How to Marry a Highlander

and crossed the parlor, leaving in her wake a light scent of lemon.

For a moment he allowed himself to enjoy her scent. He would never again let himself come close enough to her to indulge his senses entirely. In the flat he’d made the mistake of touching her skin. He’d not do that again.

He glanced down at the writing table at the blank page with which she’d covered her writing. He looked back toward the door. It stood open, but if she were anything like most of his sisters she’d be at least a half hour preparing to go out.

The temptation was too great. He could never know her intimately. This could be his only opportunity to know her at least privately. And he’d committed much worse crimes for much worse reasons in the past.

He brushed the cover sheet aside. Her hand was neat, with a feminine curl to the capitals and a light freedom in the stroke. A peculiar sensation stirred beneath his waistcoat. He liked her hand. It was like her.

Her prose was light and clever, yet with the same warmth and animation that shone in her spring eyes. The lines told of a village matron who tended toward gossip and her two daughters, and their adventure ordering teacakes for the Ladies of Harpers Crest Cove Auxiliary Benefit. Their series of mishaps was amusing, the characters were drawn with wit and an eye toward satire that was, however, ultimately compassionate. He pushed the page aside and read the one beneath. Then he covered them and went to the window.

She appeared at the door minutes later. Her voluptuous figure was encased in a skirt and short coat the color of sunrise with a crisp white shirt beneath and a jaunty little hat adorning her hair. “I’m ready.”

“Yer luvely.”

Her cheeks glowed. He shouldn’t have said it. He shouldn’t be thinking it.

He shouldn’t be imagining how much he would enjoy removing that pretty dress from her curves one item at a time.

“Thank you, my lord. My horse is also ready. Are you?”

No. Once she mounted, her gown would be tucked around that round behind and he’d never have a chance—not at ignoring his body’s reaction to her or at relief. He hadn’t thought ahead of the potential dangers of this outing. It was possible he hadn’t been thinking at all since the moment she had appeared in his flat and proposed marriage to him.

“Aye. I’m ready.” He set his jaw and went forward to suffer through the most torturous ride in the park he had ever thoroughly enjoyed.

Teresa stood at the edge of Lady Beaufetheringstone’s gorgeously appointed ballroom immersed in the golden glow of sparkling chandelier candles and glittering champagne glasses, and allowed herself a silent breath of relief.

The orchestra cheerfully sawed out the notes of a country dance and guests stepped to the tune amidst the laughter and chatter of those watching. It was a magical evening and Teresa was barely even bothered by the conspicuous absence of a reneging Scottish earl.

Only that morning when he had escorted her and her sisters to the shops where they encountered no gentlemen except one portly popinjay entirely arrayed in puce, the earl had promised he would attend the ball tonight.

Faithless barbarian. But he owed her nothing yet. Mr. Baker-Frye had taken up Moira in his carriage to the park, and the bookseller had personally delivered a rare volume to Abigail at the hotel. Otherwise, despite a sennight of hard work altering gowns and schooling Lily and Effie on proper behavior, bachelors had not been banging down the Eads ladies’ door.

Tonight, however, that was being corrected.

“You did it,” Tobias said beside her.

“I did it,” she agreed.

Earlier, as the seamstress sewed darts in the bodice of Teresa’s white muslin so it would hug Effie’s smaller bosom, Elspeth had complained about the expense of the gown that Diantha lent her. She would not don it until Diantha assured her that much of the income from Mr. Yale’s estate went toward the plight of suffering children in the Welsh mines and only some of it toward pretty clothes. Mollified, Elspeth allowed Annie to affix a chain of cameos around her long neck.

Sorcha had refused to attend the ball. But her sisters were all gowned and coiffed beautifully, even Abigail, whose cheeks glowed as she slipped away to Lady B’s library. Lily and Effie were giggling at the refreshment table, their dance partners waiting attendance upon them. Moira was surrounded by young gentlemen, Lady B in their midst making introductions. And Una and Elspeth were dancing.

Teresa could not have prayed for better.

“Why aren’t you dancing?” Tobias asked. “And where is Eads? I thought he’d meant to attend.”

“I did,” the earl said behind her.

She pivoted. He wore a black cutaway coat, gorgeously arranged neck cloth, and dark waistcoat, with a drape of blue and black plaid pinned to his shoulder. The kilt that fell to his knees revealed his muscular calves.

“My lord.” Teresa curtsied somewhat unsteadily. He bowed with great elegance. No one watching could have imagined that their chance encounter eighteen months ago in this very ballroom had resulted in a scandalous secret wager.

Una approached with Elspeth.

“Ladies, you dance charmingly,” Tobias said.

“I occasionally allou maself a country dance for the benefit it affords the lungs and heart,” Elspeth said. “’Tis like a bracing walk across a meadow.”

“I daresay,” Tobias said pleasantly. “But what of the minuet or quadrille?”

“Or—heaven forbid—the waltz?” Una said.

Lady Elspeth paled. “Niver the waltz.”

“Perhaps Lady Lily would like to waltz,” Teresa said to her brother. “She mentioned her fondness for it just this afternoon,” she invented.

“A lady after my own heart,” Tobias said with a smile. “Do you enjoy the waltz too, Lady Una?”

“Verra much, sir.”

He offered his arm. “Then it’s lucky the orchestra seems to be in accord with our preferences.” He led her away.

Teresa felt the earl’s attention on her as she looked toward his youngest sisters. Effie had a cup of punch in each hand. Lily was laughing gaily.

“What’re they doing there?” Elspeth said. “Effie’s cheeks be aflame, like last Christmas when she took too much . . . Ach, Lord’s mercy. Brither, ye’ll wish to see to this,” she said ominously and set off toward the twins.

“What happened last Christmas?” Teresa asked.

“Whiskey.”

“I see. But Lady B is only serving punch tonight, so Effie is safe.”

“Why are ye trying to throw Lily at yer brither’s head?”

She snapped her eyes up. “I—That is . . .”

Amusement creased his cheek and his hair hung loosely. She wanted to reach up and touch it to test if it was as silky as it looked. He was a remarkably well-made man and ladies all around them were staring from behind their unfurled fans.

“He seems to like her,” she said.

“Be ye such a fine judge o’ a man, then?”

“Apparently not, for I thought you would not come this evening.”

“I’m a man o’ ma w—”

“Word. Yes, you’ve said that. Still, I will forgive your lateness if you ask me to dance.”

“I dinna dance. But there be plenty o’ swains here for ye to chuise from.”

“I cannot dance with those gentlemen. I consider myself betrothed.”

He grinned. “Yer mad.”

“I probably am. It must be all that country air from bracing walks. It does strange things to the head.” Like make her believe she could coerce a Scottish lord into wedding her. She’d made an enormous mistake. But at