Page 28 of The Highlander's English Bride

Her expression suggested a desire to whack Graeme on the nose with her fan.

“Sir, Icannotbelieve—”

“There you are, Sabrina,” interrupted a querulous voice. “I’ve been lookingeverywherefor you, my dear.”

A few feet away, an elderly gentleman leaned on a cane, regarding them with disfavor. A slight, balding fellow, he was dressed as a tulip of theton, with pink waistcoat, enormous cravat, and other furbelows better suited to a younger man.

Actually, better suited to no one. The poor fellow looked ridiculous.

Sabrina breathed out a sigh and rose. Graeme followed suit.

“Forgive me, dearest,” she said. “I thought you were playing cards with the Duke of York.”

“He complained of the heat and departed. Lady Peregrim’s affairs arealwayssuch a crush. I’m sure the air is dreadfully unwholesome.”

As if to prove the point, he dramatically flapped a kerchief. It wafted the scent of perfume up Graeme’s nose, making him bite his tongue to keep from sneezing.

The old gent scowled at him before turning to Sabrina. “Who is this person? You shouldn’t hide in corners with strange men, Sabrina. People will talk.”

“Father, we’re in the ballroom. Everyone can see us.”

“Still—”

“Let me introduce you,” she cheerfully interrupted. “Mr. Graeme Kendrick, I have the honor of introducing you to my father, Lord Musgrave.”

Graeme gave his best bow. “It’s an honor to meet you, my lord.”

A decidedly unhappy silence ensued.

“Sabrina, he’s Scottish,” Lord Musgrave eventually said.

“Yes, dear,” Sabrina replied. “As was Mamma.”

“The insalubrious Highland climate was the cause of your mother’s infirmities, as you well know. Scotland ruined her health.”

The Highlands might currently be all the rage, thanks to Walter Scott and his silly novels—but apparently not with Lord Musgrave.

“It can be a wee bit damp in the winter,” Graeme said, smiling. “But my brothers and I are healthy as oxen.”

“How many brothers do you have?” Musgrave asked.

“We are seven, my lord.”

“I take it you are not the eldest?”

“I am not, sir.”

That information was met with a disapproving sniff, a typical response from aristocrats with marriageable daughters. Impecunious younger sons best not lurk about their precious darlings.

“Mr. Kendrick’s brother is the Earl of Arnprior,” Sabrina explained. “Surely you remember that Lady Arnprior is well known to the king.”

As in, Vicky was old Georgie’s by-blow.

Musgrave eyed Graeme for a few more moments before adopting a doleful expression. “We must return home, Sabrina. I’m feeling most unwell.”

“Of course, dearest.” She threw Graeme an apologetic grimace. “Excuse me, sir.”

He gave her a slight bow. “Of course, my lady. Please think about what we discussed.”

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