Page 49 of What a Highlander’s Got to Do

“You said you were coming early. You were not here.”

“I, ahem, got held up.”

“Some friend you are.”

Friend? They were friends? While relief scudded through Isobel’s chest, confusion reigned as well. No British lord she’d ever met would have been friends with a servant.

Tully set his hands on his hips and glared. “There I was, doing as you asked. Taking the bullet as it were. And you weren’t even there. Do you have any idea what that cost me?”

“As I said, I was held up. I do apologize.”

For the first time, Tully seemed to notice her, and his frown darkened as he scrutinized her up and down. “I see,” he said, as though he did see, though what precisely he saw was a mystery. “And who might you be?” he asked of her, which was decidedly improper. Everyone knew a lord did not address a lady until they had been introduced.

She tipped up her nose and sniffed.

To her surprise, Tully laughed. “Ah, say no more. Isobel, of the gossamer hair.”

“Tully . . .” Nick growled in warning. But a warning to what, she had no clue.

“You are Isobel Lochlannach, are you not?” Tully asked in a far more respectful tone.

“Aye.”

“Catriona’s friend?”

“Lady Bower?” she responded icily, as it was highly improper for him to call Cat by her given name, as he well knew.

Tully grinned. It was a wicked, charming grin. He bowed his head in an ersatz chagrin that was annoyingly adorable as well. “As you say.” He turned back to Nick and shook a finger. Lord Tully, it seemed, was a collection of improprieties. “You shouldn’t be out here alone with her. It’s dangerous for both of you.”

“We were merely taking the air.”

“Right.” A snort. “At any rate, we should head back to the party before—”

But oh. It was too late.

A high-pitched, shrill warble wafted to them on the breeze. “Oh, hallo! Lord Tully! Hallo!”

Both men cringed. Apparently they recognized the voice. Isobel did not, but she recognized the pinched face as it rounded the corner. Celia Swofford. Her face pinched even more as she saw Isobel. Her nose curled a little, then she focused on Nick and batted her lashes. “My lord,” she said with a curtsy.

Isobel’s brow wrinkled. Nick wasn’t a lord. He was a stable hand.

But no one corrected Celia, which was even curiouser.

The debutante stepped closer and whispered loudly, “My mother was just speaking with your father.”

His father? His father was here? Was he a stable master? Isobel shot him a frown.

He glanced at her. A flush might have risen on his cheeks.

For his part, Tully watched with something akin to fascination.

Celia was oblivious to all of this. She nattered on. “Mother thinks we would make an excellent match, and when she mentioned it to your father, he did not deny it.” Celia’s smile was far too smug. Beyond that, it sent a skitter up Isobel’s spine. Celia was far too title-conscious to be slavering over a stable lad.

Which led to the appalling realization that, indeed, Nick was no such thing.

She stared at him as the horror of it engulfed her.

He was a British lord.