Page 83 of The Highlander Is All That

Of all the hideous evenings Hamish had had to suffer through in London, the Moncrieff ball was by far his favorite. For one thing, Lady Jersey attended . . . with her husband, who kept her on a short leash.

For another, the Duke of Moncrieff was a damn fine fellow, who shook his hand as though he were an actual human. Hamish was delighted when Moncrieff introduced him to his brother-in-law, Ewan McCloud, a bona fide Scotsman—even though he was from Perth. Then the duke himself stood with Ranald and Hamish and McCloud and they critiqued the company.

It was all subtle, and offered in code, but they all knew what they were saying and it was enjoyable indeed.

For once, Hamish felt like he fit in with a group of men in London.

Also, there was whisky.

And it was a fine sort that Moncrieff had delivered to them in champagne glasses so no one would know.

The only fly in the proverbial ointment was the fact that Twiggenberry was in attendance and he insisted on dancing with Elizabeth.

As he watched the two round the ballroom, with a glower on his face, Moncrieff grunted. “I never liked that one,” he said. “Something about his piggy eyes.”

Hamish blinked. “He has piggy eyes? I didn’t notice.”

“Definitely piggy,” McCloud grunted. Then he took a sip of his “champagne.”

“Never got past the stench, myself,” Hamish murmured.

The duke barked out a wet whisky-laden snort. He yanked out his handkerchief and dabbed his mouth. “That was wicked, Robb. And he does indeed have an odd . . . odor about him.”

“He’s courting Elizabeth,” Hamish said before he fully processed the thought. Both the duke and his brother-in-law pinned him with a sharp glance.

“Lady Elizabeth,” Bower clarified.

“Oh, I got that.” Moncrieff turned back to watch the couples dancing. His sharp gaze landed on Twiggenberry and Elizabeth. “On the plus side, she does not appear enamored.”

“Does she not?” Ranald asked drily.

“She looks as though she wants to escape,” McCloud snorted.

God, it was wonderful being around Scots again. Men who said it like it was, rather than the way they expected it to be.

“She doesna like his . . . odor either.”

“She does look as though she might retch,” Moncrieff observed.

It was undoubtedly wicked to add, “It wouldn’t be the first time.”

“Perhaps I should cut in,” McCloud offered.

Hamish sent him a toothy grin and Ewan started in that direction. But before he reached them, Twiggenberry whirled Elizabeth in a turn and danced her out of the room and into the hall.

And Hamish’s gut surged.

Bluidy hell and damnation.

“Come on,” he growled to Ranald, and they lit off after their wayward chick.

* * *

As delightful as the evening had promised to be for Elizabeth, all the shine wore away the moment Twiggenberry showed up.

She had thoroughly enjoyed meeting the duchess—who bade them to call her Kaitlin—and her friends Lady Darlington and Lady Pennington, and her sister-in-law Violet McCloud, who was married to the brawny Scotsman chatting with Hamish.

These were ladies she would love to call friends, and she hoped their connection would continue.