Page 105 of What a Highlander’s Got to Do

And Nick scowled at him.

“You,” Tully qualified. “She likes you in a kilt.”

“She likes a brogue, too,” Declan said. “Maybe you could wear kilts and speak in a brogue and convince her you’re the man for her before the Season ends.”

Oh. That was brilliant. Nick straightened in his seat as a plan formed.

It occurred to him that he had been lazy, expecting Isobel to fall into his arms through seduction alone. Her mother had warned him early on that Dounreay lasses were difficult to win. His campaign would require patience and determination, but he could prevail.

At least he hoped he could.

Regardless, simply having a plan made him feel better.

He would use this time he had with Isobel to woo her heart. And to become as Scottish as he possibly could.

Chapter Twenty

It had been determined—over breakfast—that the betrothal ball would be held at the Moncrieff Mansion in London in one week’s time.

Naturally, with such a time line, the house party in Brighton would have to come to a close: The matrons would need to return to town and set things in motion.

Once the decision was made, it was astonishing how quickly everyone was packed up and loaded into the various carriages. To Isobel’s delight, she and Nick were seated together in the Duke of Moncrieff’s luxurious coach, with both their parents.

Her delight waned quickly when she realized the purpose behind this peculiar seating. There was, apparently, to be an eight-hour discussion of the wedding, interspersed only occasionally with her father grilling Nick on his pastimes, activities, interests, and intentions. As mortified as Isobel was with the interrogation, she learned a lot about Nick during that ride.

Yes, he enjoyed horses, and planned to breed them once he decided on a location for his estate. No, he did not partake in gaming. Yes, he did prefer whisky over brandy, but did not think highly of men who over-imbibed. Yes, he enjoyed visiting Scotland. Yes, the family had an estate in Stirling where he had learned to hunt as a lad. Yes, he did support the Bankers Act.

And this question, from her mother . . .

Yes. He did want lots of children.

When he answered that one, he smiled at her and took her hand. She smiled back, because it was expected, but it cost her. Because suddenly, she’d had the vision of an adorable black-haired boy running rampant through a garden filled with flowers.

The image stole her breath.

Her chest ached when she remembered there would be no black-haired boys because there would be no wedding and she would be in Scotland, living out her life utterly free of any servitude, while he was married to someone else in London.

Giving her babies.

All of a sudden, she hated this faceless woman.

She knew her envy was foolish, because this was her choice, but she could not deny it.

It would be wise for her to stop indulging in such fanciful imaginings.

They stopped in Pease Pottage once again for a late lunch, and once again, Isobel and Nick were allowed to sit together at the rough and rustic table. They were close enough to converse without anyone overhearing.

“How are you doing,” he asked with concern in his eye.

She tipped up her chin. “I’m fine. How are you?”

“Fine.”

“Good.”

“Good.”

Silence rang in an awkward cloud around them. Then their gazes met and they both smiled. Then laughed.