Aila’s smirk deepened. “I’ve never known ye to buy anything for a lass, or be concerned for one. Other than when she is trying to trap ye into marrying her, that is.”
He scowled at his sister. “That’s true enough, but I am not worried that Cecelia is trying to trap me into marriage.”
“Because she has no notion ye have money and land,” Aila said flippantly.
“Aye,” he replied.
Aila’s gaze locked with his. “Why did ye not correct her erroneous belief?”
“Because it is nice to be able to get to know someone and judge her reaction to me based solely on who I am. Can ye understand?”
“I can.” His sister studied him. “Do ye wish me to ask Richard exactly what occurred with her, so ye may be properly informed before perusing her further?”
He shook his head. “If there is a tale about her to be told, I’d rather get it from her lips.”
Aila grinned and hugged him. “I knew ye would say that! I cannot wait for the ball tomorrow night! I’m more excited for ye than for myself.”
He usually did not care for large social gatherings where he would have to spend a good portion of his time avoiding scheming lasses, but Cecelia would hopefully be there, and she’d not be scheming to get him. He found the prospect very appealing.
The next night, the Rochburns’ ballroom buzzed with hundreds of guests, but Liam was only concerned about one—Cecelia. An hour into the party to celebrate Aila and Aldridge’s betrothal, Cecelia still had not made an appearance. As Liam stood by a column with a champagne flute in his hand and a scowl firmly on his face—to ward off the marriage-minded mamas who kept casting hopeful glances his way—his patience was wearing thin. His mood darkened as he began to suspect Cecelia was not going to come. The only question was why.
As he contemplated this, he watched a mother take hold of her daughter’s arm and stride toward him with purposeful steps. She whispered in her daughter’s ear, and by the time they reached him, both mother and daughter had matching gleams in their eyes. He did not doubt that their interest in him lay in his land and money and not at all in who he truly was.
The mother and daughter gave him coquettish smiles. “Lord MacLeod, we met you the first day you arrived in London,” the mother said. “I’m sure you recall.”
He honestly did not, but he nodded, not wishing to injure their sensibilities.
“This is my daughter, Francis. She is a lovely dancer.”
“I’m certain she is,” he replied, looking beyond the women toward the entrance in the hope of seeing Cecelia. The mother before him made him think of Cecelia’s mother, who had clearly dismissed him the moment she had thought him without wealth. Cecelia had seemed embarrassed by her mother’s behavior, and his instinct told him that Cecelia was different.
Just as the thought entered his mind, she appeared like a vison from a fantasy, encased in a white silk gown that made her look rather like a snow fairy. Her black hair was piled on top of her head with tendrils of curls clinging to her creamy neck. He followed the expanse of beautiful, inviting skin down to the swell of her chest, which was modestly covered with white lace, and his blood heated. Her large brown eyes shone from her delicate face. She appeared defiant yet nervous at the same time. The contradiction was fascinating. She was the most beguiling creature he had ever beheld.
He stepped toward her, as if pulled by an invisible string, when a hand came to rest upon his arm. Annoyed, he looked to his right and into Francis’s disbelieving face and her mother’s annoyed one. Devil take it. He had completely forgotten the women beside him, lost as he was to the spell Cecelia cast over him without trying.
“Lord MacLeod, did you hear me?” the mother asked.
“I’m sorry to say I did not. Would ye mind repeating it, Lady…?” There was no hope to hide that he did not remember her name.
“Lady Dentington,” she said, her voice pinched. “I said, Francis would be perfectly thrilled to dance with you, unless you do not care to do so.” The woman arched her eyebrow all the way to her hairline.
Lady Dentington had cornered him, and he was the clot-heid who’d let her. He was certain that she had overstepped the social customs of London by being so bold, but he was also certain that she did not care. Sometimes being honorable was troublesome, and this was assuredly one of those times. He clenched his teeth as he extended a hand to Francis. He knew from Cecelia that it was not the English custom to refer to one another by their Christian names, but apparently when a mother was determined to catch a man for her daughter, etiquette was disposable.
As Francis took his hand, he sought out Cecelia once more. Where was she? She had moved from the entrance. The notes of the dance started, and he maneuvered Francis to the dance floor as he continued his search for Cecelia. On the first turn, while half listening to Francis chatter on about all the things she was more than capable of—such as enduring, without complaint, the cold Highland winter on thebarbaricIsle of Skye—he found Cecelia in another man’s arms.
He narrowed his gaze upon them. He was acquainted with Lord Egerton. Liam had not liked the man upon meeting him, and he liked him even less in this moment as his hand pressed into Cecelia’s back. Liam noted her eyes first widen, then narrow. He thought seriously upon striding across the ballroom and wrenching the man’s hand off her and possibly giving him a nice, hard jab in his overly long nose, but that would likely make the fools of thetontalk more about Cecelia. He did not want to do anything to harm her, but if that man’s hand moved any lower…
Suddenly, Cecelia stepped away from Lord Egerton, said something, and then turned and moved off the dance floor with her head held high in a display of pride that made Liam want to grin.
As soon as the dance ended, he delivered Francis to her mother and started toward Cecelia. As he closed the distance, he watched her and her mother exchange what appeared to be words of disagreement, given their strained faces, and then another gentleman was in front of Cecelia and off she went again toward the dance floor as Liam weaved in and out of guests to get closer to her. When she next came off the dance floor he was going to intercept her.
He leaned against a column by a potted plant, and when another mother looked his way, he scowled, not feeling a hint of remorse when he noted her indignant gasp. Behind him, he heard a rustle, and as he looked to see who it was, his sister stepped up beside him.
“I’ve been watching ye,” Aila said in a teasing voice.
“Are ye not supposed to be mingling with all the ladies and gentlemen ye will be living among?”
Aila shrugged. “Watching ye watch Cecelia is much more fun. I’ve never seen ye besotted.”
