Page 21 of The Scot Who Loved Her

He suppressed a shudder as he stared over the rim of his glass at a gaggle of them dressed in their silk and gauzy finery, eyes roving over his form, likely taking bets on his virility. Later they’d exchange veiled insults aimed at each other until only one of them was left, who could then approach him regarding her daughter. No doubt whoever said daughter was, she’d be, in her mother’s opinion, the most beautiful, well-educated and disciplined in every talent he found interesting. And she’d be eager to please him should he so much as take a bow, which would hopefully lead to him taking a knee.

Mothers.Malcolm was trying his best to avoid them, which was why he planned to take up residence in front of one of the tall French windows. The windows were thrown open, the silver draperies fluttering in the gentle breeze. The stifling, overly perfumed air was set free. Free as he wished he could be.

There were only two women in all of London he cared a wit about—Caroline and Olivia.

A slight commotion sounded near the entrance to the ballroom, the crowd parting slightly, and Malcolm’s gaze locked on his beautiful, charming female assailant. It would appear from the dubious attention she received that the lass in question was the talk of the ton. Judging by some of the glances, perhaps not a reputation that a young lady might find agreeable.

Weary, wide blue eyes found him, and Malcolm grinned.Got ye, lass.And this time, she had nowhere to run.

Taller than most of the lasses in attendance, she glided shyly through the crowd. Indeed, he was certain after watching Olivia run from him in the forest and chasing her through the garden, she never did walk anywhere.

Golden hair piled high in curls, creamy silk finery with pink roses embroidered on the lacy sleeves and overskirt of her gown with colored ribbons trailing like fairy fingers, she was a vision for every other woman in attendance to covet, for every man to desire. But not him. He refused to be taken in by her doe-eyed gaze.

A hawk-nosed, pig-brain of a gentleman approached her, bowing low over his extended hand, asking her to dance. A polite flush covered Miss Aston’s cheeks, and she batted an eye while the gentleman took her hand and kissed the air above her knuckles.

Why did that set Malcolm’s gut to twinging? He shouldn’t care about some bacon-brained nincompoop.

Olivia was whisked to the dance floor for a lively reel. Malcolm watched the way she moved, elegant and charming. A laugh on her lips sounded contrived. The lass held back, tense in her delivery of social niceties. Her spine was stiff, and the movements practiced. She was hiding something.

When the reel ended and a waltz began, another wastrel asked her to dance, and she agreed. The greedy guttersnipe held her closer, and they began to sway. A waltz was an intimate dance. Too intimate. But also perfect for gaining privacy one couldn’t get while dancing a reel.

Malcolm pushed off the wall and approached Olivia through the crowd. The lass caught sight of him as he approached, paling a shade and giving a slight shake of her head.Oh, aye, sweetheart, this is happening.

He tapped the gentleman on the shoulder, causing them to come to a jerking halt. “Pardon me, my lord, would ye mind terribly if I cut in?”

“Yes,” Olivia said at the same time the gentleman also protested.

“Why, thank ye.” Malcolm removed the bloke’s hands from Olivia’s person and placed his own in their spots, practically knocking the bloke into next week as he shouldered his way into place.

The whispers in the crowd grew a tad louder, and the rejected fop marched off indigently. Malcolm’s lips twitched, but he forced himself not to smile.

Olivia’s face had gone a deep shade of red, and the fiery anger in her eyes was something different altogether. In the forest, she’d been full of fear, fake fear he presumed. And at the garden party, he was certain he’d seen guilt, shame and again a measure of fear, although that time it was real. Zooks, only a few encounters, and he could read her like a book? Or was it all a clever ruse to pull him in deeper?

“Miss Aston,” he said, twirling her about. Beneath his fingertips, her body trembled.

Was it fear? Or the same gnawing heat that scratched inside him whenever he laid eyes on her?

A frown drew her brows together as she worked to give him a sense of false bravado. “That was rude.”

Malcolm feigned confusion, shrugging nonchalantly. “Was it? I suppose being a Scottish barbarian, I was born without manners.”

“And yet you clean up so well,” she quipped, her gaze raking over his starched cravat and lines of his shoulders.

Malcolm chuckled. “I’ll give your compliments to my valet. Though, I suppose, anyone covered in blood and muck would look better in a tailcoat, aye?”

She huffed and turned her face away from him, though the flush rising over her neck and face could not be hidden.

“Miss Aston, I dinna believe we’ve been formally introduced.”

Still, she refused to look at him. “Fine by me.”

Malcolm led her on the dance floor as easily as he led a horse. His father had made sure he was as educated in the manners of Polite Society as he was in the wild, earthy ways of his Highland ancestors. He knew well how Miss Olivia Aston would see the latter. As primitive and uncouth as his mother had. “Alas, I am working on my barbaric manners, so perhaps ye’ll indulge me?”

Her skeptical gaze flicked to his. “Unlikely.”

“Has anyone ever told ye how charming ye are?” Malcolm didn’t bother keeping the sarcasm from his voice. If she was going to be so highbrow with him, why not give her a dose of her own medicine?

The lass raised a defiant brow.

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