Page 17 of The Scot Who Loved Her

Olivia kissed her mother’s cheek instead of responding, for she was certain anything she had to say would not be at all appropriate.

She pushed through the throngs of people, half expecting to be stopped by any number of lords and ladies who she’d offended in the past, but no one seemed the least bit interested in getting her permanently barred from polite company. What a shame.

The ladies’ retiring room was quite empty, save for a few maidservants who curtsied upon her entry. Fresh flowers covered a table littered with fans for cooling off. Behind a screen, she found the pot she was looking for and made quick use of it.

After washing her hands and using a moistened, lavender-scented towlette to dab at her face, she went to stand before the open window letting in a fresh breeze. Olivia scoured the garden to find who her mother was engaged with, and if it was someone she wished to avoid, she might just stay in the retiring room for the remainder of the afternoon. But as it was, she didn’t see her mother right away. What she did see sent a shock through her system. An incredibly tall man with a neatly pressed kilt, starched white shirt and wool coat.

A Scot.

Her Scot.

Nay, notherScot.

The Highlander she’d shot. She held no claim to him other than the bullet she’d mistakenly fired into his shoulder.

Her belly did a flip, and she pressed her hand to her middle, afraid she might just toss up whatever was left of the punch.

The man stood beside the Duke of Wellington, appearing to be deep in conversation. Olivia’s knees knocked together, and she feared they might buckle. Was he telling the duke what she’d done?

He glanced toward the house, and she ducked, gasping, afraid that he might have seen her peering through the window.

Crouched on the retiring room floor beneath the window, her breathing erratic, she made quite a sight.

“My lady, are you unwell? Shall I fetch someone?” one of the maids asked.

Olivia wanted to answer, but her tongue felt thick, and her mind raced.

This had to be a figment of her imagination. The Scotsman could have been any number of men. Not the one she’d shot. Why would he be here, at a garden party in London? That made no sense. She must have imagined it.

After managing to shake her head at the maid, she slid back up the wall and ran her sweaty palms down the length of her skirt. She glanced back outside, no longer seeing the kilted giant nor the duke.

Though her hands were shaking, she forced herself to retreat from the room. She needed air, and she needed to convince herself that the man wasn’t actually there. That seeing the kilt reminded her of the Highlander she’d come across in the woods—though he wore no kilt at the time.

“I am fine. Thank you. I thought there was a bee.” Olivia reached for another moistened towelette and wiped her brow, forcing herself to calm.

In the hallway, a trio of young ladies brushed past her, whispering and laughing as they did and giving her sideways glances.

Olivia kept her head held high. She was bound to have that happen every time she showed her face. After all, she must also have a nickname, like her sister. What could it be? “Mad Marian” had a certain ring to it. Maybe she’d be “Odious Olivia.” However, there was not a clever ring to that. Perhaps, she could hope, they had yet to come up with any name that might sound good with hers.

Once she’d pushed through the doors, she’d not taken more than three steps before she saw him.

And itwashim. Though she’d only met him the one time in the forest, she’d recognize that chiseled profile anywhere—his striking eyes—for she’d never seen a man more stunning than he.

He was perhaps a dozen paces past the foot of the marble stairs that led into the garden. Impossibly tall and gallant, dark hair covered by a fashionable hat, he stood in the gravel path, shaking hands with a lord and kissing a lady’s hand. Olivia’s heart skipped a beat as every wicked thought she’d had as she stared at his naked chest came whipping back to her.

The Scot swept his hand toward a young woman who stood beside him, and she curtsied as she, too, was introduced, bringing Olivia back to the present.

A fiancé?

Had she shot another lady’s affianced?

Oh, God... If he’d told the young lady about Olivia, she would have yet another enemy. And what were the chances he wouldn’t say anything? She’d shot him, for heaven’s sake. That it hadn’t been in the scandal sheets already was surprising enough. Before he looked up and caught her staring, Olivia whirled on her heel, needing to escape.

But then, the sound of her mother’s singsong warning tone cut through the blood rushing in her ears. “Olivia, dear. Come meet Lord and Lady Carlisle.”

Perhaps she could pretend not to have heard. But then her mother would have to make excuses for her—again. And life at home would be deemed all the more unpleasant.

The seconds ticked by, and finally, Olivia turned back around. Her gaze was toward the ground, the rim of her bonnet hiding half her face, and she prayed that the Scotsman didn’t recognize her. In the forest in Scotland, she’d been dressed in hunting garb, her hair flying wild around her face. Now she was in this frilly monstrosity, her hair done up in a thousand ringlets beneath a silly bonnet full of flowers and butterflies. There was every chance he might not identify her.

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