“Oh. Good.”
“But I, this… We can’t do this.”
“Oh,” she said, nodding, though she didn’t understand. “Yes, of course,” she swallowed. Then added, “Why?”
But he didn’t answer. Instead, he groaned.
“It’s just… It’s not happening.”
She nodded again, unable to understand why he was so determined. Perhaps he didn’t find her attractive? Or maybe she hadn’t been good at it.
Heat spread across her cheeks, but to her confusion, Graham took her arm and tucked into his as he pressed her to walk again. She did so on unsteady feet, all while her mind was reeling. What had that all been about? Thankfully, he didn’t speak and by the time they reached the bee yard, he seemed perfectly put together, save the concerned look in his green eyes.
He opened the little wooden door that led into the walled garden. She wanted to say something, anything, but her words failed her and when he didn’t speak either, she hurried away.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Elk Manor, the MacTavish stronghold, had looked over this part of the highlands for hundreds of years. It had always been a place of comfort to Graham, but as he stood in the middle of his uncle’s crowded ballroom, awaiting the arrival of Lady Belle and her nieces, he was troubled. For days, his thoughts had been consumed by memories of his afternoon with Hope. As much as he tried to reason away his attraction to Hope, he couldn’t ignore his genuine, visceral response to her.
He hadn’t meant to kiss her, hadn’t wanted to, considering who Hope was and what it would mean, but then Graham hadn’t been able to help himself. He’d half expected her to push him away, but after that initial hesitation, her hands had come up to his chest, her fingers had curled into his vest, and she had moaned ever so softly into his mouth. That alone had nearly undone him, and he’d fallen deeper into the kiss.
She had tasted like honey, and the mere memory of holding her was difficult to push aside. For days he thought of nothing else. They had fit so perfectly together, so bloody perfectly, that it was as though he had suddenly come under a spell. A spell that seemed to break the moment he remembered that he wasn’t supposed to be kissing her.
Hope is not for me.
He needed to keep his mind clear of her so that he could think straight.
He had gone back and forth about Belle’s offer a dozen times since hearing it and a dozen more since kissing Hope. He could marry her and have Lismore Hall back in his possession, but something about the idea rubbed him the wrong way. Perhaps if he was honest with Hope, Graham could convince her to sell it back to him once she inherited it.
Yes, that’s what he would do. He would simply tell Hope the truth and buy it back from her later. She had beensympathetic to his story and morally offended when she’d learned how her aunt came to own Lismore Hall. It would probably be easy to convince her to sell it to him, but he was surprised to note that a significant part of him disliked the idea. Gaining Lismore with or without marrying Hope was equally unattractive. He was damned if he did, damned if he didn’t. What was he going to do?
A buzz erupted from the group of people surrounding the entrance hall and he took a sip of wine as he nodded at a tall, fair-haired man approaching him. Logan Harris was Graham’s oldest friend and had been the fisherman Hope had spied on the other day. He had recently returned home from the Second Burma War and had earned a parcel of land upon his return for saving an entire brigade.
“Logan,” Graham said with a nod.
“Graham,” Logan said, peering over the crowd. “Tell me, have the English invaded yet?”
“Just about,” he said, nodding towards the entrance hall, where several McTavish ladies were making the Sharpes’ acquaintance. “That's them.”
“You'll forgive me if I don't rush to greet them,” Logan said, taking a wine glass from a passing servant. He seemed just as displeased with the prospect of entertaining the Sharpes as him, though Graham knew he had different reasons. “I'm not fond of the English.”
His dislike of the English wasn’t merely because he was Scottish. His mother had been from London and had abandoned him, his sister, and their father when he was young.
“Who is?” A McTavish cousin said, coming up to join them. “But these Sassenachs are easy to look at.”
“Aye, particularly the oldest one,” another cousin said. “Hope, isn't it?”
“It is.” Graham said as an odd sensation rolled within him. Jealousy? No, it couldn't be. Or rather, itshouldn’tbe. But he had known envy his whole life and this touch of jealousy was familiar to him.
“Beauties or not, they're still English,” Logan said, as the footman across the room stepped forward.
“Lady Belle Smith and her nieces, Miss Hope Sharpe, Miss Faith Sharpe, and Miss Grace Sharpe.”
The crowd parted ways, and Belle entered the hall smiling widely as Laird McTavish approached her to welcome them. The three Sharpe sisters, dressed in the latest London fashions, followed after her, appearing slightly nervous beneath the curious gazes of the other guests.
Graham's eyes were immediately on Hope. She wore an ice-blue silk gown, with short sleeves and long gloves. A sizeable silver brooch had been pinned to the center of her bodice and Graham’s insides clenched. Her dress was too revealing, too perfectly fitted for her body and he was both eager and angry at the sight of her.
He didn't want to want her.
