Page 46 of What a Highlander’s Got to Do

“He was a man.” Tall, broad, strong, and mind-numbingly attractive.

“And did you . . . enjoy him?”

Ah. Now, here was where her details were sacred. She could hardly tell it all. “I kissed him. And he kissed me.”

Cat’s eyes twinkled. “And who was he?”

“No one. A stable lad.”

“You kissed a stable lad?” She laughed. “Doona tell your father. He’ll string him up.”

“I’m no’ telling anyone. It was just a fling. Besides, he’s in Newcastle.” She glanced in the direction the horsemen had disappeared. “Or he’s supposed to be.”

“Is that who you thought you saw?”

“Aye.” A sigh.

“Couldna ha’ been him, if he was a stable lad.”

“I know. But he seemed so like him. And his laugh . . .”

“They say everyone has a twin somewhere.”

“Perhaps it’s true. But oh, Cat. It felt like him.”

“I think maybe you’ve been out in the sun too long. Shall we head back?”

She didn’t want to. She wanted to ride like mad around the park and see if she could spot him again. But she knew that was foolishness in the extreme.

Besides, what would she do if she did find him?

He was a stable hand. And English. There could be nothing more between them. Her mother would have conniptions and her father would hunt him down.

It was simply not to be.

With a sigh, she turned her horse onto the crowded road and made her way back to the Mayfair mansion to prepare for tonight.

Cat was probably right. They should try to enjoy themselves.

However difficult that might be.

* * *

And it was a trial.

For one thing, there was a terrible crush. The Swofford ballroom was wholly unequal to the crowd that showed up.

For another, it seemed that every male in attendance was keen to make her acquaintance and ask her to dance.

Not that Isobel didn’t enjoy dancing; she did. It was the partners who soured the experience. They trampled her toes, breathed rank halitosis on her person, and spattered when they spoke. Most of them were far more interested in quizzing her on her wild antics as a child, no doubt so they could share such stories with their friends later over whisky.

After a while, she had to take refuge in the ladies’ retiring room, where she found Catriona doing the same.

“Ach. This is torture,” Isobel said as she eased her slipper from her foot and massaged her arch.

Catriona laughed. “It’s your fault, you know, for being such a bonny lass. All the lads want to dance with you.”

Isobel pulled a face. “They are hardly lads. Old warthogs, more like.”