Page 62 of Wicked Highland Heroes

In the year since his return from the war, he’d dallied with two actresses, an opera singer, two widows whose husbands had died within a week, one of the most notorious women of the demimonde and—how many others that hadn’t made it into the gossip sheets or the rumor mill?

Unexpected concern surfaced. Eve had been so intent on avoiding marriage that she hadn’t stopped to consider how Grace would be affected by his lifestyle. Did Grace understand what it would be like to awaken late at night to the sound of his bedchamber door opening and wonder what other woman’s bed he had just risen from? What of the meetings in ballrooms with women who she would later learn had been seen with her husband in a darkened garden in recent nights? Eve hadn’t told Grace of the snide remarks Lady Quincy and Lady Consworth had made two nights ago, but she was sure to encounter such comments herself.

Grace would never remain in Scotland while he moved through Society as if she didn’t exist. She would insist on accompanying him to London during the Season, host house parties at their country estates, and go for rides in the park. She might understand and even expect that he keep a mistress, but Lord Rushton didn’t keep mistresses, he had women. Eve stared at Grace, who listened raptly as Lord Rushton pointed out The First Presbyterian Church. Dear God. Her sister would make him the worst sort of wife.

*****

“You were right, Rushton,” Somerset said. “The food is superb. I haven’t had such good pigeon pie in ages.”

“Indeed,” Grace Crenshaw said. “You have excellent taste, my lord.”

“I am glad it pleases you.” He looked at Miss Eve Crenshaw, who sat at the table in the private dining room between her sister and Somerset and picked at her food. “You have barely touched your lunch, Miss Crenshaw. Is the lobster pie not to your liking?”

“As Lord Somerset and Grace have said, my lord, you were right. Mrs. Larson is an excellent cook. My appetite is not its usual self today.”

“You aren’t seasick, by chance?” He gave her a look of mock horror. “Miss Crenshaw, you should have said something. In your concern for me, you have neglected yourself.”

Her lips pursed, and he suspected she repressed an urge to disabuse him of the notion that she had even the tiniest bit of concern for him. When she said in a sweet voice, “Never fear, my lord, if I feel any sickness coming on, I will find you post haste,” he knew he was right. “Perhaps,” she added, “I should force myself to finish the lobster…just in case.”

It was the devil in him, but Erroll had always found the devil a livelier companion than any angel, so he said, “We are stranded in Ireland, madam. As we must board ship again in order to reach home we must hazard it.”

She paled. Erroll frowned. What had he said? But he realized what he’d said—or what his words implied: she was stuck with him. He’d never known a female to avoid marriage with such vigor. He’d never known a female to avoid marriage at all, in fact. She roused his curiosity. Erroll mentally grimaced. From intrigued to curious. Montgomery was right, that’s how trouble began.

The door to the dining room opened and a maid entered, two plates of baked goods and small serving plates in hand.

“Oh my,” Grace Crenshaw breathed as the girl set the confections and plates on the table, then began removing their dinner plates. “Is that minced pie with ambergris sugar?”

Erroll spotted the minced pie she stared at. “I believe it is.”

“It looks too beautiful to eat.”

Erroll winked. “Don’t let that stop you.”

She laughed and he was surprised to note no womanly wiles in the sound. She reached for a minced pie, then hesitated and shifted her hand to a wigg bun. Her eyes flitted to the candied fruit.

“If I may.” Lord Somerset lifted the tongs sitting on the platter to the left and put one of the small minced pies on a dessert plate, then added a tong full of candied fruit, and a wigg bun. He set the plate in front of the lady and her eyes sparkled.

“Thank you, my lord. I would have been all day deciding which one to eat.”

“Why eat only one?” he asked.

She picked up the wigg bun and nibbled a bite. Her eyes closed as if in ecstasy—Erroll was sure that was the case—then she opened them and said, “Mamma says a lady should never over indulge. It is impolite and adds to the waistline.”

Erroll had seen the mamma. She didn’t follow her own advice.

“Your waistline is in no danger, madam,” Somerset said.

Grace glanced sharply at him, the bun frozen half an inch from her lips. The surprise on her face mirrored Erroll’s thoughts. Somerset found the girl interesting.

She, however, seemed shocked by his interest. One would think she had never received a compliment. She was breathtaking. Erroll would wager not a day passed that she didn’t have some young buck confessing his undying love. She seemed to suddenly realize the bun still hovered an inch from her mouth, took a small bite, then set it on the plate.

Then an idea struck that Erroll thought just might get him out of this mess.

*****

“Are you certain you should not have worn the blue day dress?” Eve asked Grace, as the clerk placed yet another neatly wrapped package on the counter in the rear of the shop. Eve shifted to gaze out the window where they sat. “It is an uncommonly lovely day, and the blue might better complement your eyes than the yellow.”

“I will have ample opportunity to wear both,” she replied.