Page 47 of What a Highlander’s Got to Do

“Not all of them. Lord Tully is handsome. And the son of an earl.”

“You know I don’t give a fig for titles.” Besides, Tully had not asked her to dance. He hadn’t even come near her. He’d seemed far to intrigued with Cat.

When Catriona didn’t respond, Isobel shot her a glance. Her friend was nibbling her lip, trying, unsuccessfully, to hold back a smile. Her green eyes danced wickedly.

Irritation rippled through Isobel’s stomach. “What?”

Catriona lifted a shoulder. “I gathered that titles meant nothing to you, when you kissed that stable hand.”

Annoyance, and something else, prickled the skin at her nape. It always happened, when she thought of him.

“But if he was as handsome as you say, I can see why you kissed him.”

Och. She should never have told Catriona about that idiocy.

At the time, she’d thought there could be no harm in a little flirtation, especially with a man she would never see again, but now she saw the folly of it. Try as she might, she couldn’t expunge him from her mind. His smile, the sound of his voice, the touch of his lips on hers, all haunted her.

To the point she imagined she saw him.

Which was rubbish.

He had no business being here in London.

Unless he’d followed her . . .

Her heart leaped again at the thought, and she savagely silenced her elation. She’d never been a foolish type.

Until now.

Of course he hadn’t followed her. That was the height of hubris. And idiocy.

“Come along,” Cat said, once their feet had rested. “Let’s have some lemonade.” They walked together to the supper room and drank down two glasses apiece. The ballroom was stuffy, with all the perfumes and smoke and sweat, and the cool drinks were wonderful.

“Oh, look,” Catriona said in a bright tone. “Here comes Lord Blackworth.”

Isobel tried not to roll her eyes. As old warthogs went, Blackworth topped the list. He was crusty and creaky and had a truly reptilian glint in his eyes. Beyond that, they’d been warned about him by Catriona’s mother, Anne. Apparently he’d been haunting the marriage mart since Anne was a debutante with no luck whatsoever. Now, as then, he did not run in the best company.

Still, when he positioned himself before Isobel, with a bow and a leer, and asked for this dance, she felt obliged. Besides, it was a reel, so it wasn’t as though they would be partnered through the entire dance.

Fortunately, there was no time to talk. The music began straightaway, and the couples fell into the familiar steps of the dance. Despite her dislike for balls in general, Isobel did enjoy dancing and flew through the patterns like a bird on wing.

She reveled in the music, gleefully whirling from one partner to another.

And then, all of a sudden, and with no warning, she found herself in the arms of the most handsome man she’d ever seen. A man who stole her breath. A man with jet-black curls, dancing blue eyes, and a fascinating birthmark just above his lush lips.

Nick?

It couldn’t be.

Could it?

Her heart stopped. Her pulse locked. Her brain ceased to function.

Thank God her dance master had been as strict as he had been. Her feet continued to move as they should, though she gaped at him like a landed cod.

His smile, familiar and dizzying, stunned her more. “Surprised to see me?” he asked in a teasing rumble. When she didn’t respond, other than the obligatory moving of the lips, he chuckled and said, “I thought so.”

And because she was so bemused, she didn’t think to protest when he turned her at the end of the ballroom and whirled her straight out the garden doors.