Page 63 of What a Highlander’s Got to Do

Cat’s eyes narrowed. “Even when he . . . what?”

“Never mind. He just knew the whole time and was playing with me.”

“He didn’t appear to be playing with you today. He seemed serious. He brought you daisies. He knew you preferred daisies and he brought them to you. How romantic.”

“It’s no’ romantic in the slightest.”

“Why?”

“Don’t you see? He’s British!”

“It occurs to me he was British when you kissed him.”

“He kissed me.”

“Regardless. You liked him enough to allow it.”

“You doona understand. He’s no’ just British. He’s a British lord. The verra kind of man I have vowed to eschew like the plague.”

“It occurs to me one doesna kiss the plague.”

“Oh, do be quiet. The point is, there can never be anything lasting between us.”

Cat blinked. “Whyever not?”

“Because, do you no’ see? He’s a British—”

“Lord. Aye. But I fail to see why, if you truly love each other, why that should be a barrier.”

“I doona love him!” What a horrifying thought.

“Of course no’. But still—”

“He’s going to be a duke one day.”

“Many would see that as a boon.”

“Dukes have to live in London.”

“Your uncle doesna.”

Isobel opened her mouth to respond, but couldn’t. She hadn’t thought of that. Uncle Lachlan spent as little time as possible in London. There were, perhaps, many lords who chose to live outside the capital. “You are missing the point.”

“Am I?”

“Aye.” Probably. If only Isobel could remember what it was.

Catriona shrugged. “If you find him attractive and he finds you attractive—”

“There’s no evidence of that—”

“Other than him mooning over you today.”

“He wasna mooning.”

“How would you know? You refused to look at him.”

“Nonsense.”