Page 65 of What a Highlander’s Got to Do

She was not amused in the least.

She wasn’t amused by the coach ride, either.

Though the duke’s coaches were plush and grand, with velvet seats and comfortable headrests, there were nine of them crammed in for a ride that took most of the day, including Aunt Esmeralda who insisted her leg must be elevated the entire way. Isobel and Cat could have opted to ride with the servants, but that would have been no better, as that coach was filled with luggage as well.

Catriona, wedged between Papa and Aunt Esmeralda, busied herself by reading a gothic novel, which inspired occasional gasps and groans that appeared to arise apropos of nothing.

Isobel sat next to Mama on the horsey end of the coach and stared out the window at the passing landscape, trying not to be annoyed that it was passing backward.

They stopped for lunch in the charming village of Pease Pottage, which was a relief in so many ways. Isobel enjoyed the shepherd’s pie that was on special, but she enjoyed walking around the small town even more.

She wasn’t used to such inactivity, and her legs were complaining.

She tried not to think about Nick, and the fact that they would be spending several days together, but it was always hovering there on the edge of her consciousness.

Catriona was right in one thing. She was attracted to Nick—more than she had even been to any man—and she needed to decide what she wanted to do about it.

Her choices seemed clear.

She could continue to ignore him. Write him off and pretend none of that Newcastle passion had ever occurred. But even when she was denying the truth to herself, she still knew she could not ignore him for long. Her body refused, even when her mind commanded.

Another choice would be to give him that chance. The chance to explain himself. The chance to tell her what he wanted from all this. He had brought her daisies. As declarations went, it was hardly definitive, but it was something. She could not deny that this option had a danger of its own. Her feelings for him, even when wrapped in annoyance and fury, were undeniable. She wanted him.

She didn’t want to marry him. Certainly not. She had always planned to return to Scotland as a free woman. But maybe there was some middle ground they could strike.

Perhaps there was a third option.

She would have to think on it more.

Fortunately, she had at least four more hours before they reached Brighton.

“Darling!” Mama called from across the square. “We’re ready to leave.”

“Coming.” Isobel picked up her skirts and hurried to the carriage, not because she was anticipating crawling back in, but because it felt good to run. How she wished she’d brought her mount. And worn her habit. But Mama had insisted she arrive as the lady she was.

It was almost as though, now that she’d reached a marriageable age, her mother had forgotten who she was.

Still, she smiled at her as they hooked arms and made their way to the stable yard.

“Are you all right?” Mama asked, smoothing a tendril of windblown hair from Isobel’s cheek.

“Of course.” What other answer was there?

“You’ve been so quiet lately.”

Isobel sighed. “I guess I am just the quiet sort.”

Mama snorted. “I think we know better. It seems as though something is bothering you. Is it the Season? Are you not enjoying yourself?”

“We haven’t done much yet,” Isobel reminded her.

“I know. I’m sorry about that. I promise we’ll do all of London before we return home.” She was silent for a moment, then said, “Your brother said you’ve made a vow not to consider any British gentlemen.”

Blast. “Which one?”

“Alexander, of course.”

“You should have taught him not to listen at doors.”