How to Marry a Highlander

Shan’t I?”

He shook his head but he offered his arm. She laid her hand upon it.

“There,” she said as briskly as she could. “This isn’t so hard, is it?”

Duncan wanted to laugh. “Managing female,” he muttered.

“Barbarian Scot.”

“Saucy—”

“I asked you not to call me lass.”

“Ye asked me to marry ye too, but I havena done that either, have I?”

“Not yet.”

An expensive carriage with wheels rimmed in red, shining panels, and a matched quartet drew up on the street behind them. A young fellow disembarked. Without showy display, the diamond lodged in his neck cloth and the cut and tailoring of his garments proclaimed his wealth. He paused to speak with his coachman.

She drew away from Duncan and went to the porter at the door. “Who is that gentleman?”

“That’s Mr. Reginald Baker-Frye of the Baker-Fryes of Philadelphia, miss,” the porter confided with a weighty nod.

“Who are the Baker-Fryes?”

“Money, miss. Piles of merchant gold. Father just passed on and this one inherited the lot. Here to see to business.”

“Is his wife traveling with him?”

“Not married, miss.” He scoffed. “Why should he be when he’s got scores of servants? If I didn’t need a missus to mend my stockings and cook my dinner, I’d be a single man too.”

Duncan watched in alarm. A wealthy young man had dropped down as if from heaven. He could see the gears turning in her mind, storing every detail.

“Thank you for that enlightening information,” she said, and with a quirk of her pretty pink lips went into the parlor and ordered tea.

Her brother sat with a paper on his knee, the only person present other than a tiny grey-haired lady dressed in black. Sorcha entered and took up her cup with a snap of her narrow wrist that dashed tea across Duncan’s dearly acquired new breeches.

“Oh,” she said with a sharp flash of her eyes. “Pardon, brither.”

His other sisters entered and conversation turned to ball gowns. He left.

There were limits to his dedication to his mission.

In the foyer he passed the wealthy young American.

“Sir,” Baker-Frye said with a nod, then glanced into the parlor. His steps faltered. Duncan followed his astonished gaze to Moira standing near the doorway. She cast down her eyes and curtsied to him.

Baker-Frye drew his hat off and bowed from his waist. “Madam.”

“Guidday, sir.” She lifted her lashes with a shy smile.

Finally the American dragged his gaze away and ascended the stairs.

Poor fellow. It happened to most men when they first saw Moira. But Duncan had never before seen his diffident sister respond.

He glanced back at Miss Finch-Freeworth. Her eyes shone as she transferred her attention from Moira to him. She wiggled her cinnamon brows and took a breath of obvious satisfaction that swelled her bosom above the modest neckline of her gown.

The air abruptly seemed thin indoors.

Tomorrow he would renew his attempts at distracting her from the wager.

For today, he’d concede defeat.

6

He called for her too early, he suspected. But he didn’t want to miss the opportunity to distract her from her mission today.

Straightening his cravat as he waited for the door of Yale’s house to open, he knew he was a fool. He’d spent half the night thinking of her pretty smile, lily pad eyes that could laugh with a twinkle, magnificent bosom, and round behind. He’d spent the other half of the night deep in dreams that upon waking had him hot and uncomfortable.

He was early because he wanted to see her.

Twenty-six days. He could bear this for twenty-six days.

A footman led him to a parlor where Miss Finch-Freeworth was perched upon the edge of a straight-back chair before a writing table, her head bent to her page.

“Lord Eads,” the footman said and withdrew.

She jerked around, her lush pink lips making an O.

“My lord! You came this morning!”

No. But if he had to witness her creamy breasts jumping against her bodice many more times he’d be hard pressed to resist the temptation for that sort of relief. The lush circle of her lips didn’t help any.

“Guidday, Miss Finch-Freeworth.” He bowed. His waistcoat was tight across his chest, his shoulders were cramped in the coat, and he despised top boots. But he’d not go about like a ruffian and shame his sisters or this good-hearted lass—this tempting, outrageous lass who knew far too much about a woman’s carnal needs than an unmarried lady should.

Hastily she dashed sand across her work then covered the page.

“Have you come to invite me to ride?” She glanced at his ensemble, lingering for a moment on the fall of his breeches, and her cheeks took on the hue of a ripe peach. Her gaze snapped up.

“What’re ye writing?” His voice sounded rough.

“You’ve done that thing again, where you ignore what I have asked and ask me a question instead.”

“Aye, I’ve come to take ye riding.” Though he’d prefer a different sort of riding than the sort she had in mind.

Her attention flicked momentarily to his breeches again, then swiftly up.

Her pretty green eyes were wide.

Perhaps she did have that sort of riding in mind.

He tried to find his brain. Despite his better judgment, he moved toward her. “What’re ye writing?” he repeated.

“Oh.” She waved her fingertips over the pages dismissively. “Nothing really.”

“Poetry?”

“Poetry?”

He halted close enough to see that the rosy glow had suffused her neck and the soft globes of her breast above her gown too. He dragged his gaze upward.

“Leddies always seem to enjoy poetry.”

“Not this lady.”

“’Tis a relief.” Relief. Nowhere near in sight. Not the sort he most needed.

He shouldn’t have come. She bit her pretty pink lip and flicked the tip of her tongue to moisten it and Duncan nearly groaned aloud.

“Why?” she said, her eyes glimmering now. “Since you claim you are not courting me, you needn’t write me poetry.”

“Ye’ve a clever tongue, Miss Finch-Freeworth.” A tongue he’d like to see more of. But if he was imagining a virgin’s tongue in action, clearly he’d been celibate for far too long. “An I dinna claim I’m no courting ye. I’m in fact no courting ye.”

“Then if you will await me here, my lord, I will go change into my riding dress and call for my mount to be saddled so that you can take me riding in a decidedly un-courting-like manner.” With a quick smile she curtsied