Page 45 of The Devil Wears Kilts
Charlotte’s father nodded. “I was fairly well acquainted with Danvers, though in his later years he became sickly and quite reclusive. This is the first time I’ve set foot in Gilden House, though.”
“Let’s begin with the rooms on this floor, then. Across from here is the library, though Danvers seemed mostly to collect old newspapers here.”
Charlotte stayed where she was as the rest of the dinner party crossed the hallway to the library. A week ago she’d been beside herself with fury at Ranulf MacLawry. And this evening she’d very nearly kissed him, and in front of her family.
For heaven’s sake, she’d never even kissed James until they were engaged, because to do otherwise… Well, it simply wasn’t done. But in two years of knowing Mr. Appleton, as… adamant as he had been, she couldn’t ever remember feeling such a rush of heat and need as she felt when Ranulf looked at her.
Jane had called him fearsome and manly, and Charlotte had laughed at her sister. But she couldn’t argue that there was a certain aliveness to him that most other men with whom she was acquainted seemed to lack. He’d insulted her, suggested she become his mistress—just for the time he was in London, of course—and then begun a brawl.
Why, then, did she currently have her hands clenched in front of her, and why was she wondering what would happen to her life if shedidfall into bed with him?
She would never be able to marry, of course, without her prospective husband knowing she wasn’t chaste. But then, she’d given up on marriage several years ago, and each year her prospects dimmed further. If they were indiscreet then she would find herself the subject of gossip, of being ostracized from most of polite Society. But that was only if someone else realized what they were up to. If they were up to anything. If she decided that the lure of being in his arms outweighed her wish for propriety.
“Charlotte?”
She blinked herself back to the present as Rowena glided into the room. “I’m sorry,” she said, smiling. “I was lost in thought.” Moving forward, she wrapped her arm around Winnie’s. “What did I miss?”
“I think perhapsImissed something,” Rowena returned, not moving despite Charlotte’s gentle urging. “Are you after my brother?”
Oh, heavens.“Why in the world would you think such a thing?” she said, sounding a bit more shrill than she wished. “Lord Glengask and I agree about nothing!” Oh dear, oh dear. If Rowena had noticed, then had her sister? Her parents?
“Nobody stands toe-to-toe with Ranulf. But you do. I think that means you enjoy it.”
Charlotte grimaced a little. “I do enjoy a good argument,” she conceded.
The marquis’s sister tilted her head. “Are you ashamed that you like him? Because he’s Scottish?”
“Heavens no, Winnie.” This was not going at all well, and the last thing she wanted Rowena or her brother to think was that she was just another blue-blooded snob. I…” She blew out her breath. “There is an attraction,” she admitted, speaking slowly and sounding out the words before she said them aloud. “He asked me to go with him to the museum tomorrow, and I agreed. As for being after him, I think we both know that your brother has no intention of taking an English bride.”
Gray eyes opened wider. “Marriage? Good Saint Andrew, ye want tomarryhim?”
Charlotte coughed. “I never said any such thing!” she managed. “I just meant that none of this could be very serious.”
“My goodness. Ye nearly stopped my heart,” Winnie said, chuckling as she hugged Charlotte’s arm.
“And you nearly stopped mine!” Charlotte kissed her on the cheek, taking that moment to hide the hurt that Winnie’s matter-of-fact assumption had caused. Was it such an outlandish idea? Because she was twenty-five? Because she was English? A roll in the blankets was perfectly acceptable, but nothing serious, nothing permanent. “We’d best catch up, or your brother will think we don’t like his house.”
Rowena seemed satisfied, but Charlotte’s heart and head continued spinning. If she’d had any silly thoughts that a fairy-tale ending awaited her, Winnie had just dashed them. But that was likely a good thing. She and Ranulf weren’t precisely kindred kind, after all. And she did prefer to know where the path led. Ranulf MacLawry waited by the gatepost—they would merely be playing about in the stable yard rather than going into the house. The proverbial house. Because the one through which she walked at the moment was his, and it was quite nice.
Gilden House stood on a stately street lined with towering old elm trees that had likely looked down on pedestrians since the great fire. He’d set himself in the middle of Mayfair both literally and figuratively. If he’d done so because of her… A warm shiver ran up her spine despite the dourness of her thoughts. He was a very intriguing man, after all, and he seemed to find her intriguing, in return.
A moment later the hair on her arms lifted, and a warm hand cupped her elbow. “I can very nearly see yer house from here,” Ranulf murmured, joining her at the master bedchamber’s front window.
She wanted to sag back against him, feel his arms wrap around her waist, forget all the silliness trying to complicate the simple… lust running beneath her skin. “I honestly thought you and I would not be speaking again,” she said in the same low tone.
“Likewise. I’m nae accustomed to being bellowed at. By anyone.” He leaned in as if smelling her hair. “It took me a good day or two to admit ye’d made a fair point.” Ranulf glanced behind him. “This might be a conversation for another time,” he drawled, his soft brogue sending excitement swirling just beneath her skin.
Whatever had happened over a week spent thinking about little but the Marquis of Glengask, it had overwhelmed her dismay at seeing him beginning a fistfight because someone he disliked had wished to dance with her. Perhaps he’d been provoked, perhaps he’d done the provoking, but regardless the violence made her sick to her stomach. The male thirst for honor or power or superiority—it was nearly all James Appleton had thought about, and then it had killed him. Whatever the old saying about pride going before a fall, history books were full of stories about men whose sense of honor or pride sent them tripping to their deaths. And Ranulf faced all manner of blows to his pride straight on and beckoned all comers.
They were back in the drawing room when a gong sounded, reverberating through the large house like the rumble of thunder. The double doors connecting the drawing room to the small dining room beyond swung open, and Owen the footman stood there in black livery and white gloves. “Dinner is served, lairds and ladies.”
“Thank ye, Owen.” Ranulf rose and gestured his guests toward the door.
“Nae, m’laird,” the footman whispered loudly. “Ye must go first, and take the highest-ranking lass with ye. Lady Hest, that is.”
Rowena stifled a laugh behind her hand and walked over to take Lord Hest’s arm. Lord Swansley offered an arm each to Charlotte and Janie—which wasn’t strictly proper, but she knew Jane appreciated not having to walk in alone.
“I hope ye dunnae mind,” Ranulf said, as they all took their seats, “but we’ll be dining on Scottish venison with rose hips and beetroot. It’s generally served for Hogmanay, but I thought we’d make an exception.”
