Page 109 of What a Highlander’s Got to Do

Celia’s eyes narrowed. “I said, so you’ve done it.”

“Done what?” Playing innocent was always a good way to annoy people itching for a fight. And annoying Celia would be great fun.

“You know what. You’ve landed a duke.” This, she spat.

“Hardly a duke.” Her smile widened.

“You knew I’d set my cap for him. You knew he wanted me. But you still stepped in and tricked him into your bed.”

Isobel batted her lashes, leaned in, and whispered, “I daresay, there was no bed.”

Was it wrong to be delighted, watching the various colors rise on Celia’s pouty puss? Probably. It was a mercy Isobel didn’t care if it was.

Celia sputtered for a while and then stepped closer. Isobel didn’t care to be this close, but she wasn’t backing down. All the while she kept her expression serene and—dare she say it—duchesslike.

“You are nothing but a low-bred Scottish trollop.”

“Now see here!” To his credit, Penny stepped forward to defend her. Isobel held him back.

“As I recall,” she said sweetly, “you are the one who disrobed in his room and awaited him there.”

Celia gasped, as though she had not expected a direct attack. As though she had expected Isobel to crumple beneath her ire like a flan. Her friends shot her scandalized looks, and some took a step back.

In the chasm of shock, Isobel continued. “It’s hardly my fault he dinna want you. Although I can understand your disappointment.” She went as far as to pat Celia’s arm.

Apparently, that was the straw, as they say, that broke the mare’s back.

Celia hauled off and slapped Isobel.

Right there, in front of everyone.

The sound resonated through the suddenly silent dining room, followed by Isobel’s laugh. Of a certain, her cheek stung, but to be fair, she’d had worse. Aside from that, Celia had no power over her and never would. And neither would her friends.

“Never say you are asking for a duel?” she said in her thickest brogue. She allowed her expression to devolve into something savage. “What do you say? Bow and arrows at dawn?”

Her foe made a noise then, something akin to a whimper, as her face went ashen. No doubt she was remembering Isobel’s prowess on the archery range. She whirled away on the pretense of outrage and—

Plowed right into Nick, who stood at the entrance to the dining room, with an expression of disbelief on his face. It quickly turned to rage.

“Did you just slap my fiancée?” he said in a tone Isobel had never heard. It was a low, dark rumble that made the little hairs on her nape rise.

Celia opened her mouth and then closed it again. After a moment of collecting herself, she tipped up her chin and said, “She deserved it.”

He did not respond. He simply stared at Celia until she withered. And then, one word and one word only. “Go.”

There was no need to repeat himself.

She was gone in a flash.

Nick stormed over to Isobel and took her cheek in his large palm. He dredged his thumb over Celia’s handprint. “Are you all right?” he asked with a catch in his voice.

Isobel had to chuckle. If only to assure him. If only to wipe that look of guilt and pain from his eyes. “Of course I’m fine, my lord.” Not Nick, of course, because people were watching. And my, were they.

“I am so sorry about this. Had I known—”

“Please. Stop. You know I can handle myself.” This, she said more to the attending crowd than to him. It would be a good thing to send a message to any others who thought they might try some kind of similar incident. The last thing she wanted to do for the entire Season was put deranged debutantes and their mamas in their place.

“Good. Come then. Mother and Father want to make the announcement. Are you ready?”