She would emerge soon.
Or so he told himself.
Thirty minutes later, he was still waiting.
Arms crossed, he drummed his fingertips against his sleeve.
He was joined by the unlikeliest of individuals.
“There you are, my boy.”
His father. The earl.
The McQuoid and Smith children always joked that the Earl of Abington was either buried in the antiquities he collected or hidden behind a newspaper.
He did not wander about seeking conversation—certainly not with his children.
“Father,” Arran greeted, clipped.
“Waiting to escort Miss LeBeau, are you?”
“Escort her?” Arran frowned. “Escort her where?”
The earl chuckled and clapped him on the back. “Lovely, isn’t she?”
Surely, they were not speaking of Miss Lucy LeBeau—the complete stranger they had just met.
“I don’t know, Father,” Arran drawled. “The lady is a stranger to me.”
“But she is not a stranger to all of us.”
Arran stared. “You have met her?”
God help him—had he been even more removed from the family than he realized?
His father tossed his head back and laughed, which was wildly inappropriate, given Campbell’s condition.
Arran almost declared they’d all lost their minds. But eccentricity was hardly unusual in the McQuoid-Smith clan.
“Ah,” the earl said, delight lighting his face. “Here she is now.”
Lucy stepped into the hall, throwing a furtive glance toward Arran.
Their eyes locked.
The impact was instantaneous—sharp, startling, stopping him cold. Her eyes, green like the hills of Scotland in spring, held softness and unmistakable wariness.
She looked away quickly.
“My lord,” she murmured, sinking into a graceful curtsy for Arran’s father.
“Tsk, tsk,” the earl said warmly. “No formalities between us.” He held his palms out towards Lucy.
Lucy hesitated only a moment before laying her hands in the earl’s.
“You are family now,” he declared, patting the top of her knuckles. “Isn’t that right, Arran?”
Arran’s gaze cut to the bold Scottish beauty. “I believe that will be true once she and Campbell recite their vows.” He gave Lucy a frosty once-over.
