Page 35 of What a Highlander’s Got to Do

These were more the type Isobel had been dreading, starchy and proper ladies with long Corinthian noses they enjoyed looking down. They were, in turn, Lady Frey, Lady Battersby, and Lady Swofford, with her daughter Celia in tow.

Isobel’s suspicions were confirmed when she heard Sorcha groan beneath her breath.

But it was worse than she imagined.

While all the ladies were painfully deferential to the duchess, it was the sideswiping comments toward everyone else she found irritating.

It began simply, and civilly, with an invitation to Lady Swofford’s ball that evening, but it deteriorated quickly.

“I understand you hail from Scotland,” Lady Frey said in a brittle voice.

“Aye, we do,” Aunt Lana said. Her smile was brittle as well, for she had caught the insult in the comment, as well as the fact that, though Lady Frey had Your Graced Kaitlin several times, she’d neglected to show Lana, the Duchess of Caithness, the same courtesy.

“The High Highlands,” Mama said with a gleeful enthusiasm.

“The true wilds,” Aunt Hannah added, with a bite to her tone as well.

It was clear none of them were about to sit here and be demeaned by snobs.

It was as it should be.

Isobel nibbled away her grin.

“Is it true men run naked there?” Lady Battersby asked with a hint of horror and fascination.

“Only in the summer,” Isobel said, before she could stop herself. When she saw the shock on those pinched, painted faces, she had to add, “We eat raw meat, too.”

“With our fingers,” Catriona added with élan.

They gaped, all of them, while the Scotswomen present attempted to swallow their chuckles. One or two escaped.

“Oh.” Lady Swofford said, glancing around the room. A hint of relief flittered over her expression. “You are bamming us.”

“Of course we are,” Kaitlin said with a kind smile. Isobel wasn’t quite sure how she managed it. “People in the Highlands live every bit as well as those in London, you know.”

“In actual castles,” Aunt Lana said demurely.

Lady Frey sniffed. “But you are savages. I mean, I’ve heard tell . . .” For some reason, she glanced at Isobel, and then pressed her lips together tightly.

Apparently, Mama noticed. “What have you heard?” she asked.

Lady Frey paled. “Nothing.”

“Nothing at all,” Lady Swofford added, pointedly looking anyplace but at Isobel. Which was telling indeed.

Apparently Lady Battersby had some pluck. “It’s just we’ve heard tell of what happened to Scrabster . . .”

Ah. That old chestnut.

“The traitor to the Crown?” Kaitlin asked in a chilly tone.

“You heard that I shot him in the arse?” Mama said, causing gasps to round the room.

“Did you really?” Kaitlin said. “Good show.”

Lady Frey’s chin firmed. “Not that. We heard what she did.” She pointed—pointed—her bony finger at Isobel, which, any child knew, was rude as hell.

“She blew up his castle,” Lady Battersby spat.