Page 94 of What a Highlander’s Got to Do

“Yes. Of course. Shall we?” He took Isobel’s arm as well—as though she could protect him. “I believe you promised me the next dance,” he said to her with hardly any desperation in his voice at all.

“I believe so,” she said and they all walked along the path back to the party. The whole lot of them.

Isobel was gratified, indeed, when the next dance turned out to be a waltz rather than a reel. She enjoyed it immensely. She enjoyed the feel of Nick’s arms around her, as well as the scowl on Celia’s face.

And then there was the whispered conversation, one a waltz made possible, which was why they were considered to scandalous.

During that whispered waltz, they made plans.

Daring, exciting, dazzling plans for later tonight.

Isobel could only hope that all the guests would drink deeply, eat fully, and dance themselves to exhaustion so they would fall into their beds and not rise until morning.

She was damn tired of interruptions, and she had the sense Nick was, too.

Chapter Eighteen

The party didn’t die down until the wee hours. After the last guest floated away, Nick convinced his mother to let the servants go to bed and clean everything up in the morning.

He did so by touching her cheek and telling her what a wonderful job she had done, and how she deserved rest as well.

She’d smiled at him and told how proud she was that he was so thoughtful of the servants, and he allowed her approval to slide over him, even though he’d been motivated by something completely different.

She didn’t need to know that, though.

No mother needed to know her son’s true motives. Not really.

He walked her into the house and to the foyer where the grand staircase curled toward the upstairs, and then he watched her climb them after saying he’d have one last nightcap.

He had no intention of having another drink.

Someone was waiting for him in the conservatory.

The greater part of their conversation during the waltz had been where they would meet, because it needed to be a place others would not likely congregate after a party. The parlor, library, billiards room, and music room were the first places they discarded.

Then she suggested the conservatory, because it was an unlikely place for someone to visit at night and in the event servants might be about, they would have no business there.

The conservatory was not a place he spent much time, but it certainly was lovely with the light of the moon shining through the glass panes. The scent of loam and the perfume of flowers hit him as he entered. He took a moment to close the door tightly behind him before he scouted around for her.

When he didn’t see her, his mood dimmed. Surely she hadn’t given up? As host, he’d had to stay at the cèilidh until the bitter end. Perhaps she’d become too tired and—

Ah. There she was.

He stepped toward the divan, where she was curled up, resting her head on the overstuffed arm. Her silver-white hair spread out around her like a halo. Her face, kissed by moonlight, was an exquisite alabaster.

She had the aspect of a sleeping angel.

He hated to wake her.

But knew he would.

He took a step closer, and a delicate snore rumbled through the airy room.

It was impossible for him to hold back his laugh, which was a shame, for it woke her.

Or maybe not a shame.

“Good morning, sleeping beauty,” he said, coming to sit beside her.