Page 8 of What a Highlander’s Got to Do

“I say, do you know if William is back?” His friend had gone into town to visit a bird he kept in a feathered nest. He’d told his mother he was going to view a horse he was considering, but everyone—other than her—knew his true plans. William had many birds in feathered nests.

Were she to discover the fact that her son was spilling his seed before swine—as she put it—no doubt Lady Swofford would have a fit of the vapors. As entertaining as that might be to witness, William was Nick’s friend, so he did what he could to keep the secret.

“Aye, my lord. His Lordship has returned.”

“Excellent.” After the afternoon he’d had, he fancied a good game of billiards, whisky, and cheroots.

What a pity he was not more careful as he came into the house. He’d brushed the mud from his boots in the stable, but he had not taken the care to peer into the drawing room window to be sure it was safe before he entered the foyer of the grand mansion.

Therefore, he was easily snared.

“There you are,” she bellowed as she caught sight of him.

He tried not to wince. She’d gone on “calls.” He had expected her to be away at least until the evening meal.

“Come and join us.” A staccato command.

Could he pretend he hadn’t heard and continue on to his room? How rude would that be?

Very.

Besides, a man would have to be stone deaf not to hear her strident tones.

No wonder Lord Swofford so often cupped his ear and said, “Eh?”

“Do join us.” William’s voice joined his mother’s. It had a hint of panic in it.

With a sigh, Nick affixed a smile on his face and turned into the parlor, trying not to wince again when he saw Lady Celia seated next to her mother with a simper on her exquisite face.

Celia Swofford was lovely, no doubt about it, but she was the perfect example of how looks weren’t everything. She was much like her mother, in that she had Lady Swofford’s commanding mannerisms, a hint of a mean streak in her, and no sense of humor to speak of.

Beyond that, her voice had the aspect of two stones grinding together, and when she sang—well, that did not bear reflecting on.

Perhaps the worst thing of all was the fact that Celia Swofford imagined herself in love. With him.

He was certain it wasn’t love of his mind or soul—for she’d never bothered to divine either. It was, most likely, the title.

Or, to be more precise, the title to come.

Some women were like that, he knew. Some would do anything to land a lord.

His good friend Stephen Pembergrast had been ensnared against his will by a scheming debutante who had fallen into his arms in an unprotected moment and claimed he’d defiled her. They’d been forced to marry, but the wedding feast had been more like a wake for Stephen and his friends.

Such a prospect caused horror and trepidation among his set, and made them more cautious than they otherwise might be.

However, with Celia, one could not be cautious enough. She was not the kind of woman Nicholas Wyeth wanted to spend his life with. He wanted . . .

For a moment, his mind flew back to the warm memory of a woman in his arms, laughing and kissing him at the same time. A woman with a delightful wiggle and a mind-bending ability to suck on a tongue. And the exasperating habit of running from him.

A pity she was a maid.

As egalitarian as his mother was, she would, no doubt, draw the line at a maid who kissed so . . . expertly.

And what a horrid thought that was.

How many men had she kissed to become so experienced?

“I say, Stirling. Are you listening?”