Arran wouldn’t set his foot a second time in his female kin’s betrothals, marriages, relationships, families, or any other decision they’d make.
He slid a glance in the duke’s general direction. “Hartwell appears eager to join in the festivities.”
Meghan looked at her intended—and then only briefly.
She snorted. “His Grace appears more eager to clap his hands over his ears.”
She too had noticed her betrothed’s lukewarm enthusiasm for the wintertime fun.
She also very clearly wanted to discuss her impending marriage in a few days’ time with Arran.
Because of that, he wanted her gone more than ever.
“Oh, I don’t know about that,” he cajoled. “He’s unable to take his gaze from you.”
Obviously knowing to look in her betrothed’s direction meant she’d be required to join him, Meghan didn’t even take a sideways glance. “Trying to be rid of me, are you, Arran?”
He scoffed. “Hardly.”
The heavily freckled miss let out another snort.
Nor did she budge from the sofa.
They did however settle into a far more comfortable quiet. Arran could almost imagine no great tragedy brought about by his doing had befallen them.
“…My true love sent to me: four colly birds, three French hens, two turtle doves…”
Meghan’s next words shattered his all-too brief illusion. “They’redoing a convincing job of acting as if it is a normal holiday.”
This felt far more comfortable—forthrightness. “At least they seem to think so,” he murmured.
That was the only invitation his unusually somber cousin needed. “Linnie and Jeremy’s not being here has nothing to do with you, Arran. Given her condition, it was determined it best she remain in London for the…for…”
“Your wedding?” he supplied.
“Linnie is a grown woman, Arran. She made the—”
Oh, no. This he’d neither anticipated, nor deserved.
The Lord appeared to agree.
A commotion sounded in the hall, the flurry of footfalls and cries and shouts. That was all it took to break the festive spirit and restore the equilibrium to the problems brewing.
His nerves fully heightened, Arran, along with Dallin, the Marquess of Winfield, the Duke of Aragon, and cousin Meghan’s betrothed, the Duke of Hartwell, were on their feet before the door exploded open, braced for the revenge they’d been anticipating.
The family butler, Cornell, stumbled in. The tall, spindly servant’s face was a color to match his shock of white hair. “N-Not Culross,” he rasped, by way of announcement. All the staff, servants, and family had been fully informed about the feud. “Mr. Campbell has arrived.”
“At bloody last,” Quillon shouted in annoyance. “Took him long enough.”
“Yes, but I should—” The poor butler didn’t stand a chance of completing his sentence. He’d already been overtaken by the family rushing past him to greet the returning cousin.
Meghan lingered a moment, looking like she wished to remain behind, the same as Arran, but then she shuffled off.
Arran waited and then reluctantly set out to join the joyous reunion.
Chapter 3
Based on the morsels Mr. Smith had dropped over the years about the big, boisterous, eccentric clan he belonged to, and the occasional times they’d stayed at The Spotted Elk, the McQuoid-Smith clan was everything Lucy remembered, and more.
