“Wh-what?”
“I’m not going to ignore what I know of you any more than you’ll set aside what you know of me,” she commented, reaching out to fluff his very proper cravat. “And I will admit that I feel … drawn to you, Ranulf. Despite my better judgment. And despite what you’ve stated you want of me.”
“Ye’ve kept me awake nights, Charlotte,” he returned. “Because of what I want of ye. Ye’d be wise to run the other way.”
“And yet here I stand.”
“Aye. There ye stand.” His gaze lowered to her mouth, to the soft, warm curve of her lips. God, he wanted a taste of her. It had been a damned week of pushing away impatience and frustration and old hatreds. All because of something he couldn’t even put a name to, but felt the desperate need to pursue.
“Ranulf!”
He jumped. From Charlotte’s expression she’d been startled, too. Hoping what he’d been thinking didn’t show through his trousers, he adjusted his coat and faced his sister. “Aye?”
“Do you have time to show us the house now, or should we wait until after dinner?” Her gray gaze flicked from him to Charlotte and back again.
“Let’s go now,” he heard himself say. Without daring to look back at Charlotte he strolled over to join the main group. “Before I took it, this house was the London residence of Matthew, Viscount Danvers. It came to him from his grandmother, Lucille Gilden, Marchioness of Huntly. Did ye know either of them, Lord Hest?”
Charlotte’s father nodded. “I was fairly well acquainted with Danvers, though in his later years he became sickly and quite reclusive. This is the first time I’ve set foot in Gilden House, though.”
“Let’s begin with the rooms on this floor, then. Across from here is the library, though Danvers seemed mostly to collect old newspapers here.”
Charlotte stayed where she was as the rest of the dinner party crossed the hallway to the library. A week ago she’d been beside herself with fury at Ranulf MacLawry. And this evening she’d very nearly kissed him, and in front of her family.
For heaven’s sake, she’d never even kissed James until they were engaged, because to do otherwise … Well, it simply wasn’t done. But in two years of knowing Mr. Appleton, as … adamant as he had been, she couldn’t ever remember feeling such a rush of heat and need as she felt when Ranulf looked at her.
Jane had called him fearsome and manly, and Charlotte had laughed at her sister. But she couldn’t argue that there was a certain aliveness to him that most other men with whom she was acquainted seemed to lack. He’d insulted her, suggested she become his mistress—just for the time he was in London, of course—and then begun a brawl.
Why, then, did she currently have her hands clenched in front of her, and why was she wondering what would happen to her life if she
did
fall into bed with him?
She would never be able to marry, of course, without her prospective husband knowing she wasn’t chaste. But then, she’d given up on marriage several years ago, and each year her prospects dimmed further. If they were indiscreet then she would find herself the subject of gossip, of being ostracized from most of polite Society. But that was only if someone else realized what they were up to. If they were up to anything. If she decided that the lure of being in his arms outweighed her wish for propriety.
“Charlotte?”
She blinked herself back to the present as Rowena glided into the room. “I’m sorry,” she said, smiling. “I was lost in thought.” Moving forward, she wrapped her arm around Winnie’s. “What did I miss?”
“I think perhaps
I
missed something,” Rowena returned, not moving despite Charlotte’s gentle urging. “Are you after my brother?”
Oh, heavens.
“Why in the world would you think such a thing?” she said, sounding a bit more shrill than she wished. “Lord Glengask and I agree about nothing!” Oh dear, oh dear. If Rowena had noticed, then had her sister? Her parents?
“Nobody stands toe-to-toe with Ranulf. But you do. I think that means you enjoy it.”
Charlotte grimaced a little. “I do enjoy a good argument,” she conceded.
The marquis’s sister tilted her head. “Are you ashamed that you like him? Because he’s Scottish?”
“Heavens no, Winnie.” This was not going at all well, and the last thing she wanted Rowena or her brother to think was that she was just another blue-blooded snob. I…” She blew out her breath. “There is an attraction,” she admitted, speaking slowly and sounding out the words before she said them aloud. “He asked me to go with him to the museum tomorrow, and I agreed. As for being after him, I think we both know that your brother has no intention of taking an English bride.”
Gray eyes opened wider. “Marriage? Good Saint Andrew, ye want to
marry
him?”
Charlotte coughed. “I never said any such thing!” she managed. “I just meant that none of this could be very serious.”
“My goodness. Ye nearly stopped my heart,” Winnie said, chuckling as she hugged Charlotte’s arm.
“And you nearly stopped mine!” Charlotte kissed her on the cheek, taking that moment to hide the hurt that Winnie’s matter-of-fact assumption had caused. Was it such an outlandish idea? Because she was twenty-five? Because she was English? A roll in the blankets was perfectly acceptable, but nothing serious, nothing permanent. “We’d best catch up, or your brother will think we don’t like his house.”
Rowena seemed satisfied, but Charlotte’s heart and head continued spinning. If she’d had any silly thoughts that a fairy-tale ending awaited her, Winnie had just dashed them. But that was likely a good thing. She and Ranulf weren’t precisely kindred kind, after all. And she did prefer to know where the path led. Ranulf MacLawry waited by the gatepost—they would merely be playing about in the stable yard rather than going into the house. The proverbial house. Because the one through which she walked at the moment was his, and it was quite nice.
Gilden House stood on a stately street lined with towering old elm trees that had likely looked down on pedestrians since the great fire. He’d set himself in the middle of Mayfair both literally and figuratively. If he’d done so because of her … A warm shiver ran up her spine despite the dourness of her thoughts. He was a very intriguing man, after all, and he seemed to find her intriguing, in return.
A moment later the hair on her arms lifted, and a warm hand cupped her elbow. “I can very nearly see yer house from here,” Ranulf murmured, joining her at the master bedchamber’s front window.
She wanted to sag back against him, feel his arms wrap around her waist, forget all the silliness trying to complicate the simple … lust running beneath her skin. “I honestly thought you and I would not be speaking again,” she said in the same low tone.
“Likewise. I’m nae accustomed to being bellowed at. By anyone.” He leaned in as if smelling her hair. “It took me a good day or two to admit ye’d made a fair point.” Ranulf glanced behind him. “This might be a conversation for another time,” he drawled, his soft brogue sending excitement swirling just beneath her skin.
Whatever had happened over a week spent thinking about little but the Marquis of Glengask, it had overwhelmed her dismay at seeing him beginning a fistfight because someone he disliked had wished to dance with her. Perhaps he’d been provoked, perhaps he’d done the provoking, but regardless the violence made her sick to her stomach. The male thirst for honor or power or superiority—it was nearly all James Appleton had thought about, and then it had killed him. Whatever the old saying about pride going before a fall, history books were full of stories about men whose sense of honor or pride sent them tripping to their deaths. And Ranulf faced all manner of blows to his pride straight on and beckoned all comers.
They were back in the drawing room when a gong sounded, reverberating through the large house like the rumble of thunder. The double doors connecting the drawing room to the small dining room beyond swung open, and Owen the footman stood there in black livery and white gloves. “Dinner is served, lairds and ladies.”
“Thank ye, Owen.” Ranulf rose and gestured his guests toward the door.
“Nae, m’laird,” the footman whispered loudly. “Ye must go first, and take the highest-ranking lass with ye. Lady Hest, that is.”
Rowena stifled a laugh behind her hand and walked over to take Lord Hest’s arm. Lord Swansley offered an arm each to Charlotte and Janie—which wasn’t strictly proper, but she knew Jane appreciated not having to walk in alone.
“I hope ye dunnae mind,” Ranulf said, as they all took their seats, “but we’ll be dining on Scottish venison with rose hips and beetroot. It’s generally served for Hogmanay, but I thought we’d make an exception.”
“What’s Hogmanay?” Janie asked.
“Ah. The end of the year. New Year’s Eve.” He smiled. “And ye must at least try some haggis, prepared in the style of the Highlands.”
“What’s the style of the Highlands?” Jane whispered, leaning over to tug on Rowena’s arm.
Rowena grinned. “Boiled lungs of a sheep or cow or deer, diced and minced and served with oatmeal and other vegetables and spices.”
Her uncle, Myles, took a sip of wine. “You might consider filling up on the venison,” he said, sotto voce. “I’ve learned to tolerate haggis, but I wouldn’t say I like it.”
“Bear used to say it would put hair on my chest,” Winnie continued, chuckling. “Then I would cry when they made me eat it, until Uncle Myles boxed his ears.” She sat forward to look toward the head of the table. “Do you have a proper Highlands cook then, Ran?”
“Nae. Mrs. Flost is definitely nae Scottish. But Peter and Owen and I’ve been showing her how to make the venison and haggis.”
“Oh, dear,” Jane whispered.
The venison actually turned out to be delicious, and the group surprisingly merry. Ranulf explained how the celebration of Hogmanay involved the entire community, with farmers bringing in the choicest of their stores, and the laird of the clan hosting a night—or two nights, more likely—of dancing and singing and drinking and eating.
The way he spoke of it, with helpful interruptions from both Winnie and Lord Swansley, painted such a vivid portrait that she could almost see the dancers in the firelight, and see the young ones running about and trying to empty out the mugs of ale before their parents could spy them out.
“M’laird,” Owen announced as two footmen appeared carrying platters, “we have brought the haggis.” He frowned. “If ye’d allowed me to hire a piper, I could’ve announced it more properly.”
“I think ye did fine, Owen,” Winnie said, her accent deepening as she worked her way through a third glass of wine. “Finer than any piper.”
“I thank ye, Lady Winnie,” the footman said, blushing.
Charlotte studied the dish placed in front of her. It did look grainy, with bits of onion and liver, and what must have been the diced organs. The smell was quite pleasant, anyway.
“Take a bite, lass,” Ranulf urged with a grin. “It willnae kill ye.”
She giggled, a clear indication that she’d also had too much to drink this evening. That seemed to be part of the Scottish tradition, though, so she supposed she was only being friendly. Taking a breath, she scooped a large portion onto her fork and slid it into her mouth.
The taste wasn’t bad, but the texture reminded her of the worst parts of blood pudding. She kept chewing, forcing a smile. “Interesting,” she managed, lifting her napkin to cover her mouth as she spoke.
Ranulf laughed. She’d never heard him laugh before, she realized. The deep, rich sound delighted her to her toes. It warmed her everywhere, including places ladies weren’t supposed to talk about. Tomorrow, next week, next month—what did they truly signify? He, and tonight, were both supremely interesting.
“I don’t think I could eat another bite,” Jane exclaimed with a chuckle, eyeing her full plate as if it were a snake.
Swallowing, Charlotte shook her head. “Oh no, you don’t. Everyone has to take one bite, at least.”
Both Ranulf and Winnie were halfway through their servings of haggis, Ranulf especially eating with great gusto. “It’s nae perfect,” he said between mouthfuls, “but it’ll do.”
As the rest of the family tentatively scooped up choice forkfuls, Charlotte met Ranulf’s gaze across the table. His amused smile deepened, and he lifted his glass of whisky, tilting it in her direction before he took a swallow. Perhaps it was the generous amount of wine she’d been imbibing, but abruptly she wished the rest of her family—and his—were elsewhere, that it was just the two of them and the candlelight and the warm fire in the hearth opposite the windows.
The way the firelight behind her reflected itself in the window was quite remarkable, actually. She wondered if the architect had slightly altered the angle of the windows with that very thing in mind.
Except that the light from the windows kept glowing brighter. Her heart gave an odd thump. Charlotte stood, the fork forgotten in her hand. “Ranulf. The—”
The side door burst open in the same moment. Peter Gilling, the footman who’d been lodging at Hanover House, lurched into the room. “Fire, m’laird! The stable!”
Ranulf was already halfway to his feet. “Ladies, stay here. Dogs, guard!”
The two hounds who’d been lazing by the fire behind her came to attention, their tails outstretched and their noses in the air. “What can we do?” she asked, as he and Myles and her father hurried from the room, the two Scottish footmen and then the pair of English ones behind them.
His fierce gaze caught hers. “Stay safe,” he said, and vanished out the door.
“Oh, dear,” Winnie said, hurrying to the window. “This is like when the schoolhouses burned and Bear got shot.”
“Nonsense,” Charlotte forced herself to stay. “This is an old house with a new owner and a new group of servants. Someone likely kicked over a lantern.”
“I hope so. Oh, I hope so. Stirling’s in the stable. Ranulf’s owned him for years and years. If he burns…”
Both young ladies were now in tears, and even her mother looked close to it. Frowning, Charlotte went forward and pulled them away from the window. “When they come back in they’ll likely be wet and cold and covered in soot. Let’s find some blankets and some cloths and bowls of clean water, shall we? Bring what you find to the drawing room.”