Hamish was the first one ready for the evening and down in the parlor, though it surely wasn’t his eagerness to see Elizabeth again. It had horrified him earlier, seeing her on that couch, motionless and weak.

She was not weak. It did not become her.

He’d been swamped with worry all afternoon. He headed across the drawing room for the whisky decanter and poured himself a draught. It would be a long night, and he needed the sustenance.

“Are you really going to wear that?” an amused voice wafted to him. He stilled. His heart thudded. He turned, slowly.

How could he not have seen her? Smelled her? Sensed her?

She sat in the chair on the other side of the room, in the shadows, with a glass in her hand.

Hamish threw out his arms and twirled for her. His kilt belled about his knees. “Do you like it?”

“Well, I do, of course, but the ton does not approve.”

“Lady Jersey approves, apparently, and where goes Lady Jersey, goes the ton.” He winked.

“You shall either start a riot or a trend.”

“May we hope and pray for the latter.” He grinned and strolled toward her. “It would do me well to see the ton in kilts.”

She wrinkled her nose. “Not I.”

“Nae?”

He was close enough now that she could lean forward and whisper conspiratorially, “They have knobby knees.”

“Do they?” He glanced at her glass. It was empty. But there was whisky on her breath. “You seem to be feeling better.”

“Extraordinarily!” She lifted her glass in a mock toast. Or perhaps not so mock. She took a sip and realized there was nothing there and her lip pushed out.

“How much have you had?” he asked.

“Just the one,” she said.

Ah. Good—

“And the one earlier.”

“Two whiskies?”

She glanced up at him with a woebegone expression. “I’ve had a difficult day.”

“Aye. I heard you went shopping.”

“That was a trial. Tiverton was there.”

“And who, may I ask, is Tiverton?” He felt proud that he’d had not one niggle of jealousy at the other man’s name, but then, given her tone, there was no reason.

“Preeble’s friend.”

“And who is Preeble?”

She made a face. An adorable, crumpled-up face. “They’re both Catherine’s suitors.”

“I thought Catherine and Mackay are betrothed.” Hamish had caught hell this afternoon for nearly bollixing up that love affair. But how was he to have known Catherine was the same Wee Cat Duncan had been mooning over for years?

“They are betrothed. But Tiverton and Preeble cannot believe she would lower herself to marry a Scot.”

“Really?” Anger and a familiar pain swirled in his gut. He was used to British superiority—oh, God, was he—but he didn’t like it. And he didn’t like it coming from her lips. “Do you think that would be lowering?”

She glared at him. “You know damn well what I think.”

“There is no call for such language.” Good gad. Was he starting to sound like Lady Esmeralda? Now that was lowering.

“There most certainly is.” She stood and strode across the room. He was captivated by the swing of her hips . . . until he realized where she was going. She’d already poured another whisky before he got to her. “You don’t need this.”

“Yes,” she huffed. “I do. My life is a dismal charade.”

“Doona be melodramatic.”

“I’m not,” she said sharply. “I’m being fanciful. And childish.”

“Elizabeth—”

She whirled on him and her drink sloshed. “Oh, don’t Elizabeth me.”

“It is your name.”

Her glare darkened. “I know why you said those terrible things about me. And I know you didn’t mean it.”

Hadn’t he?

No. He hadn’t, actually. “I don’t think you childish at all.” It was difficult to say, but he liked the effect it had on her, her softening, so he added, “I’m sorry.”

Tears welled in her beautiful eyes. “I’m sorry too, Hamish. It would have been wonderful if you could have loved me.”

“Elizabeth, I think you’ve had too much to drink.” He tried to collect her glass, but she held it out of reach.

She sucked in a deep breath and blew it out slowly. “Tell me, Hamish. What do you think of Twiggenberry?”

Something hard and sour lurched in his gut. “He is . . . an earl.”

“That is a fact, not an impression. Don’t prevaricate.”

All right. “I think he’s an ass.”

She tipped up her chin. “Would you like to marry him?”

“Certainly not!”

She caught his gaze and held it. He could not deny there was a hint of desperation in hers. “If you were in my position, would you marry him?”

His blood went cold. “Has he, um, asked?”

Her nod was nearly imperceptible.

Oh God. Horror screamed through him with cold strafing claws. His nerves prickled and his left eye began to twitch.

Had he ever had a more miserable moment in his life?

Never.

“What, ah, what did you say?”

She issued forth a small, wet snort. “I believe I vomited on him.”

He couldn’t have stopped his smile if his life depended upon it.

“Aunt Esmeralda says a girl can marry for money and position and then have affaires.”

“Does she?”

“But I don’t think I am that kind of girl.”

“No. I canna imagine you are.”

“I don’t even want to kiss him. The thought makes my stomach churn.”

“Um . . .” He took a step back. “Don’t think on it, then.”

“There’s more.”

“Is there?”

She took a long sip, then sucked in a breath. “You’re the only one I want to kiss, Hamish.”

Why did his heart soar? This was utterly inappropriate and indecent and wrong.

And wonderful.

“Elizabeth, you are drunk.”

“Not really. This stuff just makes people tell the truth. I know you don’t feel the same, and that’s all right. I know I’m not the prettiest sister and I am young and a little fanciful. But I do know what I want. I want to kiss you and only you.”

A lump formed in his throat. He swallowed it down. “Where did you get the idea I dinna feel the same, lass?”

Her gaze met his. He felt it to the core of his being. “It’s obvious, isn’t it?”

“Is it?” He stepped forward, took the glass from her hand, and set it on the table.

And then he pulled her in his arms and did what he’d been wanting to do all day. All night. Every moment since he’d held her last.

He kissed her.

She tasted of whisky and woman—his two favorite flavors.

It was a glorious moment.

Until, behind him, Bower cleared his throat.

Blast.

Hamish released Elizabeth and stared down at her for a long moment. Her eyes were lovely and damp and she gazed up at him with an expression that tightened his breeches.

Lord, she was lovely.

“Is she fainting again?” Bower snapped. “Because if she is not, I suggest you unhand the woman before her aunt arrives, lest you find yourself in a compromising position.”

Hell.

Reality was hell. He nodded to Elizabeth and settled her on the divan and then he whispered, “Only you as well.”

Foolish and inane and utterly inappropriate, but he had to say it. She deserved to know.

And God in heaven help them both.

Her responding smile sent a raft of shivers up his spine. And he couldn’t help smiling back.

* * *

Elizabeth felt wonderful as they arrived at the Daltry’s masquerade. There had been a touch-and-go moment there when the whisky had threatened to repeat upon her, but Hamish—bless his heart—had asked Henley for a platter of finger sandwiches while they waited for the other girls to come down.

The sandwiches had been inspired.

The three of them sat around the tea table and downed one after the other. Hamish plied her with tea, and when he told Bower that she’d been tippling, the baron plied her with more.

“You need to keep your head about you while on the marriage mart, or you might find yourself betrothed to a wart,” he said, at which she and Hamish exchanged a glance and a grimace.

“I see your point,” she said and vowed to eschew strong drinks before parties in the future.

But, for the moment, she felt wonderful.

It could have been the kiss, or Hamish’s expression after it, or his whisper.

Hardly a declaration of love, but it was enough.

She was delighted to discover that Twiggenberry was not in attendance at Daltry’s, which allowed her to relax and enjoy herself. She danced and flirted and ate—more finger sandwiches and delicious cakes—and kept her eye on the behemoth in a kilt standing at one end of the ballroom with his arms crossed, watching all with an eagle eye. Women ogled him and men anxiously skirted around him.

He was so utterly adorable she could barely stand it.

Before long, the heat and the sweat and the weight of her domino threatened to overcome her. When Catherine found her by the lemonade table and suggested a walk in the garden, Elizabeth jumped at the chance.

As they stepped through the garden doors, Catherine drew in a deep breath. “Oh, much better,” she said.

“It is.” Elizabeth linked arms with Catherine, then tipped her head up to stare at the sky. “Pity there is no moon.”

“It’s behind the clouds.” The garden was shadowed, but for the occasional torches on the path. They made their way past several other couples and down the stairs and wandered slowly through the shrubbery. “This is so much pleasanter,” Catherine said.

“I think so too.”

They chatted a bit more, but Elizabeth was hardly paying attention. Her mind was beset with what to do about Twiggenberry. When she gusted a maudlin sigh, Catherine squeezed her arm. “What’s wrong?”

She frowned and faced her friend. If anyone should know, it was Catherine. “There’s been an offer for my hand.”

“But Elizabeth,” Catherine cried. “That is wonderful. Who is it?”

“Lord Twiggenberry.”

Catherine’s mouth dropped open. “Twiggenberry? He’s . . . quite a catch.”

“I suppose.”

“You suppose? Isn’t it the dream of every debutante to catch a husband like him?”

“I suppose.”

Catherine cupped Elizabeth’s cheeks and held her gaze. “What is wrong then?”

“I don’t know. I just don’t . . .”

“Don’t what?”

She leaned in and whispered, “I just don’t . . . like him.”

“Have you gotten to know him? Remember, I was not fond of Duncan at all when he reappeared in my life.”

“He’s nothing like Duncan, I assure you.”

Her friend gave her a quick hug. “You can always say no.”

“Can I? Everyone is counting on me to make a brilliant match.”

“Not at the price of your happiness.”

“Aunt Esmeralda is quite adamant that he is perfect. And apparently he has been approved by the duke . . .”

“Then let the duke marry him.”

Elizabeth’s laugh was damp. “Don’t be ridiculous. The duke is already married.”

“I doubt your cousin would want you to marry someone you do not care for.”

“People do it every day.”

“Not people like you.” Catherine patted her hand. “I shall talk to Lady Esmeralda tomorrow.”

“Oh, would you?”

“Of course.”

Elizabeth grinned, her mood suddenly lifted. “And may I come to live with you and Duncan when I am an old maid firmly on the shelf?”

Catherine threw back her head and laughed. “Absolutely. In fact, I would love having you.”

They linked arms and started strolling again. As they reached the end of the path, a deep voice reached out to them from the shadows and Elizabeth started in surprise.

“Catherine?”

It took a moment for her to place the voice, but then Lord Tiverton, Catherine’s erstwhile suitor, emerged into the light.

Catherine sighed. “Yes, my lord?”

Tiverton’s expression was somber. “I have terrible news.”

Catherine stiffened. “What is it?”

“Your brother, Peter, the fool. He’s been in a duel.”

“No.”

Elizabeth’s heart lurched as she stared at Catherine in horror. They’d all been so certain Peter had straightened up. This was, indeed, a disaster and Catherine seemed devastated.

“He’s gravely injured,” Tiverton said. “He asked me to bring you to his side.”

“Oh, that is terrible.” Catherine glanced at Elizabeth. “I must go.”

“Of course. We shall all go.” She gave her friend a quick hug. “Wait here and I will fetch Bower and Hamish.” She took off at a run and brought the two Scots back in moments.

But by the time she returned, Catherine—and Tiverton—were gone.

Peter had, indeed, not been in a duel. In fact, he was fine.

But Catherine wasn’t.

When Elizabeth had gone for Hamish and Bower, Tiverton had taken her.

She had been kidnapped.