke and his brother-in-law pinned him with a sharp glance.

“Lady Elizabeth,” Bower clarified.

“Oh, I got that.” Moncrieff turned back to watch the couples dancing. His sharp gaze landed on Twiggenberry and Elizabeth. “On the plus side, she does not appear enamored.”

“Does she not?” Ranald asked drily.

“She looks as though she wants to escape,” McCloud snorted.

God, it was wonderful being around Scots again. Men who said it like it was, rather than the way they expected it to be.

“She doesna like his . . . odor either.”

“She does look as though she might retch,” Moncrieff observed.

It was undoubtedly wicked to add, “It wouldn’t be the first time.”

“Perhaps I should cut in,” McCloud offered.

Hamish sent him a toothy grin and Ewan started in that direction. But before he reached them, Twiggenberry whirled Elizabeth in a turn and danced her out of the room and into the hall.

And Hamish’s gut surged.

Bluidy hell and damnation.

“Come on,” he growled to Ranald, and they lit off after their wayward chick.