Page 137 of The Highlander's Holiday Wife

“You really shouldn’t place your arm in so . . . so intimate a fashion. Lord Beath won’t like it.”

“Samantha, I’m simply resting my arm along the back of the sofa, not molesting you.”

She did choke on that comment. Fortunately, Logan and Donella were already engaged in conversation with John and didn’t hear him.

“Do you need me to pat your back?” Braden asked.

“I need you to behave in a less outrageous fashion.”

She glanced over her shoulder to find Beath’s eyes on her.

“He’s already glaring at me,” she hissed.

Braden removed his arm. “What a pompous ass. I take it that you’ve not told him about my proposal?”

“Since I have not yet made a decision about that, no,” she tartly replied. “Nor is this the appropriate venue to discuss it.”

“I stand corrected, my lady.”

When she narrowed her gaze, he simply flashed her a roguish grin, the one that made her heart go pitty-pat in a most disgraceful fashion.

“Just relax and enjoy your drink, sweetheart,” he murmured. “We’ll talk later.”

Then he switched his attention to the others and easily slipped into the conversation. Samantha did her best to keep up, but she was too flustered and too aware of Lord Beath to make a very good job of it.

When the handsome ormolu clock on the mantel chimed the hour, Angus herded the girls off to the buffet. Two footmen entered and went around the room, offering to make up plates for the adults.

“Thank you, but we’ll fetch our own,” Braden said.

He stood and offered his hand to Samantha. “Shall we?”

She glanced over at Beath. Fortunately, he was focused on Joseph, apparently fully engaged in one of his pedantic lectures about coins. “All right,” she replied.

She allowed him to lead her out of the room, but when he steered her past the dining room, Samantha cast him a startled glance. “We’re not eating?”

“We’ve not had a chance to talk these last few days, and I wanted to catch up on a few things first.”

“What things?” she cautiously asked.

“The foundation, and what we’re doing about security for the orphanage.”

“Oh, that’s all right, I suppose.”

He ushered her into a smaller room. “I promise not to make mad, passionate love to you, Samantha—unless you ask me to, of course.”

She scowled at him, trying to ignore the flush heating her cheeks. “Now you’re being ridiculous.”

“A wee bit, perhaps.”

He led her to a chaise in front of a marble fireplace, a smaller version of the one in the main drawing room. This room, while still lovely, had a more casual air. Books and journals were scattered on tabletops, and a large needlework frame stood on the other side of the fireplace.

“Is this your family’s sitting room?” she asked.

“Yes. I thought we could be a little more private here. You will note, however, that I left the door open. As you know, I’m a stickler for propriety.”

“A paragon,” she sardonically replied.

He arched his eyebrows in gentle mockery.

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