The Highlander Is All That (Untamed Highlanders #4)(48)

“And titled,” Aunt Esmeralda warbled, although no one had invited her to join the conversation at the window.

“We need to figure out how to handle this,” the duke said. He turned to Lady Jersey. “Can you offer suggestions?”

Lady Jersey sniffed. “The most obvious is a special license.”

Elizabeth blanched. “No.”

The reigning queen of the ton fixed Elizabeth with a bland glance and raised a brow. “No?” This she said as though she’d never before heard the word uttered in her presence.

Elizabeth frowned at them all, each in turn. “I didn’t want to go with him. I didn’t want to kiss him. I don’t want to marry him.”

“My gel,” Lady Jersey intoned. “Life is not about what we want.”

Oooh. Elizabeth wanted to smack her. What a pity she was civilized.

As always, her aunt sensed her mood. “Sarah, why don’t you go back to the party? I would hate for you to miss a thing.”

Lady Jersey bristled. “Nonsense. This is far more interesting.”

“Twiggenberry is waiting,” Ranald reminded them. It had been a major coup, keeping him out of this discussion, but the duke—bless him—had insisted.

“Let him wait,” Esmeralda snapped.

“You need to make some kind of announcement tonight,” Lady Jersey advised. “To avoid scandal.”

“I couldn’t give a fig for scandal,” Elizabeth cried. “I’m not marrying him.”

“I understand, dear gel, that you do not have a care for what society thinks, but this is not just about you. Is it?”

Elizabeth blinked at Lady Jersey, then mopped her eyes. “What . . . do you mean?”

Lady Jersey stood and cupped her hands. “This is about your family. About your reputation. How many offers do you think your sisters will have with this hanging over their heads? Do you really want to rob them of their futures? Their opportunities?”

Oh.

Oh dear.

Visions of Anne and Victoria and dear Mary flitted through her head, and her heart ached. She couldn’t put her own happiness before theirs. Could she?

Seeing Elizabeth falter, Lady Jersey pressed her point. “It is the only way.”

Elizabeth glanced at her aunt, who grimaced and nodded.

“I’m afraid she’s right,” the duchess said sympathetically. “If you want to avoid a scandal, this is the only way.”

How devastating that they were right.

She could walk away if this were only about her. But it wasn’t.

It wasn’t. It was about the people she loved most on earth.

People she couldn’t bear to disappoint or tarnish or wound.

And so it was that, the night of the Moncrieff ball, Elizabeth St. Claire became engaged to Lord Wallace Twiggenberry.

And everything within her died.

*

It couldn’t be so.

It couldn’t be.

How could she have said yes?

How could she have agreed?

Hamish sank deeper into his chair in the Sinclair House library—the very place he had kissed Elizabeth just this morning—and tossed back his drink.

This had begun as the most wonderful day of his life and ended as the absolute worst.

The woman he loved had—willingly—given herself to another man.

He wanted to die.

On that note, he rose and made a markedly staggered way to the window, where there was another carafe of . . . something. He poured another drought—some of it into his cup—and headed back to his seat. The room spun, but not as much as his world, which was whirling in tatters around him.

“There you are.”

“Go the fook away.” He didn’t want to see Ranald, or anyone.

“I know you’re upset.”

Hamish stilled, then fixed Ranald with a sardonic stare. “Really?”

“Do you want to talk?”

“I want to drink.”

“That willna help.”

“It’s helping at the moment.”

His friend took a seat, sat back, and sighed heavily. Then he took the carafe from Hamish and poured himself a glass. When he took a sip, he grimaced and spat it back. “This is ratafia.”

“It’s all that was left.”

Ranald sighed and stood, headed for the bellpull, and tugged. “I canna have you drinking ratafia.”

“I just doona understand. And she willna talk to me.”

“She’s too overset. She doesna want to talk to anyone.”

“How could she have said yes? To him? He’s a fooking worm.”

“Aye. He is.”

“How could she have said yes?”

“What do you think? That she decided in the course of a dance that she dinna want you after all? That she wanted a smelly, titled lord with ten thousand a year?”

He had thought exactly that. At least for a moment. Or six.

“Why else would she say yes?”

“It should be obvious.”

“Nothing is obvious.”

“She did it to save her sisters from the scandal.”

Well. That shut him up. That was the Elizabeth he knew and loved. “That is stupid,” he muttered.

“Aye. But what her society demands.”