Chapter 6
“Iwill do it.”
Arran’s pronouncement before the McQuoid-Smith family gathered in the parlor was met with heavy silence, punctuated by the slap of icy snowflakes hitting the crystal windowpanes.
Unlike stormy Scottish winters, silence with this rambunctious brood never lasted long.
Surprisingly, it was his mother, the countess—the most reserved of their lot—who broke the awkward lull with a customary clap of her hands.
“Splendid,” she said, beaming as she came to her feet. “Now that is settled, let us head for dinner.”
Only when the countess reached the door did she note that not a single family member followed.
The countess turned, a frown on her tight lips. “No need for glum faces. The doctor—allthreeof the doctors,” the countess amended with emphasis, “arrived at the same diagnosis. Campbell will be fine. He suffered nothing more than a slight concussion, similar to the one he had as a boy. He’s already been drifting in and out of consciousness.”
“Henry II of France died of a concussion,” Quillon chimed in unhelpfully. “Learned all about it my first year at Eton.”
Dallin, seated between his wife and their slouched brother, knocked a knee against the boy’s. “Which certainly explains your low marks. Henry II caught a lance splinter in the eye during a joust, Quill.”
“We aren’t worried about Campbell,” Andromena declared. “Isn’t that right?”
“How very devoted of you, sister,” Oleander shot over.
“Oh, for goodness’ sake,” the girl shot back. “He’s already begun to stir. As Aunt Catherine said, all the doctors assured us of his recovery. We’re worried about Lucy.”
By the pregnant pause that followed—and the furtive glances the McQuoids sneaked about—the room’s occupants stood in clear disagreement.
They were worried about surly, jaded Arran being around the young miss.
Prior to this year, there would have been no reservations about Arran escorting a guest to the dining room. He’d once possessed good cheer and even enjoyed the crowded affairs his family oft hosted.
“Very well,” Fleur exclaimed. “I will be the one to say it. Surely we’re not allowing Arran—of all people—to fetch Lucy.”
He’d have preferred they stared rather than pretending not to look at him.
Finally, someone had put the truth his family badly sidestepped front and center.
“Fleur,” the countess said sharply.
Such was a mother’s power. Nothing more than a child’s name spoken in that tone could quiet even the greatest of hoydens.
Properly chastised, Fleur dipped her head.
Neither the McQuoids nor the Smiths could mind their gazes—or their mouths—for long. While everyone forced themselves to look at Arran, he kept his features a frozen mask.
Cassia spoke softly. “I can fetch her, Mama.”
“Arran volunteered,” Myrtle gently reminded her.
Fleur snorted. “Yes, well, then someone else volunteer.” She mouthedsorryin Arran’s direction—as if the problem lay with someone else and not with the young lady’s reaction to him.
Indifferent, Arran lifted a shoulder. He didn’t blame a single one of them their reservations.
Andromena shot her hand up. “I’ll do it. I’ll fetch Lucy.”
Her twin, Oleander, immediately pushed it back down. “We are trying to get the lady to join us for dinner, Andromena.”
“Yes, well, that is what I’ll do.”
