Page 50 of What a Highlander’s Got to Do

Even worse, he had lied to her.

She should have known. His clothes were far too grand—even if he’d stolen them. His manners were too slick. His tone with Lord Tully too arrogant by far.

Something crawled in her belly, something bitter and bilious. Something that felt like humiliation.

It was hard to believe that he’d been toying with her, but honestly, what else could it have been? He’d kissed her and seduced her . . . all the while knowing she thought he was a stable lad. All the while knowing who she was.

It was unconscionable.

The cracking pain in her heart at his betrayal only made things worse.

She knew nothing but the blinding desire to escape. But she couldn’t run, lest she give herself away, and that would be more mortifying still.

So she turned to Lord Tully and offered him a glowing smile. “My lord,” she said. “I do believe my next dance is yours.”

Tully started, but then, with a grin and a glance at Nick, he nodded. “I do believe it is.” He offered Isobel his arm and led her back to the stairs toward the ballroom, leaving Nick sputtering in their wake.

In the clutches of Celia Swofford.

Served him right.

Chapter Ten

Well, that didn’t go well.

Certainly not the way Nick had planned.

He glowered at Tully, swirling around the dance floor with Isobel—his Isobel—and his gut churned. Everything else, the music, the laughter, the incessant chirping at his side, faded away as he tracked their each and every move.

Tully was his friend. He knew how Nick felt about Isobel. How dare he waltz with her? The fact that his hand was on her hip made his vision blur.

But what could he do? Storm across the crowded ballroom and rip them apart?

The idea had merit.

Better yet, he should wait until they swung ’round this way and just cut in. Ah, yes. That would be—

“So you’ll come?” The question, asked as it was in a piercing warble, and accompanied by the fervid cut of Celia’s nails on his forearm, captured his attention.

He glanced down at her. Her eyes were far too bright. Her attention too intent. Clearly he had missed something important. “I beg your pardon?”

She blew out a breath, with a hint of impatience and possessiveness that sent his nerves jangling. “To the opera with me. Mother has procured boxes.”

“Ah. I’m so sorry I already have plans.”

Her pointy face contracted. “But I haven’t said when,” she snapped.

“I am sorry.” He bowed to her and quickly took his leave, running, like a craven, to the card room.

It was what men did when they found themselves cornered at events like this.

William Swofford and Penny were already there, with a crowd of Nick’s contemporaries. They all nodded a greeting to the newest refugee, and Penny brought him a whisky.

“You look like you need this,” he said with a grin.

Nick nodded and tossed it back. Then he glared at William.

Who laughed. “What the hell did I do?”