Page 61 of What a Highlander’s Got to Do

Susana grinned. “Give him some time.”

“He’s fairly good with a sword, though,” Lady Lana added.

Nick blinked in surprise, but then, judging from the looks of humor rounding the room, he suspected they were bamming everyone. Or maybe not.

He was learning quickly not to make any assumptions about these women . . . or their children.

“Anyway,” his mother said, capturing everyone’s attention with her tone. Something in it made a shiver slither up his spine. “We’ve had a famous idea.”

“Famous,” said Isobel’s mother.

“Absolutely famous,” added the Duchess of Caithness.

Nick forced a smile. His mother’s ideas never worked out well for him, so he knew to be cautious. “And what is this famous idea?” he asked.

His mother smiled at him. Yes. Definitely a slither. “Since the Season is having a slow start, we will host a house party at our place in Brighton this week.”

“I do love the sea,” Lady Esmeralda bleated.

“And it’s so lovely this time of year.”

Nick shook his head. “A house party? It’s hardly good hunting this time of year.” That was why one had a house party, wasn’t it?

His mother leveled a dark gaze on him. “There will be no hunting,” she said.

Lady Esmeralda muttered, “Not that kind of hunting, at any rate.”

“It will be simple. Casual. I’m thinking suppers, cards, perhaps a ball or two. Picnics and punting. Nothing too grand.”

No. Nothing too grand at all. But Nick saw the truth of it. Clear as day.

It was a hunting expedition. Only he was the prey.

Chapter Twelve

Catriona tossed herself on Isobel’s bed. “A house party in Brighton! How fun will that be?”

Isobel turned to the window to hide her expression. It had been so difficult this morning, pretending as though nothing had happened between her and Nick. As though she weren’t suppressing the urge to smack him every moment. Or kiss him.

Drat. She hated being so ambivalent.

She’d never been ambivalent a day in her life.

And then, then he’d sat down next to her . . . Oh, how awful that had been. His heat, burning into her. The shock of alertness when his thigh happened to touch hers. His scent, wafting to her every time he moved.

It had been torture.

Absolute torture.

It had been a challenge to keep her feelings to herself. Whatever they had been.

When he’d left, he’d taken her hand and gazed into her eyes—and though she tried to avoid looking at him, she’d failed—and then he’d kissed her hand. Her pulse had surged. The tiny hairs on her arm had risen. Her knees had knocked.

That bastard.

How dare he?

How dare he be so attractive when she wanted to hate him?