Page 2 of One Night in Glasgow
I knocked back half the champagne in one go, letting the bubbles burn away their words. I was beyond caring. Let them talk. It only proved what I already knew—that I was the most interesting thing in this room, full of stuffy old money and even older attitudes.
The room tilted pleasantly, the crystal chandeliers above creating halos around the lights, as I made my way toward the bar. It was usually my salvation at these things, and would have been again if Lord Stewart Beauchamp hadn’t been planted there like a balding garden gnome in a black suit. Mother’s attempt at marrying me off to some stupid old-fashioned title stood next to exactly the kind of man I actually wanted—tall, dark, and decidedly dangerous looking in hisperfectly tailored tux. The contrast was almost comical with Stewart’s pinched face and spreading waistline, standing next to this Adonis.
My mother’s voice repeated in my head from our numerous fights.“Stewart has ties to both Scottish and French royalty, Elisabeth. Do you realize what that means for our family?”As if that mattered a whit to me. It was probably a lie, anyway. Mum didn’t understand that you have to Google these things to see if it’s true.
I’m sure she’s promised Stewart all sorts of things, maybe even told him I’d specifically asked for him to be here tonight.Poor sod. He’s about to learn why they call me, Beth “The Menace” MacLeod.
I caught Tall-Dark-and-Handsome’s eye first, deliberately ignoring Stewart’s eager wave. The stranger’s gaze traveled slowly down my body and back up, one brow raising slightly.Oh yes, he would do nicely.
“Well, hello there, handsome,” I purred, sliding between them and placing my hand on the stranger’s chest. His heartbeat was firm and rhythmic beneath my hand. “Buy a girl a drink?” Stewart’s spluttering beside us was music to my ears.
The stranger’s cologne was expensive, something woodsy that made me want to bury my face in his neck. A slow, appreciative smile touched his lips. “Mademoiselle, a woman with your beauty, needs more than a drink. I would buy you the entire bar,” he said, his voice carrying a sexy French accent that totally stirred something deep inside me. “I’m Jacques de Valois.”
“Oh, trust me, a drink is just the beginning of what I plan on getting from you tonight, Jacques de Valois,” I said, as my fingers trailed down his lapel. “I’m Beth MacLeod.”
“B-Beth,” Stewart interrupted, his face flushed red as a tomato. “Your mother said you were expecting me tonight?—”
“Did she now?” I turned enough to give him a withering look. “Let me guess, she told you I wasdesperateto see you? That I’ve beenpiningaway?” I laughed, the sound sharp enough to draw stares. “Oh, Lord Beauchamp. Mummy dearest is playing you like a fiddle.”
Jacques shifted uncomfortably, but I tightened my grip on his jacket. “Don’t go anywhere, darling. I’m not finished with you yet.”
Stewart’s face crumpled, then hardened. “You’re drunk, Elisabeth. Let me call you a car to take you home?—”
“Drunk?” I released the stranger to step into Stewart’s space, jabbing a finger at his chest. “I’m not drunk enough to find you attractive, if that’s what you’re hoping for.”
A flash caught my eye; someone’s phone camera. Then another. The vultures were circling, sensing blood in the water. Fine. Let them watch. Let them see exactly what I thought about being auctioned off like prize cattle.
“You want to know why Mummy’s so keen on you for me?” My voice carried across the suddenly quiet ballroom. “Because you’re some kind of Lord, allegedly. And very, very safe. Not to mention one hundred percent passionless. The perfect bore to keep wild little Beth MacLeod in line, aren’t you?”
Another camera flash, closer this time. I spun toward it, nearly losing my balance. The photographer, some woman in a cheap blazer, kept her phone aimed at me.
“Stop the fuck filming me.” The room was spinning faster now, faces merging into a disapproving mosaic of pearls and bow ties.
“I’m just doing my job,” the woman said, backing away. “For the Foundations social media.”
The woman’s face swam in and out of focus. “So, your job is to make me look like an arse on the internet?” I said, my voice slurred. “Not today, bitch!” I lunged for her phone, my panty hose making my feet slide on the marble. My dress rode up as I grabbed for her, probably giving half the room a show. “Delete it! Delete the video right fucking now!”
The woman’s hair was soft in my fingers as I yanked, trying to reach her phone. Someone screamed—maybe me or her. The room dissolved into chaos around us, but all I was focused on was destroying that damned phone before?—
Strong arms wrapped around my waist, pulling me back. My father’s presence cut through the fog of booze and rage.
“That’s enough, Elisabeth,” he growled in my ear, his voice carrying decades of disappointment. “You’ve done quite enough.”
The last thing I saw before I puked in the middle of the ballroom was Stewart’s disgusted face, Jacques’s pitiful worried look, and my mother’s perfectly masked devastation. Then I passed out stone cold.
Consciousness came backlike a tide of broken glass, each wave bringing fresh pain and sharper regrets. The gala. The champagne. The dark-haired Frenchman, Jacques something. And then... oh fuck.
My mouth tasted like something had crawled in and died, probably my dignity. I cracked one eye open and immediately regretted it. Even the filtered sunlight was like ice picks straight to my brain.
“Good morning,daughter.”
The dry voice sent fresh spikes of pain through my skull. I recognized that tone. It was my mother’s “I’m-so-disappointed-I-can’t-even-be-bothered-to-yell” voice. Somewhere beyond the hangover, my stomach clenched.
I forced my eyes open again, fighting waves of nausea as the room slowly came into focus. Not my flat. The Dorchester Suite, Mummy’s favorite place to handle family scandals.
Mother sat in a wingback chair like it was a throne, her Chanel suit pristine despite the early hour. Dark circles under her eyes betrayed a sleepless night, carefully concealed but visible to anyone who knew her well.
“What…” I tried to sit up, but the room tilted alarmingly. “What time is it?”
