Page 17 of The Highlander Is All That

Esmeralda glowered at him. “And look here. A musicale at the Smythe-Winstons’.”

Anne made a face. “Torture.”

“Perhaps, but an excellent venue for finding the right men.”

Catherine grinned. “Men in dire need of rescuing, I dare say.”

“Lady Smythe-Winston does not allow card tables,” Esmeralda told Ranald in a conspiratorial tone.

“Is that a good thing?” Ranald asked.

“A very good thing.” Esmeralda’s eyes glimmered. “The beasts cannot escape, you see.”

Hamish couldn’t help that ping of pity for the poor beasts who could not escape. Considering they were British beasts, he wasn’t altogether sure why.

They worked through the afternoon for quite some time—much more time than an activity like this should command—but Hamish was able to bear it on account of the fact that Henley had procured whisky. In fact, by the end of the ordeal, he was feeling quite mellow.

So mellow, in fact, that when Elizabeth breezed through the door, looking lovely and rested, his heart only gave a little jump.

“Well, that was perfect timing,” Anne said with a small smile. “We’ve just finished.”

“Finished? Finished what?” Was it his imagination or did her gaze linger a little too long on his lips?

“We’ve drawn up our plans for the season.”

Elizabeth’s smile faded. “But I wanted to help.”

“Tut,” Esmeralda warbled. “Cannot be helped. We’re all done.”

Elizabeth sighed and dropped onto a Hepplewhite, holding out her hand. “Let me see it.”

Esmeralda handed over her hastily scratched list and Elizabeth scanned it. “Oh dear,” she said with a glance at Catherine. “Tiverton’s?”

Her friend smiled blindingly. “I’m not going to that one.”

“He is rather . . . insistent.”

“He is.”

Esmeralda glowered. “You gels are missing the point.”

“Which is?” Anne drawled.

“We are not going to Tiverton’s party to consider Tiverton, but to consider his friends.”

“Preeble is his friend,” Elizabeth reminded her.

“It goes without saying we are not considering Preeble either,” the matron responded in stentorian tones.

“Thank heaven for small favors,” Anne said, sotto voce.

Hamish grinned and took another sip of his whisky. Though he had not liked Henley terribly this morning, this afternoon he was fast becoming a dear friend. When he held up his glass, the butler was right there with a refill.

As he took a sip, his gaze clashed with Elizabeth’s, and the little wench smiled. It was a wicked smile, one that brought to mind his assertion of earlier that she would drive him to drink.

Well, she would. She did. She was.

He took another healthy drought.