“Because I insisted he call me Sophia,” she said with a wink. “Nathan is so jealous of Kilmartin!” Sophia chortled, using her husband’s Christian name. “I met him several days ago when he came to my aid with a stuck carriage wheel.” Sophia cocked her head, a thoughtful look upon her face. “I find it highly refreshing for my husband to be green since I am always so possessive of him.”
“Is there a reason he should be wary of the Duke of Kilmartin?” Anne prodded. She knew Sophia to be quite in love with her husband, so she would be shocked if there was.
“Certainly not! Though, Kilmartin is quite nice to look at.”
“Darling,” the Duke of Scarsdale said as he approached and gave his wife a knowing, amused look.
Sophia beamed at her husband and tilted her head toward the Duke of Kilmartin. “It’s my pleasure to introduce you,as you requested,” she said, giving Kilmartin a pointed look, “to Miss Adair.”
Anne could not have been more surprised if the chandelier above her head suddenly fell on her. The Duke of Kilmartin had wanted to meet her? He’d requested it? Cool air hit her teeth when she sucked in a breath.
Heavens! Her jaw had actually fallen open. She quickly clamped it shut, and locking gazes with the Duke of Kilmartin, she curtsied.
When she came up, Sophia said, “Anne, this is the Duke of Kilmart—”
“Simon is sufficient,” he cut in, his sapphire gaze seeming to delve into her.
Her pulse skittered alarmingly. This was not good, not good at all. Only one other man had ever made her pulse skitter, and when she’d followed her heart and forgotten her head, she had paid a heavy price. She knew better than to think a man who looked like the Duke of Kilmartin wanted to meet her for any reason other than her dowry.
She’d set him in his place directly. She opened her mouth to speak, and he tilted his head slightly to the right, an undeniable look of interest settling on his strong features. All her composure left her.
“Oh, I couldn’t call you Simon—” His name rolled off her tongue, giving her gooseflesh. Dear Lord above, she had feathers for brains suddenly! She clenched her jaw, determined to speak with composure. “That is to say, I could call you Simon—” Her scalp prickled with a secret thrill of saying his Christian name twice. Feathers were in her head, for certain. “What I’m telling you is that I mustn’t.” Heavens, now she was rambling. First, she’d gawked, and now she rambled. How mortifying!
“But I want ye to call me Simon,Anne,” he said in a deep, rumbling voice that not only made her pulse skitter more intensely but weakened her knees. All the blood in her body seemed to take up residence in her ears and was rushing rather loudly, hopefully in an effort to set her head back in order. She licked her lips, counting the loud thuds of her heart. When she got to five, she gave herself a mental slap, and then she said, “It seems you rather enjoy offering invitations to ladies to refer to you familiarly.”
“Anne!” Sophia gasped. Her husband merely chuckled, as did the Duke of Kilmartin.
“Well, Anne,” the Duke of Kilmartin said in a tone of barely contained amusement, “I come from Scotland, and ye know what they say about us Scots?”
“You are heathens?” Anne replied, purposely infusing her voice with a note of what she hoped was dripping, false sweetness. She cocked her eyebrows at the duke, who surprised her by grinning.
“Touché. I was referring to Englishmen saying us Scots live by our own rules.”
“You should have been more specific,” she said, unable to help but admire how unruffled he seemed by her barb.
“I’ll remember to be specific with ye in the future, Anne.”
He had a way of saying her name that made her stomach flutter. It was truly vexing. “You mustn’t call me Anne.”
“Why mustn’t I?” he asked, his question innocent enough, but the look he gave her was anything but. That look…well, it spoke of seduction. She ought to know. She’d fallen prey to such a look before from a Scot like the duke, but he’d had a much heavier brogue than His Grace did. Lord Cad, as she liked to think of the man, had possessed a seductive stare that had made her lose her good senses. Lord Cad’s stare could not even hold a candle to the simmering one settled upon her now. This man was absolutely a rogue. She’d wager her dowry on it, but not against him. He’d undoubtedly take that wager, strive to convince her he was not a rake, and then marry her for the funds she could provide him. A slow, positively devastating smile curved his lips as if he knew what she had been thinking and needed to persuade her to forget her silly thoughts. And the desire to do so flared shockingly.
If this had been ancient times, Anne thought, while struggling to suppress the sudden desire to snort, he would have been Adonis. He was perfection. It wasn’t simply that his face looked as if it had been chiseled from marble. There was an inherent strength there, as well as the set of his chin that suggested he had a stubborn streak. He wore his thick, wavy russet hair a little longer than proper, suggesting he didn’t give a fig about rules. His bronzed skin hinted that he enjoyed the outdoors, and as she swept her gaze quickly over his massive shoulders, down his torso, to his thighs, which appeared powerful even clad as they were in black trousers, she was certain he was very fit. Moving her gaze back up to his face, she startled to find him gazing intently at her, lips curled in an amused smile. Goodness! She quickly glanced away from him and toward Sophia, who raised questioning brows at her. Heat licked Anne’s chest and neck, then settled on her face. She’d been staring at him like a simpleton.
“And that, Kilmartin,” the Duke of Scarsdale pronounced, “is why you mustn’t call Miss Adair by her Christian name. Don’t worry yourself too much over all the rules. You’ve only been in England a sennight. It took me nearly twenty years to get them all straight.” Sophia’s husband ended with a laugh and a wink at his wife.
Sophia, her husband, and Simon—as Anne could not help but think of him now, blast him—all laughed, and Anne realized, to her horror, that she had missed every word the Duke of Scarsdale had said. She’d been too busy gawking at Simon. She forced a chuckle and prayed no one had taken notice of her idle mind.
“I beg yer pardon,” Simon said. She met his gaze, determined to get a hold of herself. His words were appropriately apologetic, yet the glint in his eye and the cynical twist to his lips told her he wasn’t sorry in the least. She should have been aghast, yet she found she could not muster the feeling. She detested the rules, so why should she pretend to be appalled by another who did not follow them? Besides that, his thick brogue—and the fact that she’d never heard one mention of the former Duke of Kilmartin having a grandson—told her that Simon likely had spent very little time in England and could quite possibly not even know all the intricate, ridiculous dictates.
“No need to apologize,” she replied with a wave of her hand. “You are quite obviously not from England.”
“Anne!” Sophia gasped.
Oh, good heavens!She’d meant that in the best sense, yet…
“Is it that obvious?” Simon asked, his cynical smile becoming more pronounced.
Oh, to have magical powers that enabled her to disappear…
