Hit Me With Your Best Scot (Wild Wicked Highlanders #3) - Suzanne Enoch Page 0,101

longer than he should have, then gave her back the reticule. “Aye. That’s that.”

“That is not that,” Hurst stated, trying to straighten his cravat. “I will see you banned from every club in London, you savage.”

“Aye. Ye do that, ye wilted lily.”

“You might at least wish us well,” the lily insisted.

“Now why the devil would I do that?” Niall returned. With a last glance at Amelia-Rose that he hoped said everything he’d been unable to tell her aloud, he turned his back and walked away. He had a thing or two to see to today. And a favor or two to ask.

Amelia-Rose watched Niall walk away. He’d come. And he’d listened. She hadn’t been able to say much, but she had the feeling that if she’d been less concerned with scandal, less aware of the fragility of a reputation, she might well have left with him. The idea of that made her shiver—her, completely ruined, leaving her betrothed in the street while she rode off across a Highlander’s saddle to a life of isolation from her friends and family. But she would have him. She would have Niall. And while he hadn’t outright said so—how could he?—she knew that he meant to help her. How, she had no idea, but it would involve him visiting her tonight. A low, delighted shiver started up her spine.

“I cannot believe this,” Hurst muttered, still wrenching at his cravat. “That animal tries to kill me, and you speak to him about food?”

“I was attempting to calm him down,” she countered. She hadn’t been rescued yet. And none of this was Lord Hurst’s fault. “He did let you go, and he did leave, and you weren’t required to resort to violence to defend us.”

He looked at her, the scowl on his face dropping to a reluctant grimace. “You make a point. Even so, I cannot believe you were eyeing him with an idea toward what—marriage? The man probably lives in a stable.”

“I don’t think so, but let’s put it out of our minds, shall we?” she urged, placing a hand on his arm.

“Well, I’m quite out of the mood for shopping,” Lionel said, finally giving up on his wrinkled neckwear. “Perhaps a stroll in Hyde Park will lift my mood.”

The more people who saw them together, the more difficult ending an arrangement would be. “I’m somewhat overset, actually,” she decided. “Would you be a dear and mind taking me home?”

“Yes, of course. I should have considered your delicate nature.” Lifting his free arm, he signaled for his coach. “You know, now that we’ve become acquainted, I’m quite pleased I returned to London when I did. I’m generally more partial to dark-haired women, due to their naturally sober nature, but you seem solemn enough.”

Amelia-Rose sent him a sideways glance, but he didn’t seem to notice. “I do try to be serious,” she offered. “I have meant to ask you, do you enjoy walking? Reading? Riding?”

“I sketch,” he returned. “Lately I have done a study of the lugubrious saints.”

Mournful saints? “Ah,” she said. “That must be rewarding.”

“Yes, yes, it is.” He opened the coach door and handed her up. “You don’t read, do you?”

“Why?” she asked, suspicious at the way he’d couched the question.

“It’s a horrid habit, you know.” He sat beside her, leaving Jane to climb up on her own and claim the opposite seat. “Reading. Spending the day with your chin lowered is very unflattering to the neck. I’ve heard that it invites sagging skin. And you have a fine neck.”

“Thank you.”

She’d once fancied herself marrying this man. Knowing him, though, gave her an entirely different opinion of the Marquis of Hurst. A month ago she might have been weighing what she was willing to give up in order to earn herself an escape from Baxter House, as she’d done with Coll’s supposed suit. Reading? Smiling, apparently? And she’d had no idea that she had a frivolous hair color.

What she did have was someone with whom to compare the marquis. Someone who asked her questions rather than making pronouncements, assumed she would be interesting and well read, and who enjoyed both laughter and making her smile in return.

Lionel delivered them to Baxter House, promising once more to call on her to take her to luncheon tomorrow, and to bring one of his sketches for her to admire. As he drove away, Jane gripped her arm. “I know what all that skellum talk meant,” she murmured, walking through the foyer and toward the library. “Have you