The Devil Wears Kilts (36 page)

“Aye, but we
were
invited to the dance afterward. I’ll consider that progress.”

“So we’re still trying to be civilized and make the Sasannach like us? We’re the pet monkeys?”

Ranulf frowned. “I broke Berling’s nose at the first grand ball of the Season. I nearly choked Gerdens-Dailey at the second. So when I’m invited to the third, I consider it progress.”

His brother grimaced. “Well, when ye put it that way.”

“That’s how I choose to put it.”

When Arran kept gazing at him, Ranulf settled in to look out the window at the dark London streets. Was it dangerous that for the first time in years he felt … optimistic about the future? That he thought he could be the gentleman he’d promised Charlotte he would be?

“Charlotte Hanover,” Arran said into the silence.

“Aye? What aboot her?”

“Are ye going to marry her?”

“I’m thinking I will.” He turned to face Arran again. “Why? Do ye have an objection?”

His brother shrugged. “She’s a proper Englishwoman who a very short time ago thought ye were a savage and a devil, if I recall. Are ye not that man any longer?”

Ranulf settled deeper into the corner. “Maybe it’s that she’s not quite as stiff as ye think,” he returned.

“I hope ye’re—”

“Enough, Arran,” he broke in. “We’re going to a proper soiree, we’re going to behave, and I’ll figure out the rest, if ye dunnae mind.”

“Fine.”

“Fine.”

Well, wasn’t that splendid
. The sense of euphoria that had filled him all day flattened. He was still a Highlander, the leader of his clan, and she was still an English lady accustomed to soft winters and warm summers. And whatever she might have said about understanding his use of “bashing,” as she called it, she couldn’t possibly feel easy about it.

“Ran, I didnae mean—”

“Ye’ve helped me quite enough, Arran. I only hope when ye find the woman ye love, she’ll be perfect and ye’ll ne’er have a complaint or worry aboot her. And vice versa.”

“That sounds a wee bit dull, actually.”

“Aye. And dunnae ye forget that.”

Arran blew out his breath. “I wasnae trying to talk ye oot of anything. I’m only … I worry that she’ll be—”

“She’s nae Eleanor,” Ranulf commented, finally understanding. “She’s nae after a title, and damn the consequences. I want her to be happy. Not just … by my side.”

His brother looked out the window for a long moment, much as he had earlier. “Then I think she’s rather bonny. And I think ye look happy when ye’re together. Just … Be certain, Ran. Please. Fer both yer sakes.”

Ranulf had informed Charlotte ahead of time that he would be in full Highlander regalia, giving her the opportunity to scowl or argue with him before he appeared in public. But she hadn’t done either, which at the time he’d taken as a good sign. Now he couldn’t help wondering if she was just … humoring him—and whether he actually embarrassed her. How could he be certain, as Arran suggested? The answer wasn’t in his mind, but in hers. And he couldn’t know it, until she told him. If she told him.

That was a glum thought. When the coach stopped in the street outside Lansfield House he nearly changed his mind about going in. But he’d made his bed, so he might as well wear a kilt in it. Or something like that.

“Lord Glengask and Lord Arran MacLawry,” the butler intoned, as they stepped into the ballroom. He could hear the swarm of whispers beginning at the front of the room and swelling to the back. Whatever the damned fuss over a man showing off his knees, he might as well enjoy it—or at least become accustomed to it.

Now that he considered it, there was another possible solution; he could remain in London. The idea of not seeing Glengask except for the occasional holiday made him ill to his stomach, but he supposed he could do it if by staying in England he could have Charlotte.

Almost as soon as he conjured that idea, though, he discarded it again. Whatever the MacLawry family crest said, it wasn’t
any
MacLawry whose presence at Glengask signaled to his people that all was well and they were safe and protected; it was the marquis, the clan chief, who needed to be there. And that, for better or worse, was he.

A swirl of gold caught his eye, and he looked up as Charlotte and her family strolled into the ballroom. She’d chosen to wear a gold silk with an overlay of black lace and beads that made her look both elegant and eminently desirable. He let out a slow breath as he took her in from head to toe and back again. Magnificent.

“Are we going to stand here all night, or—”

Without waiting for his brother to finish, he set off toward his sister and the Hanovers. Tradition said he would have to ask Lord Hest for his daughter’s hand, and he likely should have asked by now. And he knew precisely why he hadn’t. Firstly, the earl would refuse him, and secondly, he still hadn’t been able to convince himself that taking her to Scotland wasn’t utterly selfish.

She smiled as she caught sight of him, and he had to work not to speed his steps. Glorious, she was. All the men who’d looked at her and passed her by, out of courtesy or because they wanted a new debutante or because they only saw her as the betrothed of a dead man—they were all fools.

“Good evening,” he said, inclining his head as he reached the group.

“Glengask,” her father intoned, sending both him and Arran a sour look. “Why do you insist on making a stir?”

“I’m nae making a stir,” he returned, straightening his shoulders. “I’m being the Marquis of Glengask.”

His sister leaned up and kissed him on the cheek. “I think you look
brèagha,
Ran,” she whispered. “You and Arran, both.”

“My thanks,
piuthar
.”

Charlotte held out her hand, and he lowered his head to kiss her knuckles. “I think you look
brèagha
as well,” she said with a smile.

“Ye nearly have a proper brogue,” he returned. “Tell me there will be a waltz tonight.”

“There will be two. Which would you like?” She produced her dance card from her reticule.

“Both.”

“Ranulf.”

He narrowed his eyes. “Have I mentioned that the Sasannach are too stiff-spined?”

With a chuckle, she handed him the dance card and a pencil. “Yes, I believe you have.” When he chose the second waltz of the evening, she took a step closer. “Have you heard anything more from Berling or Gerdens-Dailey?”

“Nae. In fact, Debny had word that George left London for Sholbray Manor. I’m to meet him there at the end of the month, but he may have decided to go out looking on his own. I told him the approximate location of the grave.”

“That was a very brave thing you did,” she said, her changeable hazel gaze meeting his.

“Brave? Nae. I will agree that it was the correct thing to do. And I’ll also say that Gerdens-Dailey surprised me a bit. I actually thought he’d be more likely to answer me with a knife to the gizzard.”

Her fair skin paled.
Bloody hell.
She’d paid him a compliment, and he’d replied once again like a barbarian. Of course he was a barbarian, according to most people. There were times he liked the title. Whether she truly wished to be known as the devil’s wife, though, he had no idea. But he was going to have to ask her. Very soon. Because the only thing worse than having her refuse him would be speculating endlessly over how she would break his heart.

“Charlotte,” he murmured, gripping her fingers. “I need to ask ye a question.”

Charlotte’s breath caught in her chest. Would he do it? Would he finally ask her? She smiled up at him, wishing no one else were around so she could kiss him until neither of them could breathe. “I’m listening.”

A hand slid around her other arm. “Charlotte, people are beginning to stare,” her mother said, favoring Ranulf with an uneasy smile. “And look who’s here—Lord Stephen Hammond.”

Ranulf released her hand as if he hadn’t noticed how long he’d been holding it. She liked that, that he liked touching her. Heaven knew she craved touching him, even if it was just a brush of fingers or her mouth against his. “Ranulf,” she murmured.

“I’ll find us a private moment or two,” he returned in the same tone.

“Ah, Lady Charlotte,” Lord Stephen said, walking up and taking her hand. “Please tell me you haven’t given away both waltzes tonight.”

She fixed a smile as she faced the light-haired duke’s son. In the past he’d been generally polite, if somewhat … patronizing. But over the past year or so his treatment of her had changed. In fact, until he’d appeared at the Esmond soiree and been so pleasant to her, he’d been just as likely to make jokes—ones she was no doubt meant to hear—about spinsterhood and poor shots.

“I—”

He took the dance card from her hand before she could finish. “Ah, I see you haven’t. The first waltz must be mine, then.”

Charlotte cleared her throat, very aware of Ranulf standing like a granite mountain directly behind her. “My apologies, my lord, but I’ve promised that waltz to Lord Arran MacLawry.” It wasn’t perfect, but Arran was standing close by, and he was firmly in the category of ally.

“Nonsense,” Stephen insisted, and she noticed that his good friend Simon Beasley had appeared, as well. “Simon,” he went on, penciling in his name and then handing her card over to Mr. Beasley, “which do you want—the first quadrille, or the last country dance?”

“Lord Stephen, I don’t intend to do much dancing, tonight,” she tried again. “Please give that back to me.”

Stephen laughed. “You don’t want everyone thinking you’ve fallen for a Highlander, do you? Once he’s gone, and I’ve been assured he will be gone soon, likely never to return, you’ll have no hope at all of netting a husband. Who in his right mind wants to think he’s lapping up after a Scot? Especially when you’re already, well, on the back of the shelf.”

A hand darted out from past her shoulder, retrieved her dance card, and smoothly handed it to her. “Feel free to cross those off,” Ranulf drawled. “Ye were more polite than I would’ve been.”

Her sudden alarm became relief. He evidently
had
found a way to use his brain rather than his muscles—though both were exceedingly fine, and even more dear to her. “Thank you, my lord,” she said, doing precisely as he suggested.

“You’re making a mistake, my dear,” Simon Beasley commented, leering at her. Good heavens, he was drunk. And that meant Stephen more than likely was, as well. “If we wished it, we could see that you never have a partner for a dance ever again.”

“That hardly seems likely, gentlemen,” her father put in, his jaw tight but his expression uneasy. If anyone disliked a scene more than she did, it was the Earl of Hest. “I suggest you go somewhere and recover yourselves.”

“And I suggest you—”

“Why is it,” Ranulf interrupted, just the sound of his voice shutting the duke’s son up, “that when ye have some difficulty with a man, ye instead go to insult the people standing close to him instead of saying what ye mean?” He moved up to stand beside Charlotte.

Stephen snorted. “Because a fool is a fool, and has no idea how very poorly he shows, even if you try to make that
burningly
obvious to him. Those standing around him, though, should know better.” He narrowed his eyes, gazing at Charlotte again. “You’ll be lucky if you don’t have to pay someone to—”

Ranulf’s hand shot out again. This time it was coiled into a fist, and it struck Lord Stephen Hammond flush on the jaw. Stephen staggered backward, flailing his arms. In the next moment Simon Beasley leaped forward and threw a punch at Ranulf’s head. Then three more men charged in, all swinging at the marquis.

They weren’t drunk, she realized in the horrified second after she deciphered what Hammond had meant. He’d been the one to set fire to Ranulf’s stable. Since that hadn’t stopped the marquis, they’d done this. And now they’d merely been waiting for Ranulf to strike first. And then they would no doubt beat him half to death and claim they were only attempting to subdue the devil. “Stop it!” she shrieked, batting at Beasley with her reticule.

Arran MacLawry appeared and dove into the melee—so at least Ranulf wasn’t alone. Everyone else … could all go to the devil. They stood well out of the way, pretending to be appalled and at the same time jockeying for a better view and making wagers on the outcome.

From somewhere else the gray-haired Viscount Swansley arrived, swearing, and dragged someone off Ranulf. Was it truly to be the MacLawrys against the rest of Mayfair? Why? For heaven’s sake, Ranulf had made every effort to fit in. They wouldn’t let him. And if it was because of her, because some stupid aristocrat didn’t like that a Scotsman might win over an Englishwoman when none of them had done so …

“Gentlemen!” she yelled, smacking someone else with her small, beaded bag and wishing it were a great deal more substantial. “Cease this at once!”

“Charlotte, move away!” her mother cried, darting forward to pull at her sleeve. “For heaven’s sake!”

Tears wet her cheeks, though she didn’t know when she’d begun crying. She caught a glimpse of Ranulf, his face bloody. “Stop!” she shouted again, then got knocked backward by someone’s elbow.

Cursing, her father pulled her to her feet, then waded into the fight. For an awful moment she wasn’t certain who he was assisting, until Simon Beasley staggered by her and then stumbled to the floor with the help of her father’s boot.

“Enough!” the mild-mannered Lord Hest bellowed. Finally, evidently spurred by the sight of her well-respected father attempting to stop the fight all by himself, footmen and guests and their host, John Lansfield, the Marquis of Ferth, moved in to begin pulling men off each other.

Already she could hear Lord Stephen’s friends blaming the fracas on the Marquis of Glengask. “Barbarian” and “devil” and “damned Scot” echoed around her. That could not be allowed to stand.

Gathering her skirt in her hands, she marched up to where her father and Lord Swansley each had Stephen Hammond by an arm. “You are no gentleman, sir,” she said sharply, “and I am ashamed that I ever called you a friend.”

He sneered through a bloody lip. “Talk to that big devil,” he retorted. “He—”