Page 32 of The Scot Who Loved Her

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“Miss Olivia, a pleasure to see ye again.” Dunlyon bent over Olivia’s gloved hand the same as he had with her mother a moment before, only he gave her a gentle squeeze at the end.

As much as she hated the way gloves made her hands sweat, she was grateful to be wearing them now so that their skin didn’t touch. But even without the connection of flesh on flesh, a spark ignited with the reminder of when they’d danced and how he’d raced with her through the maze. Those memories, the confusing jumble of joy and trepidation, tried hard right now to make her drop her defenses.

Dunlyon was dressed in a kilt—which probably irritated her mother—a starched white shirt and a frockcoat. Olivia might have called him dapper or even charming if she didn’t know who he was and didn’t already suspect he was taunting her. But shedidknow, as did every inch of her body, which seemed ready to flee.

Olivia snatched her hand back. “The same to you, my lord.” She was quick to recover herself with a curtsey in Caroline’s direction. “Lady Caroline, you look lovely.”

“So do you.” Caroline was smiling broadly, and the genuine pleasure radiating from the younger woman’s face had Olivia returning the smile. “I was so pleased when we passed your house to see that you were in residence. I’ve never been to Edinburgh, and it will be so much more fun to go about with a friend.” Caroline glanced at Dunlyon. “My brother has several friends in town, all of whom are married to wonderful ladies, I’ve been told, so we shall have to make their acquaintance. And I’d be happy to introduce you.” Caroline leaned forward, almost conspiratorially. “One of them is a duchess.”

From the cornerof his eye, Malcolm watched Olivia’s mother cringe when she looked at him—feeling her disgust all the way to his bones, a sense that dredged up old memories of his mother. The woman was quick to recover herself, but not quick enough.

“We but wanted to stop in and bid ye good afternoon,” Malcolm said, keeping his tone cordial. No need to give the viscountess more fuel to add to her fire, especially if it would cause him an issue in his investigation. “We do no’ wish to overstay our welcome.”

“We thank you very much for the honor,” Lady Helvellyn said tightly, her smile so brittle it could have cracked her face.

Malcolm nodded, then turned his attention on Olivia. “If I may call of ye tomorrow, Miss Olivia, for perhaps a ride around the square? Caroline would, of course, join us.” He slid his gaze toward Lady Helvellyn, whose jaw was clenched tightly. If he was in possession of a stiff drink, he might force it down her throat.

“I look forward to it,” Olivia said, her smile almost as tight as her mother’s when on him but softer when she looked at Caroline. Interesting.

“Until tomorrow afternoon, then.” His gaze lingered on Olivia, but she lowered her eyes as if she were hiding from him. What truths did she keep that she feared he might see?

The ladies said goodbye, and as they meandered home, Caroline chattered away about the various things she wanted to do while in Edinburgh, chief among them shopping, which surprised Malcolm not at all. She was a woman and Gemma’s daughter.

With the list of his friends’ wives in hand, Caroline settled at the writing desk in the drawing room and started her correspondence so she might invite them all to tea. When his sister was fully occupied with her task, Malcolm took the opportunity to sneak out of the house and head toward St. Andrew’s Square and The New Club, where he was sure to find at least one of his friends, if not his cousin Lorne.

The building was as inconspicuous as Malcolm’s spy headquarters, nestled along the street with people wandering past and mostly minding their own business. There was the occasional glance from men who wished they belonged watching those who did entering the shaded doors.

Inside was dimly lit and a bit cloudy from cigar smoke. It had the scent of other men’s clubs he’d been in. Smoke, aftershave, liquor and meat. Overly masculine and not a drop of feminine anything. That was the thing when a man went to his club; he didn’t want to be reminded of his wife or daughters or mother. And it was the very reason that Malcolm had made several gentlemen’s clubs his home away from home.

A footman stepped from the shadows as he entered. “Welcome back, my lord.” Ordinarily, Malcolm wouldn’t have a hat and jacket to hand the man, but considering he’d been dressed appropriately for the house call in which he hoped to put Miss Olivia on edge, he did. Malcolm passed them off to the footmen. He then walked through the rooms until he spotted his cousin, Lorne Gordon, the Duke of Sutherland, seated in a far corner in a wingback leather chair that was overly large to make men as tall and broad as they were feel nestled.

“Malcolm!” Lorne fairly leapt from the chair he’d been lounging in, dropping the newspaper he’d been reading onto a table, and pulling Malcolm in for a manly hug accompanied by several back slaps. “Did no’ expect to see ye here for a while. We’ve missed ye.”

Malcolm let out a short laugh. “Trust me, I did no’ expect to be back so soon, but ye know I much prefer Edinburgh to London.” Malcolm sat in the chair next to his cousin and crossed an ankle over his knee, signaling to a waiting footman to get him a drink. “How is Jaime?”

Lorne shook his head, an expression of admiration on his face. Malcolm loved his cousin very much, but sometimes the man was so oversentimental about his wife. Malcolm couldn’t figure out if he was disgusted by it or envious.

“I do no’ know how she does it,” Lorne said. “She prefers to do most of the child-rearing herself, and she takes our daughter to the shipyard every day as if the wee tot is going to learn how to analyze a manifest before she learns to read.”

“That sounds like Jaime.” Malcolm took the dram of whiskey offered to him and sniffed deeply of the earthy, peat scent. There was nothing like a good glass. He sipped, savoring the expensive spirits.

“Indeed. I wish she’d hire a governess already.” Lorne drained his glass and signaled for another.

“As long as the governess is more prepared than Euan’s phony governess.” Malcolm couldn’t help bringing up the best farce of the decade.

Lorne chuckled. “Now that was hilarious. The poor lad had no idea who he’d hired to help him hone proper skills in finding a wife.”

“Aye, I say, Bronwen makes a much better wife than she did a teacher of etiquette.”

A footman offered Malcolm a second dram, but he passed on the spirits and asked for tea.

“Tea?” Lorne raised a brow so high it nearly touched his hairline. He looked fully prepared to tease Malcolm about his choice.

“I’m on a case,” he grumbled. “If I were no’ I might ask for the whole damn bottle.”

“Ah.” Lorne nodded with understanding. “Anything I can help with?”

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