Chapter 6 #3
Finally he spied Mary, standing with a small group of young people all chatting loudly about something, and the knot in his chest loosened. Unlike her friends, she wasn’t gabbing. Instead, her moss-green gaze roamed the room like she was looking for someone. Looking for him, he hoped.
Snagging another drink, he rounded the fringe of the room until he was close by one of the windows overlooking the street below. A step behind him stood Mary, facing in the opposite direction. He took a breath. “This is nae what I had in mind fer tonight,” he murmured.
Silence. From her, at least; the room fairly vibrated with the cacophony of voices.
He drew another breath, wondering how loudly he could speak to the window before people began to notice.
Or if she had heard him, and decided she wasn’t willing to risk anyone seeing them speaking to the air in the same vicinity.
“It’s very crowded this year,” Mary’s voice came softly, a sweet note amid the chaos. “Lord Penrose acquired a Donatello sculpture last month. I think he wants to make certain everyone sees and admires it.”
“So he’s showing off? Do all these people know it?”
“Most of them do. But an invitation to this dinner is generally very difficult to come by. So when someone is invited, they accept.”
“I didnae come here to see a piece of marble.” A lordling close by sent him a sideways glance, then abruptly found somewhere else to be when Arran looked back at him.
“There’s a fish pond in the garden,” she returned, her voice barely more than a soft breath. “I’ll attempt to take a stroll there after dinner.”
Thank God. “Then ye’ll find me there, as well.”
“I hoped you’d say … Your brother’s coming. And, oh, dear, so is Lord Delaveer.”
“Go then, lass. There’s naught fer ye to worry over.
” He, on the other hand, had to fight the abrupt urge to punch mild Roderick MacAllister in the face.
Shifting the curtains aside with his fingers, he took another drink.
For the first time he realized the glass was vodka.
He generally detested vodka. Whisky at least had some character.
“What’s so interesting oot there in the dark?” Ranulf asked, stopping beside him.
“There’s air oot there,” Arran replied. “More than I can find in here.”
His brother nodded. “Nights like this do make me long fer the Highlands.”
Arran faced him. “Then let’s go home. Bring yer Charlotte with ye—all the Hanovers, fer that matter—and let’s be gone from here, before someaught happens,” he returned, sudden desperation thinning his voice.
Disaster loomed from every direction, and most especially from where he most wanted to turn. Toward a Campbell, of all people.
“I’m nae having this discussion here, bràthair. And I’ll nae flee trouble.”
“What trouble? There’s a truce. And we shouldnae be so far from Glengask when it ends.
” And he had the distinct feeling that if they didn’t leave London, hopefully tonight, he would be the one to end that truce.
Because he couldn’t seem to stay away from Mary Campbell, even after knowing her for only a week.
Because he wanted more than kisses. He wanted her.
“I’m nae ready to leave yet,” his brother responded coolly. “If ye’re homesick, then go. I dunnae need ye here if ye’ve nae a mind to do as I ask ye. But dunnae think that leaving excludes ye from yer duty to clan MacLawry.”
“Fer the devil’s sake, Ranulf, have ye spoken to Deirdre?” Arran asked, sotto voce. “She has the brains of a rock. A wee rock.”
A gong rang at one end of the room, loud as the bells of doom.
“Dinner is served, ladies and gentlemen,” Lord Penrose said grandly, as if no one had ever eaten before.
“We do not stand on ceremony here, so take a seat where you like. The only rule is that you not sit beside a spouse or family member.”
For some reason the guests seemed to find that amusing.
In Arran’s limited experience with Sasannach dinners, though, it wasn’t uncommon.
Evidently at a to-do where everyone was supposed to be clever, laughing at the host’s humor was a way to be invited again next year.
He didn’t plan to be in London next year whatever happened with the Stewarts, and he’d only come here tonight to see Mary, so he didn’t bother to pretend a laugh.
As the guests flowed from the drawing room to the dining room with its yards-long table, Ranulf put a hand on his shoulder.
“Dunnae even think of sitting near the Campbells,” he whispered.
“I’ll nae have ye making a stir to overturn this agreement with the Stewarts.
A wee rock fer brains, or nae. Mayhap I’ll inquire if the Stewart has a brighter niece fer ye. ”
Arran shrugged free. “Mind yerself. There’s more than one way fer a man to be a fool.”
“Ye and I are going to have a discussion when we get back to Gilden House tonight.” This time Ranulf’s voice was flat and toneless—a certain sign the marquis was not amused.
“I look forward to it.”
Without a backward glance Arran walked around to the far side of the table and claimed a chair between a pretty blond lass and an ancient-looking lady with white hair pulled into a bun so tight its purpose seemed to be to keep her eyes open.
Good. He didn’t feel like engaging either his wits or his patience over roasted duck and summer pudding.
All of his attention focused on the autumn-haired lass two-thirds of the way down the table and seated between a round, bald fellow and a hatchet-faced older man.
If she’d been joined by Lord Delaveer he wasn’t certain what he would do—but he knew he wouldn’t have liked it. At all.
“Are we supposed to introduce ourselves?” the younger lass asked, her voice high-pitched and breathy. She actually lowered her head to gaze at him through her eyelashes.
“I shouldn’t bother, dear,” the tight-faced woman replied, leaning her ample bosom in front of Arran to do so. “You’re here to be gazed upon. Leave the cleverness to the ugly people.”
“But—”
“Never mind her,” the fellow past the lass countered, then offered his hand. “Thomas, Lord Addent.”
“Oh.” Looking mollified, the blond lass shook his fingers. “Lady Constance Overton.”
Arran returned his attention to the white-haired woman. “I’m nae inclined to introduce myself,” he drawled, “because I reckon ye’ll call me ugly.”
She barked a laugh. “You can be the exception, young man.” With a baleful glance at the chinless fellow on her other side, she held out her hand, wrist limp.
Taking her pale fingers, Arran bowed over them. “Arran MacLawry,” he intoned.
“Ah. Glengask’s brother. Why not Lord Arran?”
“It sounds pretentious. I’ve nae anyone I need to impress tonight.”
Retrieving her hand, she cackled again. “I like you. Lady Forsythe-Hendley, and I am pretentious. If people don’t bow and scrape before you, what’s the point of being titled and paying all those taxes?”
He grinned. “At least ye admit to it.”
“I insist on it.”
While Lord Addent charmed breathy Lady Constance Overton, Arran spent most of the dinner chatting with the sharp-tongued dowager countess.
He knew precisely where his brother was seated, close to the head of the block-long table with Uncle Myles only a few chairs away.
He’d found Mary’s parents, flanking her on the opposite side of the table, likely as watchful for MacLawrys as he generally was for Campbells.
And Deirdre sat closer to him than he liked, and only one seat down from Roderick MacAllister—two unwanted pawns in an unwanted game.
“You’re unmarried, I hear,” Lady F—as she’d insisted he call her—commented.
“I am.” For the moment, anyway. “Why, do ye have a granddaughter to set after me?”
She slapped her hand on the table. “Heavens, no. The girl’s a complete imbecile, just like her parents. I plan on having her marry Lord Pettigrew. That’ll show him.”
Arran laughed. “Ye’re a cruel woman, Lady F.”
“Indeed, I am. So who is she?”
He lowered an eyebrow. “Beg pardon?”
“You’re young, unmarried, sitting beside one of the Season’s beauties, and you’re chatting with me. Either you fancy the bearded set, or someone’s got your attention.”
If it was that obvious to a complete stranger, he was going to have to be more cautious. Turning now to flirt with Lady Constance would be far too obvious, so he kept the grin on his face. “I’m a Highlands lad. Only a Highlands lass will do fer me.”
“Then you are in the wrong place, Arran MacLawry. You won’t find any of those here.”
There were two, actually, even if they’d been raised English. But only one had the Highlands spirit. One of them he had no wish to engage in conversation, and the other he was forbidden to approach. “Hence me chatting with ye, my lady. And ye’ve kept me from nodding off into my onion soup.”
“Likewise. It’s only a shame I’m not fifty years younger, or I’d show you the merits of English ladies.
” She put a hand over his, but the gesture felt friendly rather than amorous.
“I was at the Lansfield soiree when you and Glengask wore your full Scottish regalia. Even my heart went pitter-patter, I think. My great-grandmother was a MacDonald. You made me proud of that.”
Arran wasn’t certain anyone should boast about being a MacDonald, but he understood the sentiment, and nodded. “Alba gu bràth.” Scotland forever.
A few years ago just saying that might’ve seen him thrown in prison, but Lady F only smiled and nodded.
Very well, not every Sasannach was a fool.
He did have friends among them—men like William Crane, Viscount Fordham, with whom he’d served in the army.
But outside of that, he hadn’t even bothered to consider he might find a friendly face.
Much less an interesting one. Of course she was part Scottish, which could explain it.
Beyond that, he did his best not to rush through every course.
He couldn’t force everyone to eat more quickly so he could go strolling in the garden.
Whoever said that anticipation was the best part of a reward deserved a clout to the back of the head.
Both he and Mary had already skirted rules and orders.
They would be outright defying their family patriarchs if they went out to meet by the pond—and whether she appeared or not was the only thing that concerned him.
And he knew what that meant. He was becoming obsessed with the last woman in the world he should ever be approaching, and he was willing to risk his own safety and that of his clan just to see her.
* * *
Deirdre Stewart looked from Arran MacLawry, as close by her as she could manage to sit, to Lady Mary Campbell, halfway down the table.
It didn’t make any sense. She’d done everything right, just the way she’d been taught.
Let a man know of her interest, smile and laugh, flirt and be nothing but pleasant and mild.
In addition, her father had said that her marriage to Lord Arran would gain the Stewarts more ships for trading, more crops to sell, and more stability in the Highlands without them having to be there.
It should have been her he’d been whispering to behind the crowd tonight.
It should have been her meeting him down by the pond for … whatever it was they meant to do there.
She could imagine, of course. He would kiss her, and she would smile at him and tell him how handsome and wicked he was—at least that was how she’d imagined it would be when he asked her to meet him somewhere private. Oh, she could almost swoon just thinking of it.
Except that it wouldn’t be her. From the way he’d looked at Lady Mary when he thought no one else noticed, he might agree to marry someone else—her—but it would be a misery.
Her, being made to look foolish by a Campbell and a MacLawry.
The Stewarts and the MacLawrys were supposed to be forming an alliance, through her and Arran.
How could they do that when he was sneaking off to see someone who was supposed to be his enemy?
If Lord Fendarrow discovered that they were somewhere together, Mary Campbell would likely be sent home to Fendarrow for the rest of the Season.
And then perhaps Arran would do as he’d been told, and turn his gaze to her.
She was one of the Season’s beauties, after all.
Everyone said so. And Mary Campbell had been out for three years, and Deirdre couldn’t recall if anyone had ever called her a beauty.
As the ladies finally rose to leave the table she found Lord Fendarrow, seated several chairs away.
Lord Glengask had been so adamant that nothing happen to disturb this truce they’d somehow arranged so she could tell him, of course, but then he might send Arran away.
All the MacLawrys would vanish back into the Highlands, and would have no need of the Stewarts.
No, the Marquis of Fendarrow would know just what to do—and she would be helping the Stewarts, the MacLawrys, the MacAllisters, and the Campbells, all at the same time.
And when had anyone ever accomplished that?