Page 116 of What a Highlander’s Got to Do

She never had been like this.

Until him.

He did this to her.

Clearly, it was all his fault.

“Darling?”

She was not in the mood to discuss this—or anything—with him right now. She was far too raw. “Oh, look,” she said with ersatz delight. “There’s Elizabeth.” Isobel hadn’t seen the younger girl since Brighton, because she had not yet debuted and was not allowed to come to society events. Without another word, she took off in that direction.

“Isobel—” His call followed her, but she ignored it.

* * *

The tea party was charming and Isobel enjoyed it immensely, probably because Nick, reading her mood, stayed on the other side of the lawn with his friends. Isobel sat with Catriona, Sorcha, Ellie, Elizabeth, and their friends. They talked about the gossip of the day, coming events, the newest things in hats and other fribbles, but whenever the conversation turned to weddings, Isobel gently turned it aside.

Everyone ate heartily, but Isobel only picked at her plate. Naturally, Elizabeth noticed.

“Is the food not to your liking?” she asked with a moue of concern, ever the gracious hostess.

“Isobel has been feeling off,” Catriona said.

She glowered at her friend. No one needed to know. “Something I ate,” she repeated. “I’m fine.”

“Well, you look lovely,” Sorcha said.

“Thank you.”

“Really lovely. Your skin has a glow.”

She smiled at Nick’s sister, though she didn’t feel glowy at all.

Fortunately, the discussion moved on to a comedy that was playing at Drury Theatre and attention shifted from Isobel and her relative radiance. After a moment, she excused herself and made her way to the house, on the excuse of a private need.

It was a relief to slip into the Pennington mansion and escape from the crowd. Though it was hardly a crush, and Isobel knew everyone present, she wasn’t in the mood to deal with conversation. Or people. Not really. She leaned against the wall in the long, shadowed hallway and closed her eyes, reveling in the silence.

Which was, of course, broken.

“Isobel.”

Blast.

She forced a smile on her face and turned to Nick’s friend William Swofford. She’d noticed he was here, but his mother and sister were pointedly absent. “My lord.”

He smiled, some rakish confection that probably had ladies swooning far and wide. Isobel was not moved. She noticed he held a glass of Pennington’s whisky, for which it was, in her opinion, a trifle early. She noticed he’d probably had more than one.

“How are you enjoying being betrothed?” he asked amiably, taking a sip.

How did one answer that? “We’re verra happy.”

“Oh, yes. I’m sure you are.” Something in his tone set her teeth on edge, but she couldn’t decide what it was. Perhaps the ever-so-slight emphasis on the word you. He took another drink—not a sip—and sighed. “It was something of a surprise to us . . .”

The way he broke off so abruptly made clear he wanted her to ask. “A surprise?”

“Yes. You know. Nick. Betrothed. After . . .”

She nearly sighed. The man was so transparent. “After what?”