It belonged to some starched, beak-nosed spinster with a nasal voice and a perpetual wrinkle of disapproval between her stolid brows.
Not the young, buxom creature with emerald eyes that had so charmed and bedeviled his men this afternoon. The shadowy hint of her features he’d spied from beyond the rain-speckled window and behind the black veil of her hat had insinuated comeliness. And Liam had spent the entire time he’d bathed and dressed peering into his memory of those few maddening moments with her as though they would reveal her mysterious features to his mind’s eye.
He should have been thinking of the disastrous fire today. He should have been contemplating the reasons for the sheared carriage-wheel linchpins, a cut so clean it could only have been done on purpose.
Obviously he had enough to occupy his mind without the addition of Miss Philomena Lockhart and her distracting breasts.
He’d come to the table frustrated, and quickly embarked on the road to a downright foul mood.
Sharp, rapid clips of a woman’s shoes against the stone floor in the hall echoed the staccato strike of his heart against his ribs. Liam rose to his feet with such speed, his chair made an alarming sound on the floor as she rushed into the dining room, in a breathtaking array of curls and cleavage.
“Do pardon my tardiness,” she puffed as the rest of the table stood upon her arrival. “For such a square structure, Ravencroft is surprisingly labyrinthine, and I became hopelessly lost…” Her words died an abrupt death as her eyes alighted upon him at the head of the table.
Liam had expected a sense of smug satisfaction in this moment, and he’d taken special care with his appearance tonight in anticipation of the very expression she now wore. He’d gone so far as to tie his hair back in a queue and shave a second time to rid himself of a shadow beard.
That he would feel like an imposter at the head of his own table was not something he’d considered. But didn’t he just? He was yet unaccustomed to this role. He’d been soldier, he’d been leader. He’d been killer and monster.
But a gentleman? A nobleman?
A noble … man?
He’d planned on eviscerating her publically for questioning his word and nobility in front of his men. For costing him precious time in the fields. For making him wait for dinner.
And for dominating his thoughts all bloody afternoon.
But perhaps she’d provoked his ever-ready ire because she gave voice to the doubts that Liam had about his ability to turn a demon into a laird.
He’d waited for that look of wide-eyed, astonished panic all evening. However, it became apparent to him immediately that any intentions he’d had involving thought or speech would have to be reconsidered. As he was bereft of either at the moment.
The blame for that, too, rested squarely on her shoulders. Her lovely bare shoulders.
Liam gripped the sturdy table for support. Nothing he’d imagined she hid behind that veil and thick wool pelisse could have prepared him for the unadulterated view of Miss Philomena Lockhart he now enjoyed.
Her dinner dress was a simple, modest green silk affair with little adornment but for some black cording about the bodice and a few black lace ruffles at the hem of the skirts. But on a figure like hers, it was nothing less than a stitched scrap of temptation. The cords, through some magic of tailoring, puffed into translucent sleeves below her shoulders, which met with the edges of her long black dinner gloves. A simple onyx satin ribbon about her lovely throat was her only ornamentation.
There was something about that Liam grudgingly admired. She didn’t need any jewels in order to catch the eye.
She was enough all on her own.
Liam knew he’d meet her seamstress in hell for the slew of pure sin racing through his mind and pouring down his body like molten lava. For the wicked fingers that had made this dress knew exactly what they were doing to any man who had to submit to the presence of this woman in that gown. It was crafted to the specifications of propriety, but anyone should know that a woman with breasts like hers should be buttoned to the neck.
The gown had been constructed to make him suffer.
Liam swallowed a rush of profuse hunger flooding his mouth with anticipatory moisture. Philomena Lockhart was, in a word, delectable. Her lips plump and ripe as strawberries. The mounds of her breasts lush and white as Devonshire cream. Her wealth of hair swept back but for a few tantalizing waves spilling down her shoulder like a garnet cabernet.
His eyes snagged on the unrealistically dramatic flare of her hips, at the way her gloves bound to the soft flesh about the upper arm. His hand tightened on the table until the creases of his knuckles turned white. For unlike the oak he gripped to keep his balance, she’d be so soft beneath his hands … Beneath his—
“Not quite the retired older man ye expected, is he, lassie?” A chuckling Russell broke the silence, and Liam glanced to his right, noticing for the first time that his middle-aged steward had also taken more care with his appearance than usual. He’d even trimmed his russet beard, which he rarely did before winter’s end.
It was lucky, Liam realized, that everyone’s focus remained on her, and no one noticed how affected he was.
Except for, perhaps, the lass.
“I—I confess, I don’t know what to say.” Her breasts heaved with breath as she obviously prepared for a lengthy apology regarding the afternoon.
The thought pleased Liam a great deal less than he’d anticipated, and so he didn’t allow her to finish.
“Permit me to present my children, Miss Lockhart, Rhianna and Andrew Mackenzie.” His children, both inherited the Ravencroft ebony hair, had very opposite yet equally inappropriate reactions to the introduction.