Page 112 of What a Highlander’s Got to Do

“But not enough to marry me.”

She let out a groan. “I canna believe we’re going over this again.”

“As many times as it takes.”

“I’m no’ the marrying type, Nick. I’m no’ obedient or subservient—”

“Did I ever say that was what I wanted?” His mother was hardly either of those. Nor was hers.

“I’m no’ duchess material.”

“You are exactly duchess material. Only look at how the ton has accepted you.”

“They would accept a washerwoman if you married her.”

How untrue that was. And unfair.

“Can you imagine me holding court over morning calls with the likes of Lady Jersey and Countess Graves?”

Yes. He could.

“Or being kind to vipers like Lady Swofford? I doona know how your mother does it.”

“My mother wasn’t always a duchess, either, Isobel. She learned the role. And she will teach you.”

She stilled then and settled a somber look on him. “Nae. She won’t. Because I willna be here.” And with that, she turned and swept from the room.

It would have been a dramatic exit, except he’d locked the door when they’d entered and still had the key.

In a huff, she turned and scowled at him until he opened it for her, and then she swept down the hall and back to the parlor where the others were embroiled in a game of cards.

It was a trial responding to their cheerful greetings.

“Where have you two been?” her mother asked ingenuously.

“Oh, playing billiards,” Isobel said casually, dropping onto the divan.

Nick, who was feeling contrary, sat in the Chippendale across the room. She frowned at him.

“I hope you had a pleasant game,” Mother said, before slapping down a card with a jubilant crow. All the others groaned.

“That’s it for me,” Father said. He glanced at Andrew Lochlannach. “They’ve trounced us.”

“They always do,” Isobel’s father said amiably.

Mother stood and took Father’s arm. “Darling, I think we should tell them now.”

“Now?” His father grinned. It was such an unusual expression for him, it caught Nick’s attention.

He glanced at them curiously, though his mind was still embroiled in the fight he and Isobel had just had. Not a fight—because she refused to fight—so much as a very unsatisfying conversation.

“Aye.” His mother waved everyone over to the sitting area, and then she and Father stood at the mantel. He reached into his waistcoat and pulled out a piece of parchment.

“Edward,” he said with a solemn expression on his face. “We are delighted that you and Isobel will be married. Delighted to welcome the Dounreay and Lochlannach families into our own, and your mother and I would like to give you both a gift befitting of such a union.”

Something cold slithered up his spine. He shot a glance at Isobel, who appeared surprised and, if he was being honest, a little discomfited.

“Really,” she said. “There is no need—”