Chapter 6
“I will do it.”
Arran’s pronouncement before the McQuoid-Smith family gathered in the parlor was met with heavy silence, punctuated by the slap of icy snowflakes hitting the crystal windowpanes.
Unlike stormy Scottish winters, silence with this rambunctious brood never lasted long.
Surprisingly, it was his mother, the countess—the most reserved of their lot—who broke the awkward lull with a customary clap of her hands.
“Splendid,” she said, beaming as she came to her feet. “Now that is settled, let us head for dinner.”
Only when the countess reached the door did she note that not a single family member followed.
The countess turned, a frown on her tight lips.
“No need for glum faces. The doctor—all three of the doctors,” the countess amended with emphasis, “arrived at the same diagnosis. Campbell will be fine. He suffered nothing more than a slight concussion, similar to the one he had as a boy. He’s already been drifting in and out of consciousness. ”
“Henry II of France died of a concussion,” Quillon chimed in unhelpfully. “Learned all about it my first year at Eton.”
Dallin, seated between his wife and their slouched brother, knocked a knee against the boy’s. “Which certainly explains your low marks. Henry II caught a lance splinter in the eye during a joust, Quill.”
“We aren’t worried about Campbell,” Andromena declared. “Isn’t that right?”
“How very devoted of you, sister,” Oleander shot over.
“Oh, for goodness’ sake,” the girl shot back. “He’s already begun to stir. As Aunt Catherine said, all the doctors assured us of his recovery. We’re worried about Lucy.”
By the pregnant pause that followed—and the furtive glances the McQuoids sneaked about—the room’s occupants stood in clear disagreement.
They were worried about surly, jaded Arran being around the young miss.
Prior to this year, there would have been no reservations about Arran escorting a guest to the dining room. He’d once possessed good cheer and even enjoyed the crowded affairs his family oft hosted.
“Very well,” Fleur exclaimed. “I will be the one to say it. Surely we’re not allowing Arran—of all people—to fetch Lucy.”
He’d have preferred they stared rather than pretending not to look at him.
Finally, someone had put the truth his family badly sidestepped front and center.
“Fleur,” the countess said sharply.
Such was a mother’s power. Nothing more than a child’s name spoken in that tone could quiet even the greatest of hoydens.
Properly chastised, Fleur dipped her head.
Neither the McQuoids nor the Smiths could mind their gazes—or their mouths—for long. While everyone forced themselves to look at Arran, he kept his features a frozen mask.
Cassia spoke softly. “I can fetch her, Mama.”
“Arran volunteered,” Myrtle gently reminded her.
Fleur snorted. “Yes, well, then someone else volunteer.” She mouthed sorry in Arran’s direction—as if the problem lay with someone else and not with the young lady’s reaction to him.
Indifferent, Arran lifted a shoulder. He didn’t blame a single one of them their reservations.
Andromena shot her hand up. “I’ll do it. I’ll fetch Lucy.”
Her twin, Oleander, immediately pushed it back down. “We are trying to get the lady to join us for dinner, Andromena.”
“Yes, well, that is what I’ll do.”
“No,” he said, stretching that single syllable into two. “All you’ll do is get distracted and have her spun around so that neither of you make it to the dining room.”
Like she were still a young imp and not a young woman nearing her debut, Andromena stuck her tongue out.
The twins began to fight.
The eldest McQuoid-Smith ladies sought to quiet the quarreling younger siblings. Their husbands sat wisely silent as it all played out.
Things were spiraling.
Arran collected his brandy snifter and took a drink. They could quarrel all they wished about how fit Arran was—or, more accurately, was not—to squire Lucy about. The fact remained unchanged.
He’d be the one escorting Miss LeBeau. In fact, wherever she was, that was where he’d be.
He’d occupy the guest chambers across from hers.
And when he wasn’t with her, there’d be a servant positioned in his stead.
He’d let his guard down once. Never again.
Arran downed the remainder of his spirits in a quick swallow. The lingering notes of vanilla and orange and warm spice did nothing to soothe him.
No more.
“…she’s already declined to join…” Dallin’s wife and viscountess, Alexandra, reminded the family. “Perhaps it would be best to allow her a reprieve, given the day’s events…”
“She must come!” Cassia cried out, echoing her sisters and cousins.
No one paid Alexandra any heed.
Not because they disliked her; on the contrary, she was well adored.
But every last person present—aside from the spouses who’d married into the McQuoids—was determined to find out everything they could about Lucy.
Arran flexed his jaw.
Granted, their reasons differed vastly from Arran’s reasons for learning everything about the sweetheart Campbell had not once mentioned.
“Harold, will you not say something, Lord Abington?” the countess asked, exasperated.
From his seat at the fireside, reading, the earl picked his head up long enough to answer. “Listen to your mother.”
The McQuoid-Smith children collectively laughed.
“About Arran collecting Miss LeBeau for dinner, Harold,” the countess nearly shouted.
Sensing very real danger, Arran’s father lowered his newspaper to chest level. “Yes, yes, Arran is a fine choice to fetch the girl. Arran, off you go.”
And correctly anticipating pushback, the countess looked at Arran. “You heard your father, Arran. Collect Miss LeBeau.”
The McQuoid-Smith clan raised their voices in an exasperated chorus: “Lucy!” “Her name is Lucy!”
Arran pushed away from the mantel.
Fleur darted forward. “Uh-uh!” she cried, blocking his path. “You are not allowed to go up there like that.”
He tamped down impatience. “Like what?”
“Like…” Fleur gestured up and down his person before settling a pointed finger at his face. “This. All brooding and surly and angry.”
“I’m not angry,” he gritted out.
“You sound angry,” his eldest brother said in the most big-brotherly way possible.
Arran fixed a hard glare on the grinning bastard.
“You look it too,” came another remark—from the usually taciturn Duke of Aragon.
“Why, you might as well send Aragon or—” Fleur began.
The two serious fellows—who became all smiles for their wives and children—scowled.
More than usual.
The Earl of Abington slammed his newspaper down. “Oh, by all the jingles in Christendom, would you please go fetch the young lady, Arran, and be done with it?”
That truly managed to silence the lot of them.
Arran cut his way from the room and headed upstairs to Lucy LeBeau’s rooms.
Arran dismissed the crimson-clad servant stationed nearby. Once the footman had gone, Arran knocked.
There came sounds from within—the patter of footsteps, quiet mutterings as the room’s occupant approached.
Miss Lucy LeBeau drew open the door with such force that had it been anything other than solid oak, the hinges would’ve surrendered on the spot.
He opened his mouth to speak, but the sight of her stopped him cold.
She’d been lovely upon her arrival. But now, framed in candlelight, she was something altogether different.
A vision in crimson and white silk; startling, vivid, impossible to ignore.
The scarlet bodice with its soft puffed sleeves and low square neckline hinted at curves a gentleman had no business noticing. Her white silk skirt fell clean and full; snow against fire. A peppermint confection come to life—sweet, bright, and utterly disarming.
A treat meant to be a feast for a—
“Did you order that servant outside my door?” she demanded, all fiery Scot.
His neck grew hot—guilt sparking for reasons that had nothing to do with the footman he had, in fact, posted there.
Arran rested a shoulder against the Prussian blue wallpaper, a model of idle calm.
He wasn’t.
“Did you think to leave,” he asked, “and then change your mind because of the servant standing guard?”
He only faintly teased her—faintly, because he no longer recalled how to truly tease. He’d once been damned good at it.
“Yes.”
Her frankness nearly knocked him off-balance.
She leaned closer. “I wanted to find Nettie and Tasgall.”
“Who?”
She frowned.
Understanding dawned. “Ah, you’re referring to your servants.”
Her frown deepened. “Nettie and Tasgall are their names. They are family, Mr. McQuoid.”
Her disapproving governess tone cooled the air between them.
“My apologies,” he said. “I understand that loyalty.” Loyalty and family were the only things he respected. Loyalty ran deep in every McQuoid-Smith household.
He held out his elbow as an olive branch.
He might as well have offered a snake.
“What is that?” she demanded, backing a step.
Arran followed her horror-stricken gaze. “This?” He flexed the limb. “This is an arm, Miss LeBeau. My arm, to be exact.”
Her jade eyes sparked like firelit embers. “I ken what an arm is.”
Ah. She wore her true Scot’s temper like a crown—fiery, bright, illuminating her poppy-red cheeks and the silver flecks in her green eyes.
An untamed spirit like hers would shine just as brightly in the bedcham—
He killed the thought.
Desire dug its sinful claws into him.
He crushed it.
“I am escorting you to dinner, Miss LeBeau,” he snapped, impatient with her—but more impatient with himself. For lusting after a stranger. One purported to be his cousin’s betrothed.
“I’ve already told your family,” she said gently—but firmly. “I do not find myself hungry. As such, if you’ll excuse me, Mr. McQuoid…”
Ice, however, was made for melting.
Arran flashed the rogue’s smile he’d once wielded with ease. “As my sisters insisted, we mustn’t stand on formalities. Arran, if you will.”
“But we are not—”
“The McQuoids and Smiths dine as a family,” he continued over her. “Though I respect your request to dine alone—”
“I do not wish to dine at all,” she added quickly.
He waved that away.
They spoke at the same time.
“I really would like to find Nettie and Tasgall and leave.”
“Alas, the countess has gotten it into her head you’ll join us, and she will accept nothing less, Lucy.”
Her face fell.
Strangely, Arran’s smile came easily for the first time in a lifetime. “Now you’re truly a member of the family.” He offered his elbow again. “You’ve discovered the countess commands all.”
“Very well, Mr.—”
“Arran.”
“Very well, Arran.” Her mouth twisted as if saying it had pained her.
That’ll humble a gent. If she in fact belonged to Campbell, Arran deserved the sting and far worse for his unhealthy fixation on her.
“Lucy,” he murmured, extending his arm a third time.
“I will join you, Arran.”
Alas, the minx remained willful. “Yes,” he said dryly. “I believe we’ve ascertained th—”
“But before I do.” She tipped her chin at that pugnacious angle that left him with two choices: toss her over his shoulder and carry her to dinner, or submit to whatever demand followed. “I would like to see Nettie and Tasgall myself.”
Well, St. Nicholas be damned. Of all the requests she might make, this was the one she chose.
Miss Lucy LeBeau would keep the countess waiting until she ensured her people were well cared for.
And it was damned near impossible not to admire the chit’s gumption and loyalty.