Page 12 of What a Highlander’s Got to Do

She was going to London on holiday. She was going to explore the museums and study the strange sights that made up English society. But she was not—repeat not—looking for a husband.

They smiled and nodded and made all the right sounds, but she knew them. She knew they had hopes she would finally find a man she might consider.

What nonsense.

As though an Englishman would ever do.

She hastily corrected her thought. An English lord.

She’d met them from time to time, because of her uncles, one who was a baron and the other a duke. And the impression they’d made on her had been definitive.

Prancing men—in heels—with stuffed cods where their cocks should be, wearing tights with padded thighs and wigs that smelled of powder and sweat. Their hands were delicate and be-ringed. Their chins weak. Their lips thin.

As though any manliness had been bred right out of them.

No. She was not going to London to catch one of those . . . cold fish.

But Nick was different.

First of all, he wasn’t a lord. He had a sense of humor, a warmth about him that made her—dare she say it—happy. Beyond that, he was handsome and manly and she hungered for him.

She’d never hungered for a man before.

Was it so wrong to consider taking what she wanted?

It would, in all probability, be the last time she ever met a man who made her feel like this, considering that in all her years, no one else had ever come close.

And the best part of all was that she would never see him again—

Her thoughts came to an abrupt halt there, and she worked through the emotions such a prospect engendered.

She would never see him again?

Nonsense.

No doubt they would stop at the Willoubys’ again on their return trip. Wouldn’t they?

But such considerations hardly signified, because Isobel had made up her mind.

When she met Nick today—if, indeed, he could come to her—she was going to let the kiss continue.

As long as it would.

* * *

Nick had no idea why he was nervous as he sat on the rise waiting for her.

It had been a minor miracle that he had escaped from Swofford Manor without Celia on his tail. He’d see her skulking around the stable in the early-morning hours and engaged Desmond to distract her while he made his getaway.

He hadn’t brought wine, rather a nice cold breakfast. And, of course, that blanket.

Excitement scoured him, because he had decided—whether she was the Lochlannach lass, or her maid—he fully intended to seduce her.

Which was why his mood dimmed as, with each passing moment, she did not arrive.

Had she been toying with him?

Had she been detained?