She shook her head, her throat thickening.
He smiled at her. “Did you doubt me?”’
Lady Clarice stared at him, her face now mottled. “What is the meaning of this?”
From his chair, Sir Hartle sunk into the throes of a coughing fit. “My good man,” he spluttered, his eyes watering. “Are you not the Black Lyon?”
“Himself, indeed,” Lucian spoke with all the richness of his heathered homeland in those two proud words. “Angus Lucian Duncan Forbes MacRae, the Black Lyon and Laird of Lyongate Hall in Scotland.”
“The Highlander from Merrivales,” Lady May gushed, placing a hand to her artfully displayed breasts as she slid a sideways look at her sisters Lady June and Lady April. “We met in London, at the Merrivales’ ball,” she added, sneakily tugging down her gown’s deeply-cut bodice to reveal the top crests of her pink nipples.
“Surely you remember?” Her voice turned breathy, her gaze locking on Lucian as if no one else was present.
“Lady…” He addressed Lady May, but strode over to Melissa, tucking her hand in his arm. “All I recall of that night is removing your lovely stepsister, Lady Melissa to my own townhouse for an hour or so of much-enjoyed privacy.”
“Oh!” Lady May dropped her hand from her bodice, her quick movement causing her entire left nipple to pop over the bodice edge. “We didn’t notice.”
“Nae?” Lucian drew Melissa closer, not even glancing at her step-sister’s thrusting nipple.
Instead, he turned to Lady Clarice, his smile gone. “If your memory of the night also fails, ask anyone who attended the ball. Our absence was noted by many. We were also seen entering my townhouse.”
He glanced at Melissa, his smile returning. “All London speaks of the scandal.”
Lady Clarice folded her arms. “I do not believe a word.”
“That, dear lady, is of no consequence.”
“It will be when I have you escorted from my home.” Her lips tightened.
“And who shall do the honors?” Lucian set his hand on the hilt of his sword. “The manservant who ran when I let myself in?”
“See here, young man.” Sir Hartle stood, leaning heavily on his walking stick. “No one wants any trouble, especially not with ladies present.”
Lady Clarice glared at him. “There will not be any trouble because Lord MacRae is leaving. I shall see him out myself.”
“That willnae be necessary,” Lucian’s burr deepened, the steel beneath the softness of his Highland voice unmistakable. “Though I will be going, indeed.
“When I’m ready…” He brought Melissa’s hand to his lips and kissed her knuckles. “I shall leave in the company of the young lady who is soon to be my wife.”
“Your wife?”Lady Clarice looked from his bitter earnest face to Melissa and then back to him.
“So I said.” He sounded entirely calm. “She told you true. I have compromised her in the most intimate way and she could well already be carrying my heir.”
Lady Clarice looked near to fainting. Swaying, she placed a hand on a table to steady herself.
Her daughters exchanged glances, their faces a mix of shock and annoyance.
Sir Hartle leaned on his walking stick, seemingly resigned.
“I told you I couldn’t marry him.” Melissa flashed a glance at her would-be suitor, then pinned her stepmother with a stare, desperation helping her now.
Her heart thundered madly.
More thoughts than she could sort whirled through her mind, but only one stood clear…
Her Highlander had come for her, and in the most thrilling way. She wasn’t about to complain, though she doubted he really meant a word. Gallant that he was, he only sought to help her. Even so, a small part of her – no, a great, gigantic piece of her – wished so badly that he did want to marry her.
“You’d best explain what this is about, Lord MacRae,” her stepmother said then, her voice almost shrill. “I have already asked and you haven’t had the decency to respond. Please do so now before I lose my patience.”
