Page 15 of To Defy a Highland Duke

Inhaling deeply, Marjorie gave herself a mental shake. She was here as an emissary of the Kennedy clan. Nothing more. With dogged determination, she ordered her wandering mind back to the present.

Dinner had passed pleasantly enough, as long as she avoided looking in Lorne Buchannan’s direction, who sat several seats farther along the table. Praise God and all the saints for that. The food was sumptuous and excellently prepared, though her appetite had increasingly diminished as the meal progressed and Keane’s cousin continued to pay her marked attention.

His lecherous perusal caused her nape hair to stand on end, and she’d nearly excused herself to collect a wrap to protect her already modest neckline from his probing stare.

Keane might’ve angered her, and he certainly unnerved her, but he’d never made her want to flee his presence. Every time Lorne turned his oily gaze to her, she yearned to scrub her skin until it was raw and then hide in a wardrobe or under a bed.

From the moment Lorne Kennedy had laid eyes upon her, she’d felt him undressing her. He regarded her with ill-concealed lust, and she couldn’t believe no one had noticed. Never before had a man made her feel so uncomfortable simply by looking at her, openly stripping her naked with his licentious gaze.

She could’ve hugged Keane when he’d rescued her earlier, saving her from Lorne and his father’s insistence that she become acquainted with Lorne. She knew exactly what kind of acquaintance the rotter desired.

In truth, the duke might’ve noticed the disturbing glint in his cousin’s insipid brown eyes.

Flicking her fan open, Marjorie smiled as Berget and Graeme swept past and then hid a grin behind her fan as Camden followed a few steps later, partnered by none other than Bethea Glanville. A rather intimidating man with a scarred face, his long hair secured in a knot at the back of his head and several tattoos visible on his ringed fingers, led her sister, Branwen, through the steps.

Bryston McPherson, she presumed, though Graeme hadn’t introduced her to the Scot either. That truth seemed to have slipped his and Camden’s minds when they’d rushed off to greet him. In point of fact, they’d not thought to introduce her to anyone, and she wasn’t sure whether to be vexed or amused.

Oh, they didn’t mean to be unkind or neglectful, and she didn’t harbor a doubt they’d suffer chagrin at their oversight when it dawned on them. If it ever did.

Were all brothers so neglectful?

She hadn’t any brothers other than the Kennedys.

She took in the dancers promenading down the line. Neither Granville miss looked entirely pleased, yet each kept their pretty gray gazes trained on their partners as the big Scots guided them among the other revelers.

Camden and Bryston McPherson, however, appeared anything but disinterested.

Well now, that might prove very interesting.

Very, very interesting indeed.

Keane had done well with his wards. The thought came unbidden, and it surprised her she’d found another thing to admire about him. She’d been so determined to see his faults that acknowledging he wasn’t a complete bounder caused a little skip of gladness.

He’d taken on the role of guardian—what?—a decade ago? Perchance slightly longer? In truth, she wasn’t certain, as she’d been a new bride in a new country and Sion hadn’t spoken of his estranged cousin much.

A stunning, ebony-haired beauty, sumptuous in violet and black, paraded past on the arm of a strikingly handsome gentleman—the kind of man who made maidens gasp in awed wonder.

Marjorie, however, wasn’t an inexperienced, impressionable schoolgirl.

Besides, the man clearly only had eyes for the woman by his side. Marjorie gave a little smile at how he stared with such adoration.

Sion used to look at her like that.

With a start, she realized the beauty stared directly at her, pure venom in the woman’s narrowed-eyed gaze.

At the blatant animosity, Marjorie’s smile withered.

Who was she, and why the unprovoked malice?

It was unnerving to have such malevolence directed at her by a stranger. Perhaps she’d ask Berget if she knew who the lady was. For certain, she’d avoid the hostile woman’s company, if possible. All the more reason to sequester herself in the nursery for the bulk of the visit.

Positioned by the entry in case her daughters needed her, Marjorie absently searched the ballroom for a certain tall, raven-haired Scot. One whose presence commanded attention and who’d commandeered her thoughts since her arrival.

Prior to that too.

No small amount of truth there.

Waving her fan, she once more scrutinized the ballroom. Pshaw. She’d done that all evening. Found herself seeking Keane, even when she severely admonished herself not to.