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Why was she so eager to pacify him now when, four months ago, she’d told him quite succinctly what she thought of him. But then, she had been defending her daughters. Hmm, it seemed she wouldn’t protect herself, but God help him or anyone else who trifled with the tigress’s children.
Such fierce, maternal protectiveness caused an irregular stirring within him.
“’Tis nae token gesture but a sincere offer,” he countered, low and gentle as if calming a skittish mare.
Such skepticism crinkled her forehead that he would’ve chuckled had he not been convinced she’d take offense. And for reasons Keane would rather not examine too closely, offending Marjorie Kennedy was the last thing he wanted to do.
“You have guests to attend,” she put forth, sweeping an astute gaze around the hall.
In that one swift perusal, he’d warrant she took in everything occurring in the hall, including the maid flirting with a footman by the window, and Lady Constance Abercrombie hiding a bored yawn behind her hand as she sat beside her dozing spinster aunt.
Wait. What is she doing here?
His attention veered back to her.
When had she arrived, and where were her father and brother?
Ballocks.
Had she come without them?
He nearly swore aloud and rolled his eyes. Lady Constance had only ever been included because Keane wanted to purchase the acreage they owned adjacent to Trentwick. In point of fact, the Abercrombies’ presence at Trentwick functions was solely due to that desire. Keane couldn’t very well invite the rest of her family and ask that she not attend, which was his preference.
If ever a woman had marriage on her mind, it was Lady Constance Abercrombie. From the hints repeatedly sent his way by her doddering father, he’d include the lands Keane wanted in her marital settlement. Bruce Abercrombie, Earl of Newville, had implied many, many times how very much he’d appreciate a duke as a son-in-law.
A raven-haired beauty with violet eyes, impeccable manners, and a lineage royalty might envy, Lady Constance epitomized everything the world believed a duchess ought to exemplify.
Except Keane had witnessed her true colors.
She pinched the female servants, kicked his cats, complained if her bread wasn’t sliced a precise thickness, criticized everything from the temperature of her bathwater to the strength of her tea, mocked those less fortunate, and in all things acted superior and condescending.
In short, Lady Constance Abercrombie was a shrewish bitch.
He’d never take such a petty, contrary woman to wife. Not even to acquire the fertile lands ideal for his tenants to grow barley and oats.
Lady Constance caught him looking in her direction and regally inclined her head while not so subtly brushing her hand across the ample expanse of flesh visible above her bodice. On numerous occasions, she’d shamelessly invited him to partake of her charms.
Which, of course, meant a direct march to the kirk afterward.
Did she truly think all men were governed by their cock?
Och, aye. Most are, he was obliged to admit.
“And I don’t wish to be an inconvenience.” Marjorie’s soft objection brought him back to the present and the bonnie woman standing rather forlornly beside him. She didn’t defy him outright but used practiced diplomacy to extricate herself.
Without acknowledging Lady Constance’s blatant invitation, Keane turned his full regard to the Englishwoman and her daughters. He could feel Lady Constance’s incensed glare boring into his back. Two furious, scorching arrows. He’d taken to treating her coldly to discourage her interest, but to no avail. He’d admire her tenaciousness if her goal weren’t to snare him.
What had Marjorie said?
I dinna wish to be an inconvenience.
He’d vow Marjorie lived by that motto.
Dinna mind me. I’ll make do.
From his brief encounters with her, he’d come to a few conclusions. She made no demands, had no expectations of her brothers-in-law, and essentially tried to make herself invisible.
Except Marjorie Kennedy was a brilliant, sparkling star. Fiery and bright, brilliant and remarkable, and impossible to overlook. Unless a man was blind or dead. Or… An unbidden thought interrupted his contemplations. Unless that man regarded her as a sister. He scraped a swift look in the direction of the Kennedys talking earnestly with Bryston.
