Page 85 of In the Highlander's Bed

“Where is he?”

“First, is this true that you have promised yourself to another? It’s all everyone is talking about this evening. They keep mentioning your name with the Duke of Holburn’s.”

“No, it’s not true,” Constance said. “Most particularly not now. Please, Fiona, take me to Gordon. I have so much to tell him. Or is he here?” she asked, struck by the even more amazing thought that he might be in that very room. She began searching the crowd with her eyes.

“He’s not in these rooms,” Fiona said.

“Then where is he?”

“There is a park across the road from this house—”

She talked to air. All Constance needed was a direction. Fiona hurried to keep up with her.

They had wound their way through the growing crush of guests and were halfway to the door, when Fiona’s hand reached out and stopped Constance. “Don’t take another step.”

“Why?” Constance asked, alarmed by Fiona’ssudden paleness. It was as if all color had drained from her face and she’d gone as white as the dress she wore.

Fiona flipped open her fan, using it to whisper, “That officer over there…” She nodded in the direction by the door. “He’s the man who led the attack on our camp.”

Constance looked in the direction and was surprised to see Captain Jonathon Ardmore, the officer who had been at Madame Lavaliere’s dance. His uniform was all brass and braid, and he sported a sling over one shoulder, the injured hand wrapped in bandages.

He saw Constance, his brows rising in recognition, and began moving toward her.

“Please,” Fiona said. “I can’t be near that man. His arm is injured because Tad bit him. Our brave dog almost tore his arm off.”

She didn’t need to say more. Constance turned around, ready to head in the opposite direction, and almost walked right into the Dowager Duchess of Holburn.

Worse, she had her son at her side. “His Grace wishes a formal introduction,” the dowager said. “Miss Constance Cameron, this is my son, His Grace, the Duke of Holburn.” Her words came out in a rush, as if she feared he’d bolt before she was done.

His sullenness did not endear him to Constance any more than his previous indifference. He bobbed the quickest greeting imaginable.

“What a pleasure to meet you,” she shot back. “Now, if you will excuse me—”

Holburn blocked her way. “I would have preferred this one with the darker hair, Mother,” the duke continued in a lazy, sensual voice, “over the one you’ve chosen.” He referred to Constance. “I don’t like blondes.”

Before Constance could gather her wits to answer, Fiona stepped in. “AndIdon’t appreciate arrogance,” she replied, her refined Scots’ accent giving the reprimand punch. “Moreover, if all you desire in your future bride, Your Grace, is hair color, let me inform you that Constance Cameron is not the wife for you.Youlack the spirit.”

“Who areyou?” Holburn asked, sounding more intrigued than insulted.

“Yes,whoare you?” his mother echoed, definitely insulted.

“Someone who doesn’t have time foryou,” Fiona said, taking Constance’s hand and pulling her toward the garden door. Constance glanced back and saw Holburn watching them leave, a speculative look in his eye. He completely ignored the dowager, who was so upset, presumablyover Fiona’s rudeness, that the feathers in her hair shook with her indignation. He started to follow.

“This way,” Constance said, pulling Fiona’s hand and ducking through a garden door.

The crowd in the ballroom had spilled out onto a wide terrace. Fiona and Constance navigated their way toward some stairs leading down into the garden. The ground was damp, so none of the other guests wanted to venture this far lest they damage their footwear.

“There must be a gate here someplace,” Constance said as they moved deeper into the garden’s shadows.

Fiona said, “Thatwas the man your sister wanted you to marry?”

“He’s a duke. Charlotte has a softness for one of us marrying a duke.” But it wasn’t going to happen. Not now that she knew Gordon was alive.

“That was my first London party,” Fiona murmured.

A wistfulness in her voice caught Constance’s attention. “Was it all you thought it would be?” she asked. “I personally have never been impressed.”

Fiona shook her head. “Whether it is or isn’t no longer matters. It’s lost to me.”