“Well, it bloody well should be. Look, Lach, if you can’t find the lord, look for Lady Huntington. The housekeeper at their country seat said she’s a beautiful blue-eyed blonde—a perfect English rose.”
“That’s no help,” Lachlan grumbled. “I doubt a man can move a damned inch in a London ballroom without stepping on some fair-haired English rose. There’s bound to be dozens of them in there.”
“Ah, but not a single raven-haired Scottish lass. Poor Isla. If the English are as enamored of blue-eyed blondes are they’re rumored to be, you’ll end a spinster.”
Isla only shrugged, but Lachlan frowned at Ciaran. Isla, a spinster? No, he wouldn’t allow that to happen. He’d see to it she got back everything she’d lost, and an English lord into the bargain, if she wanted one. “Isla was the belle of every ball in Scotland. She’ll have her pick of English lords, too.”
That is, if he got past Lord Huntington’s butler. He dismounted and tossed his reins to Ciaran. “I’ll go in alone first, and then come back for you when I’ve settled things with Lord Huntington.”
Ciaran nodded. “One Scottish savage at a time? Very wise.”
Lachlan thought so, too, but Lord Huntington’s butler seemed to think one Scottish savage was one too many, because he stopped Lachlan before he’d taken two steps into the entryway. “How may I help?”
Lachlan’s scowl deepened at the butler’s lofty tone. “I’m here to see Lord Huntington.”
“Are you an invited guest of his lordship?”
Lachlan gave the man a thin smile. “You could say that.”
The butler cast him a disdainful look, sniffing at Lachlan’s travel-stained clothing, his muddy boots, and most particularly his black eye. “Lord Huntington is not seeing any tradesmen tonight. You may return to speak with the housekeeper tomorrow, and be sure to use the entrance in the mews when you do.”
The butler swept a hand toward the door, as if he could sweep Lachlan away like the dust from his lordship’s stairs.
“I’m not a tradesman.” Lachlan took a step toward the butler. “And I’ll see Lord Huntington right now.”
“Impossible. His lordship is—”
“Get his lordship, or I’ll do it myself.” Lachlan smiled, but it was feral baring of teeth, and decidedly unfriendly. “I’ve no quarrel going through you to get to him.” He stared down his nose at the man, who was two heads shorter, and not half his width.
The butler blanched. “I—I’ll fetch him right now, sir.”
“Good. I’ll wait here.”
“Yes, sir. I won’t be a moment, sir.” The butler backed away slowly, as if Lachlan were a bull about to charge, and crept down the hallway in the direction of the music and light.
Well, he’d return either with Lord Huntington or with a pistol—it was anyone’s guess which. Lachlan folded his arms across his chest and strode from one end of the entryway to the other, but when he’d been back and forth several dozen times without any sign of the butler, Lord Huntington, or a pistol, he ran out of patience and stalked down the hallway to have a look for himself.
He stopped when he reached the double doors leading into the ballroom, his eyebrows shooting up. Good Lord. The room was enormous, and stuffed to the rafters with overdressed English aristocrats. And damned if all the ladies didn’t look alike, just as he’d suspected they would. He’d never seen so much pink silk in his life, and how many variations on the color whitewerethere? He was looking out on a sea of pink and white English roses, every one of them a pale-faced, flaxen-haired version of the others.
He couldn’t have told one simpering chit from the next if someone had pressed a blade to his throat and demanded it, and the gentlemen weren’t much better. All of them wore the same fitted black breeches and perfectly tailored coats, and each masculine neck sported a spotless white cravat—no blood onthatlinen—many adorned with fussy jeweled pins.
A highland sheep among overbred stallions.
This is what Ciaran meant. Nothing but English blood flowed through Lachlan’s veins, and yet he was as Scottish as a man could be, and these fine lords didn’t need to look too closely to see it. He towered over most of the other gentlemen in the room, and no amount of expensive, elaborate clothing could disguise the uncouth enormity of him, the rough brawn and raw edges that defined him as clearly as if he’d charged into the ballroom with a claymore in his hand, and a kilt around his waist.
He didn’t belong here.
He didn’t belong in Scotland anymore, either, and neither did Isla or Ciaran. Their former friends had made that bloody clear enough. There was nothing for them there. Likely as not, there was nothing for them here, either, but at least here they had a chance. It was a damn sight more than they’d had in Scotland.
He wandered the outskirts of the ballroom, squinting at one elegant aristocrat after another, hoping he’d recognize his own features in one of their faces. It stood to reason he and Huntington would look alike—they were blood brothers, after all—but three turns around the ballroom didn’t reveal a more lordly-looking version of himself, and his eyes were crossing from studying the parade of dark-haired gentlemen.
None of them looked anything like him.
Lachlan dragged a hand down his face. This was absurd. He’d never find Huntington. The ballroom was crawling with English lords, and he’d be damned if he could tell a viscount from a marquess.
He turned and stalked back toward the entryway to wait for the butler, peering at every fair-haired lady he passed, stupidly hoping one of them might leap from the crowd and identify herself as Lady Huntington.
He’d made it nearly to the entryway when he came to an abrupt halt, his feet frozen to the floor, every thought in his head scattering as his gaze fell on a young lady half-hidden behind a column on the other side of the ballroom, directly across from him.
