Page 32 of Return of the Scot
There were also smaller, less noticeable qualities he’d taken note of as well. Years ago, when they’d had tea, Jaime had always made certain everyone was involved in the conversation, listening and recalling tidbits of personal anecdotes others told her in the past, while her sister was content to cut anyone off who she’d lost interest in. Jaime remembered he hated cucumbers, whereas Shanna always made certain there was an abundance of cucumber sandwiches on hand. He’d taken his betrothed’s behavior for nerves and thought that since the pair were sisters, they were likely very similar, and it was taking Shanna a bit of time to warm up.
What a foolish idea that had been. And he should have known better, for he and Gille, were very different people.
A knock sounded at his door, and Mungo came through. “Your guests are arriving, Your Grace, and none can be announced or enter the ballroom without your presence. Or are ye forgoing the receiving line?”
Lorne groaned. How he hated the proper way of things. Why could they not just go and dance and mingle and gossip without him, then vacate the premises at a preferably tolerable hour, leaving him in peace?
“Do I have to?”
Mungo raised a single brow. “Ye do no’ have to do anything, Your Grace, but the purpose of this function was to show your face, was it no’?”
“Somewhat.”
Miraculously, Lorne’s face had been unscathed by the cannon that laid him flat. He was lucky that way. But if he were to present himself naked before the ton below, they’d run screaming.
“I’m coming.” He retightened his cravat and tried to remove the scowl from his face as he descended the stairs, but the latter was proving quite a feat.
The grand foyer of his ducal townhome was packed with aristocrats trying to show off their wealth and popularity. Mungo’s voice belted out, silencing the crowd who turned as a collective to stare up at him, “His Grace, the Duke of Sutherland.”
Lorne nodded to his old friend, and then with a forced smile, nodded at his guests as he descended, taking each stair deliberately and giving them ample time to ogle him. He cut a dashing figure in his kilt and doublet. The tartan socks and buckled shoes were a bit irritating considering he much preferred his riding boots, but at least they showed off the muscles in his legs. That was one thing he wanted—to show he was still the strongest fellow in the room.
At the base of the stairs with Mungo beside him, his guests were introduced and filed into the ballroom. One face after another in a blur. The only ones he was happy to recognize were Alec Hay, Euan Irvine, and his cousin Malcolm.
When at last he was set free from the tediousness of greeting every guest he wished had declined the invitation, he sought out his friends and cousin.
“Took ye long enough,” Malcolm teased.
“If I have to smile and tell one more mother that her daughter is a vision, I’ll hang myself.” Lorne tugged at the collar of his shirt, wishing he could at least take off the cravat.
“Your ball is the talk of the town and will likely be the talk of London soon. Even my barber was talking about it,” Alec murmured. “Nearly cut off my ear when I mentioned I was going.”
Lorne chuckled. The four of them stood in the corner, observing the dance floor, as the small orchestra he’d hired for the occasion struck up a familiar song.
“Are ye no’ dancing?” Euan asked, looking nervous as if he expected to be accosted by several of the mothers salivating on the sidelines.
“I’ve no interest.” Lorne watched men gather ladies and pull them to the center of the floor.
“But it is your ball. Ye’ll be expected to.”
“And they’ll be disappointed. I supposed I can no’ interest any of ye in a fight instead?”
“Do ye think they’d notice if we went missing?” Malcolm asked.
Lorne let his gaze slide over the crowd. “Aye,” he answered, disheartened. Nearly every eye was on him rather than the dancers, obviously assuming him to have chosen a partner for the first whirl.
“Why no’ pick an older woman to be your dance partner,” Euan suggested. “A widow, perhaps?”
“Or someone’s granny?” Malcolm teased.
Lorne grinned. “That’s no’ a bad idea.”
“My grandmother, the Dowager Countess of Errol, is here chaperoning my cousins,” Alec offered. “I’ll make the introductions.”
Lorne nodded, following his friend to find an older woman sipping punch.
“My lady,” Alec said. “Might I introduce ye to the Duke of Sutherland? He has requested your hand for this dance.”
“Mine?” the dowager sputtered, flicking open her fan. “Och, but I’m too old to dance.”
