Hit Me With Your Best Scot (Wild Wicked Highlanders #3) - Suzanne Enoch Page 0,48
finger of vodka and poured himself another, the front door opened. Amelia-Rose resisted the urge to run her hands down the front of her skirt. She looked very fine, from her gown to her hair twined with silver and black ribbons to her silver dancing shoes. If it was Niall, he’d best have a ready tale as to why his brother would be either meeting them later or unable to attend. If it was Lord Glendarril, she could only hope that his youngest brother had informed him which events they’d attended together so she wouldn’t have to carry any conversation all on her own. It abruptly occurred to her just how much trust she’d placed in Niall MacTaggert, and how little that troubled her. As to the why of that, now was not the time.
“Mr. and Mrs. Baxter, Miss Baxter, Lord Glendarril,” Hughes intoned, as the mountainous man stepped into the sitting room.
She curtsied, dipping her head to give herself a moment. Yes, he was quite handsome, if in a harder, colder way than his youngest brother. His looks, even his size, weren’t the problem. Everything else about him was the problem.
Oddly, she’d expected to be a bundle of nerves, worried over how the viscount would react to her this time. Instead, and despite how important she knew this moment to be, she simply wished this to be over with, whatever ended up happening.
“Baxters,” the viscount intoned, inclining his head. He hadn’t worn a kilt, thank goodness, though he was sporting a black eye that made him look even less civilized. Objectively she could admit that he wasn’t some stooped-over, ancient baron—which she’d begun to fear her mother would send in her direction after none of her three proposals this Season had been from a titled gentleman. Victoria Baxter had made it quite clear that this would be her daughter’s last Season as an unmarried lady.
Oh, dear. If and when she did turn Glendarril away, would the old, gamy vultures receive her parents’ permission to move in, to circle her until she gave in and pointed her finger at one of them? Would it be either this Highlander or an unmarried acquaintance of her grandparents’ era? Lord Oglivy, for example?
In the midst of this alarming realization, it dawned on her that her mother was looking from her to Glendarril and clearly expected one or the other of them to say something. And since the viscount continued to stand there looking handsome and slightly annoyed, it fell to her. “Coll, thank you for the flowers you had Niall deliver to me yesterday. They were lovely.”
“Ah. Ye’re welcome. I’m sorry I couldnae bring them myself.”
So far, so good. “It’s more important that you recover yourself. Are you feeling well today? I can’t imagine what you ate; I do hope it wasn’t something at Lady Margaret’s picnic.”
His eyes narrowed, and for a bare second she thought she’d said something wrong. This was the only narrative she had to hand, though, and Niall hadn’t indicated they would be doing anything more than substituting his brother’s presence for his. A handful of hard heartbeats later, though, he nodded. “I purchased a pasty from a cart on the way home. That must’ve done it. Doubled me right over, it did.”
“I’ve a potion that might cure you,” her father said, indicating the liquor tantalus. “What’s your poison, Glendarril?”
With a smile that looked more pained than grateful, the viscount shook his shaggy, brown-haired head. “I’ve some prancing about to do tonight. Best not pour good liquor after a bad dinner.”
“Will your mother and the rest of your family be attending this evening?” her mother asked.
“Aye. I’m told it’s quite the spectacle.”
“That it is.” Victoria clapped her hands together. “Shall we depart, then? Once most of the carriages have arrived, it’s nearly impossible to navigate the filth in the street.”
“Well, we dunnae want horse shite on those pretty shoes ye and yer daughter are wearing,” Coll agreed, and motioned them toward the doorway and the foyer beyond.
“Don’t say ‘horse shite,’” Amelia-Rose whispered, drawing even with him.
“What should I call it, then, digested equine grass lumps?”
“That would do,” she agreed, relieved to hear some humor from him. Perhaps he and Niall weren’t so different. It seemed she meant to cling to every tiny ounce of hope he put into the air.
“Glad to see ye’ve caught yer tongue in yer teeth,” he returned. “I’m to be yer laird; I’ll nae have ye snapping at me.”