“Young ladies mate for life?” asked Max, confused.
Raising a brow, Phineas murmured, “I hope so. But I meantswansmate for life. It is apparently verra romantic.”
“Well, I can be a romantic, can I no’?” snapped their father. “And ye’re supposed to be…what? One of yer antique gentlemen ye’re so fond of reading about?”
With a haughty tilt of his chin, Phineas corrected his father. “I am dressed in the regalia of Ramesses the Second, pharaoh of the Nineteenth Dynasty.” Then he seemed to deflate a bit. “Well, not hisactualregalia. That was only recently discovered and isnae even on display yet.”
Lysander leaned over to whisper overly loud to Max, “Phin’s a bit obsessed with history.”
Max eyed the man’s legs. “I can see that. Is that a”—he cleared his throat—“um, well, it looks like a loincloth?” He’d seen a few Shoshone wearing them back home. “Is that what this Ramesses fellow wore?”
“I endeavor to accuracy,” Phin told him with a solemn nod. “Olive is wearing matching regalia, but she refused to conform to historical precedent?—”
“That’s because she knew she couldnae show up here in a fookingloincloth, Phin.” Lysander rolled his eyes. “Yer betrothed has more sense than ye.”
There was a spark in Phineas’ eye when he huffed haughtily, “If ye thinkI’mbad, ye should see Lyon.”
As one, all four men turned to the far end of the ball room. Max figured, had this been a true medieval castle, there’d likely be a giant fireplace or something there. But since this was practically the twentieth century, instead, there was a series of huge windows adorned with fancy blue draperies.
And in front of them stood the laird’s heir, his arms crossed in front of his chest, wearing a scowl which would scare piss from a stone.
And a kilt.
Sure as shooting, his knees were bare for all the world to see above his boots.
A genuine kilt. Thank God Da hasn’t asked me to wear one yet.
“He looks positively medieval,” Phineas said with a sniff of disgust.
“Aye, but I thought yelikedhistory,” Lysander teased, jabbing his brother with his elbow. “Do ye think he’s going to wear a mask?”
The laird answered instead, after a shake of his head. “I doubt he’ll stay for too long.”
Phineas nodded. “And he’s wearing his usual mask already, is he no’?”
Max didn’t know Lyon well enough to judge if Phineas’s comment was a joke or not. The oldest Oliphant brother had obviously been caught in a fire at some point, and scars covered the left side of his face and disappeared under the old-fashioned linen shirt he wore. The rest of him looked fit enough—and Max knew he was seeing much more of Lyon than he’d ever expected to, what with the skirt and all—but the man did always seem to wear a permanent scowl.
Tonight was no different.
Suddenly, the laird swung back in their direction. “Where’s yer sister? Is she ready yet?”
Soothingly, Lysander patted his father’s arm. “She tried to get out of it as usual, but I pointed out nae one would ken her in a mask, and she agreed to make an appearance.”
“Will she stay longer than Lyon?” Da growled. “Swear to Christ, that lassie needs to realize no’everyonehas shunned her. She’s no’ going to find a husband if she doesnae attend events like the Dumpkins house party!”
Lysander shrugged. “She says she doesnae want a husband.”
“She thinks she doesnae deserve one,” the laird grumbled, “which is nonsense. Ye’re sure she’ll come?”
Lysander nodded. “Athena’s good for her word. She said she’d attend for as long as Lyon does. She’ll be dressed as a black cat.”
“Of course.” Phineas rolled his eyes. “Maxwell, I challenge ye to count fewer than four black cats tonight. And I suspect there’ll be an equal number of young ladies dressed as swans, much like our da here, though I do hope they will be better looking.”
“And dinnae forget Vestal Virgins,” Lysander added with a grin, before his father could object to the jibe. “They’re my favorite.”
“Hell,” Max said, surprised. “Do all the ladies dress identically on purpose?”
“Nay,” the laird chuckled. “But most either lack imagination, or they follow trends.”
