The Devil Wears Kilts (7 page)

Whether by accident or not, her fingers brushed his. It made his gut tingle as if lightning had struck nearby. By the time he’d sorted out that it must have been the luncheon he’d forgotten to eat making him light-headed, one of the patronesses stood and nodded. “Welcome to Almack’s, ladies. And to London, Lady Rowena.”

Beside Ranulf, and despite her statement that everything was going well, Charlotte looked relieved. Perhaps it was a good thing that he remained ignorant of the minute machinations involved, or he might have been tempted to intercede, after all. When Rowena came bouncing up to him, he smiled. “Now ye can have yer waltzes, my heart.”

“Aye. So dance the first one w—” Her eyes widened as she looked beyond his shoulder. “Uncle Myles!”

She released her brother to give their uncle a sound hug. Unsurprising, as she was a warm, kindly, naïve lass—which was, he was beginning to realize, to a great degree his fault. He felt a much cooler wind blowing where their mother’s brother was concerned, but tonight was for his sister. And so he clenched his jaw and kept silent.

“You’ve grown up in three years,” Myles Wilkie, Viscount Swansley, said, taking her hands in his. “You look so much like Eleanor it almost brings me to tears.”

“Do I look like Mother?” she asked, swishing her skirt almost shyly. “My brothers have never said so.”

Because it wasn’t allowed
. Myles had the good grace to clear his throat. “You do look very like her, Winnie. Will you dance your first waltz with an old man who adores you?”

Now
that
was interfering where he wasn’t wanted. Ranulf took a step forward—and felt slender fingers wrap around his arm, slight and gentle and burning through the heavy cloth of his sleeve like a brand.

“That certainly saves your brother from a dilemma,” Lady Charlotte said with her sunlight smile. “I don’t think he realized there would be no dancing until after the presentations, because he asked me to dance the first waltz with him.”

“Oh, splendid!” Rowena towed her chuckling uncle toward the dance floor as the orchestra on the balcony began to play the traditional first waltz. “Ye’re my second dance, Ran. Don’t give it away.”

“I willnae.”

In a moment he found himself standing at one side of the dance floor while his sister took her first official steps into English Society. If he’d been able to overcome his instinct to keep a watchful eye on her, he would have turned away from the sight. How the bloody hell had he allowed any of this to happen? It certainly wasn’t like him; Rowena herself could attest to that.

“Shall we, Lord Glengask?” Brown-green eyes beneath long, curved lashes gazed up at his face. “Don’t make me into a liar, if you please.”

He glanced from her to his sister. “Ye
are
a liar, Lady Charlotte.”

She nodded. “So I am. No one else needs to know that, though, do they?” When he still didn’t move, she tugged on his sleeve. “You’re not worried you’ll make a poor showing and embarrass Scotland before the English tyrants, are you?”

Ah, just the incentive he needed. Keeping his expression still even though he would rather have been shoveling shit in a stable than prancing before the English tyrants, as she named them, in one of their assembly halls, Ranulf took her fingers in his, slid his other hand around her slender waist, and stepped with her into the dance.

If he hadn’t had a younger sister he likely wouldn’t have bothered to learn the waltz, but abruptly he was grateful that she’d nagged him into it. Half the clan’s better-born men and woman all knew the waltz because of Rowena, in fact.

“You dance quite well, my lord,” Lady Charlotte commented in a merry voice. Her pale cheeks had taken on a rosy glow in the warm room. He found it rather attractive, though he would deny it if asked. Nor could he explain why he enjoyed just looking at her, when firstly she was English, and secondly she saw fit to argue with nearly every statement he made.

“Ye may as well call me Ranulf,” he returned, “as ye’ve already stripped me of every bit of dignity and authority I possess.”

She gave him an unexpected smile. “I doubt that’s possible.”

“Well,” he murmured, deciding he felt somewhat mollified. “I’ll take that as a compliment, then.”

Charlotte cleared her throat. “I’m merely attempting to see that tonight goes smoothly for your sister. And for mine.” Hazel eyes studied his, in a direct way most people didn’t dare. “We do have the same goal, I think.”

“I’d rather she fell on her face and returned to Glengask determined never t’leave again.” Ranulf forced a smile at his companion’s shocked look, as if she couldn’t understand why anyone wouldn’t wish to be Society’s darling. “I couldnae bear t’see her slighted or embarrassed, though, so I suppose I’ll tolerate the shenanigans.”

“For a fortnight.”

“Aye. Fer a fortnight.” And not a damned moment longer. All around the floor young ladies in white twirled about in ecstatic happiness—after all, they were now part of London’s elite. They were women, and had just embarked on their one task in life, that of finding wealthy, titled husbands. English husbands with English estates, the same men who wished him gone from the Highlands so they could continue the task of turning Scotland into nothing more than grazing grounds for their fat Cheviot sheep.

The irony was they didn’t wish him in England, either. Not until he’d lost his brogue and put away his tartan except for quaint holidays when everyone could pretend to be barbarian Scots in order to ridicule the culture. And that was when they weren’t talking behind their hands to accuse every Highlander of being a damned Jacobite.

“You’re holding my hand rather tightly, my lord.”

He shook himself, immediately loosening his grip. “I apologize,” he said stiffly. “My mind was elsewhere.”

“Then I’m clearly not holding up my end as your dance partner.”

That made him smile. The bonny lass had spleen, that was damned certain. The shift of her body beneath his hand, her quick, sure steps that matched his—now she had him thinking back to the last time he’d bedded a woman. And thoughts like that would do him no good here. At all.

“I was thinking of Glengask, my lady,” he improvised by way of explanation. It was partly true, anyway.

“You truly love it there, don’t you?”

She didn’t sound cynical or skeptical, so Ranulf nodded. “Glengask is a wild, lovely land as like to bludgeon ye as to cradle ye.”

“I think you’ll find that London Society is much the same.”

“Ye know,” he said slowly, feeling her muscles tense beneath his hands as he drew her a breath closer, “fer a lass willing to lie to keep two men from coming to blows, ye don’t shy away from an argument, do ye?”

Just when Charlotte had decided she knew how Lord Glengask would react to a given comment, he surprised her. Much the way she kept surprising herself by edging the conversation into what she knew to be dangerous territory. But in her defense, it was all rather confusing. He was rather confusing. Glengask had told her to refrain from giving advice where it wasn’t wanted, then he’d given her leave to use his Christian name. And as much as he seemed to … look forward to walloping people, he danced quite well.

“I enjoy a good debate,” she said aloud. Abrasive and defensive or not, he did seem to appreciate honesty. As far as she was concerned, that spoke in his favor. As did the way he protected and indulged and clearly adored his sister. “I detest when men decide an argument needs to be decided with their fists or with weapons, especially when it’s over something as idiotic and utterly useless as their own pride.”

In a heartbeat he’d pulled her still closer to his large, hard body. “And ye think a man can engage in a good debate without risking a physical confrontation?”

“I do.”

Stating that to him might be overconfident of her; until three days ago she hadn’t known of his existence. And one of the few things she did know about him was that he seemed to regard physical violence with the same nonchalance her peers granted to hailing a hack.

If her family hadn’t agreed to sponsor Lady Rowena, Charlotte would have taken pains to stay well away from him, though she wasn’t certain she would have been able to refrain from looking. She’d had more than enough experience with men who thought themselves immortal, only to fall prey to their own stupidity. More than enough to last her a lifetime.

“Ye look quite sad, lass,” Lord Glengask murmured. “If I’ve caused ye distress, I apologize again. Ye’ve been nothing but kind to Rowena.”

Charlotte swallowed, meeting his direct gaze once more. “It’s nothing you’ve done, Lord Glen—”

“Ranulf,” he interrupted, his fingers shifting a little on her waist and making her aware all over again of the intimacy of their contact.

“Ranulf,” she repeated, liking the taste of his name on her lips. She wanted to say it again, to savor it. Just not here, and not now.

“Better,” he drawled in his deep brogue. “If it wasnae me who’s hurt ye, tell me who it is.”

“So you can do violence to the offender?” she returned, though it was far too late for such a thing, even if she’d been so inclined. “As I believe I’ve stated how little regard I have for walloping, I hope you realize I would never want such a thing.”

“Aye, but
I
might.”

He had a very sensuous mouth, she decided, and not just because of the soft, rolling
r
’s of his brogue. The serious downturn, the slight upward curve when he glanced over to see his sister twirling about the floor. It was devilishly attractive, really. “That’s gallant of you then, I suppose,” she said when she realized he expected a response, “but as I just condemned men who fight for something as stupid as their own pride, I’m not about to approve a man brawling on behalf of someone else’s. I decline your offer.”

Lord Glengask—Ranulf—looked as though he meant to disagree, but before he could say anything further, the music stopped. Charlotte, torn between gratitude and an unexpected … disappointment at the interruption, led the way to the edge of the dance floor where her parents waited. Winnie was already there with Viscount Swansley, both of them out of breath and laughing.

“Did you see me, Ran?” she asked, catching both of his sleeves in her fingers. “I’m a debutante now.”

“I did see ye,” her brother returned with a warm grin of his own. “Ye were practically glowing. Put the other lasses t’shame, ye did.”

A hand touched Charlotte’s shoulder, and she was so focused on the conversation going on in front of her that she jumped. “Yes?”

She turned quickly to see the top of a balding head bowing at her. The head straightened to reveal the round face and kind, hopeful eyes of Mr. Francis Henning, and she relaxed—as much as anyone could at Almack’s, anyway.

“Mr. Henning. So grand to see you.”

“Lady Charlotte. I wondered if you would do me the honor of the next dance.” His brows dove down in a brief frown. “It’s a quadrille, I think. Though it might be a country dance.”

She felt rather than saw the Marquis of Glengask move up behind her, large and formidable as a mountain. If he thought she needed protection from Francis Henning, of all people, he must consider her entirely helpless. Charlotte smiled and nodded. “Whatever the next dance may be, it is yours, Mr. Henning.”

“That’s sterling. I’ll just be…” He glanced past her, his ruddy cheeks paling a little. “I’ll be by the punch bowl,” he finished. “With my grandmama.”

“Very good.”

Almost before she’d finished speaking, though, he’d retreated.
Oh, this was unacceptable.
“What did you do?” she demanded, facing Glengask. He stood closer than she expected, and she had to lift her chin quite high to look up at his face. “Did you scowl at him?”

“Who was that?” he returned, rather than answering her question.

“An old friend. Francis Henning. Should I have introduced you?”

Glengask cocked his head, making him look an attractive mix of endearing and lethal. “I dunnae. Should ye have?”

“Certainly not, if you only meant to glower at him.”

He met her gaze levelly. “Ye’re under my protection, lass.”

From the way he said it, that statement was clearly meant to explain everything. And she likely should have let it be, because he was the chief of a clan, accustomed to his words being accepted as law and obeyed without question. But they weren’t in Scotland, and he simply could not go about bullying and intimidating people. “Then with whom did Jane dance?” she asked. “And with whom is she about to dance the quadrille?”

The marquis swung his head around to glance at her sister. From his quickly hidden expression of confusion, he’d completely forgotten about Jane. So it seemed to be something about her in particular that he felt required his protection. The very idea should have annoyed her to no end. It did, of course, though annoyance didn’t quite describe the thrill of heat running beneath her skin.

“I’ll find that oot.”

He took two long steps before Charlotte caught up to him and blocked his path. “I know who they are, for heaven’s sake.”

“Then why did ye ask me, woman?” he shot back. The guests nearest them turned to look, abruptly interested in their conversation. Of course, a number of the young ladies had been eyeing him from the moment he’d entered the assembly rooms.

But he wasn’t the only one to feel flummoxed. “I was making a point.” The orchestra sounded a note, then began playing a quadrille. “Now go dance with your sister, as you promised.”

For a long moment he gazed at her. Then wordlessly he went to collect Winnie. Only then did Charlotte go find Mr. Henning. Tomorrow she needed to do some searching into the background of the Marquis of Glengask. Luckily for her, the best person to ask happened to be residing three bedchambers away from her own.

Chapter Three

“M’laird, Uncle Myles is awaiting yer pleasure in the front room.”

Ranulf looked up from the newspaper he’d been reading over his breakfast. It felt odd to have hold of news that wasn’t a week old. And unsettling to read that the Marquis of Glengask was in Town and residing precisely where he was. “He isnae yer uncle, Owen. To ye, he’s Laird Swansley.”