Page 67 of What a Highlander’s Got to Do

They arrived at Moncrieff House in Brighton, a gorgeous stone mansion on the hill overlooking the sea, just as the sun was setting. The view was breathtaking as hints of pink and orange bathed the grand facade. A beautiful peacock strutted on the lawn.

“Oh, it’s lovely,” Aunt Lana said on a sigh.

“Magnificent,” Mama agreed.

As for Isobel, she said nothing. She couldn’t. Despite her decision to simply enjoy herself this week, the moment she saw the mansion, the moment she realized he was in there somewhere, her heart started to pound and her throat locked. What would she say to him? What would he say to her? Would it be awkward? Probably. How would she respond to that? Who else would be there? Would there be a horde of strangers? How would they react to the fact that she was a Scotswoman? Would she have to defend her heritage? How could—

“Isobel.” Mama covered her hand, and Isobel realized she was shaking. “It will be fine.”

“Of course it will,” Catriona said with a smile. It was a wicked smile because, naturally, Cat knew why she was nervous.

The Duchess of Moncrieff was there to greet them as the carriage rolled up to the grand entrance, a sweeping marble staircase leading to large double doors.

“Ah, you’ve made it!” she called, coming down to give each of them a hug. She hooked arms with Aunt Lana and Aunt Hannah and led them to the house as everyone else followed behind, with Papa helping Aunt Esmeralda up the stairs.

“Do come in,” the duchess said. “We have an informal supper waiting for you. The others will be arriving tonight and tomorrow, so you’re the first here, other than family.”

“Ah, who else is coming?” Isobel asked.

The duchess herded them into the foyer and Isobel promptly forgot her question as the grandeur of the mansion hit her head-on. It was incredible. A double marble staircase curved up each side of the foyer to the second floor, leaving a large airy space for their welcome. There were two beautifully appointed rooms on either side, one obviously a library and the other a parlor. Magnificent stonework urns stood on either side of the staircase, with peacock feathers sprouting from them. A sparkling chandelier dominated the ceiling.

Mama, bless her, set two fingers to Isobel’s chin and closed her mouth.

The duchess chuckled. “It is grand, isn’t it?” she asked. “But doona fret. We are completely casual here. I’ve only invited our closest friends. The Tullys, the Penningtons, and my sister-in-law Violet St. Andrews will be here with her husband, Ewan. And the boys, of course.”

With a shock, Isobel realized that by the boys, she meant Nick and his contemporaries.

They were hardly boys.

“Well, do come in and get settled. No doubt you’re famished.” She led them into the parlor, which was decorated in a soft shade of blue, and pulled the bell tug. Almost immediately an army of servers came in with trolleys cluttered with covered trays. “A simple collation,” the duchess said, and with a flick of her hand the servants, with a flourish, removed the domes as though in concert.

The most dizzying scents flooded the room.

Isobel’s knees went weak as a sudden hunger gripped her.

She had no business being hungry, because she’d done nothing but sit all day, but her body didn’t seem to understand or care. Especially not faced with such a gastronomic array.

“Please help yourselves to a plate,” the duchess commanded, and Isobel was happy to oblige.

Everything was delicious, from the braised beef, to the selection of mouthwatering puddings, to the dazzling dessert tray.

If this was a casual meal, she couldn’t wait to see the duchess’s idea of a formal one.

The men, as men do, took their plates and withdrew to the library, probably so they could indulge in whisky without their women commenting. Or probably so they could talk about manly things.

As Isobel ate—hoping she wasn’t appearing too feral—the other ladies plucked elegantly at their plates and talked about plans for the party. It was the usual rubbish, so Isobel tuned out. But as she was just finishing her third dessert, something snagged her attention. Something subtle and eviscerating.

A scent? A sense? A knowledge?

She turned her head and stilled as she saw him, standing there, in the doorway, watching her.

He was so handsome, dressed in shirtsleeves and muddy boots. His hair was a wild, windblown tousle, and his cheeks were ruddy from exertion.

Her heart thudded. Her throat locked.

She reached for a glass of lemonade to wash down the lodged bite, but it wasn’t a bite that was lodged there. Not really.

He smiled at her, tentatively, and then, when she smiled back, a more confident offering.