Page 30 of A Hot Scot for Christmas
Two dozen or more guests milled ahead, their breaths impatient vaporous puffs. The door was a bottle-neck. Footmen stood on the perimeter with trays of mulled wine. Wraiths of steam carried the tempting orange and cinnamon scent.
“Mulled wine,” he said to Sabrina. “Do you want some?”
“None for me, thank you.” When he didn’t move, she asked, “Are you getting one for yourself?”
“And leave you vulnerable to yoursteady streamof suitors?”
She laughed. “You will not let that go, will you?”
“Never.” And with that he sauntered off and nabbed a cup of mulled wine. Pivoting slowly, he took a few sips and found an older gap-toothed gentleman had taken his place.
How long had he been gone? A minute? Two minutes?
He sized up his competition. The man was middling height, with no great coat on this cold night. A bold move, that. Rory certainly wore his. It might be the gentleman didn’t want to disturb his costume. Swaths of grey-brown fur had been sewn onto his coat and breeches. Was the man meant to be a bear? A wolf? Rory took another sip and set his unfinished cup on the footman’s tray.
“Who is that man?” he asked.
“Sir?” The footman startled.
“You heard me. Who is that man talking to the red-haired goddess over there? Do you know him?”
The footman cleared his throat. “That is Mr. Alistair Frampton, a solicitor and gentleman farmer.”
“And?” Rory prompted, wanting salacious details should they exist. “Any clouds of scandal around the man?”
“No sir. He—He’s a widower with children. Gives alms to the poor and such.”
“Alms to the poor.” Rory slammed both arms across his chest. “What do you think his costume is? A bear? Or a wolf?”
“I’m not sure, sir.”
Rory snorted. The man had moved in and took his place in line beside Sabrina. His gaze went lower to spindly legs in white stockings.
“With those knobby knees, he’s got to be a wolf. No bear could survive the wild with legs like that.”
Which caused the footman to choke back a laugh. Rory took himself back to the line in time to hear.
“Mrs. Throckmorton-Rutherford, have you promised any dances yet?” The gentleman stroked a grey-furred arm. “You will give me one…” He chuckled then added a hopeful, “Or three or four.”
Rory stood an arm’s length away.Three dances?Mr. Frampton was pushing his luck. Two dances with the same person were a sign of courtship. Three or more and a man declared his eternal love.
“No promises, yet sir. Tell me, how are your children?”
The lass was a coy one. Rory waited, amused at her conversational feint when the man requested a dance.
“The children are splendid thank you. Just today, in fact, my dear little Anna and Josiah were asking after you.” Mr. Frampton rocked on his heels. “I was thinking we ought to call on Eden House tomorrow. A capital idea, don’t you think?”
“Will you bring all of your children? Or just Anna and Josiah?”
Mr. Frampton blinked, delighted. “I could bring all of them.” The gentleman brushed a shoulder to Sabrina’s. “Or should I call on you…alone?”
Sabrina kept eye contact with the oblivious Mr. Frampton and reached for Rory. “That would be wonderful, then the three of us will sit down over a cup of tea.”
“Three?” Poor Mr. Frampton blinked.
The gentleman in wolf’s clothing peered up and up and up. Rory was gratified to see Mr. Frampton pale around the boot black rubbed onto the tip of his nose.
“Dearest,” she said loud enough for others to hear “this is Mr. Frampton,ourneighbor …once we’re married, of course.”
