Hamish blew out a breath. Bluidy hell.

Had he thought his mission would be hard?

Impossible was more like it.

He’d been here less than a day and he had already succumbed to Elizabeth’s seductive wiles. Already yanked her into his arms, like the barbarian he was, and kissed her soundly.

And damn. What a kiss.

Hamish was not a green lad. He’d had more lovers than he could recall, but never, not ever, had he kissed a woman who made him so crazed.

He’d nearly lost his mind and taken her on the floor of the folly. And what folly that would have been.

Lachlan would flay him alive, for one thing. For another, he would never forgive himself if he allowed himself to seduce an innocent. He was a man of the world, and his tastes were . . . sophisticated. That girl had no idea what fate she was tempting. Beyond that, Hamish had no intention or desire to marry, but he knew damn well what the cost was for deflowering an English debutante.

And forget a forced wedding. The British lords would string him up by the balls.

The only sane course was to keep his distance from the enticing Elizabeth and absolutely, positively never kiss her again.

“There you are!”

Hamish jumped as a militant roar echoed behind him. He whipped around to see Lady Esmeralda with her cane in tow. “My lady.” He bowed.

“Bah. Don’t ‘my lady’ me. Call me Essie.”

He swallowed. Hard. Essie? And what was that glimmer in her eye? It horrified him a little. “Aye, my lady.”

“Come along, boy. We have work to do.”

“We . . . do?”

“Yes. Get moving.” She thwacked him on the bottom with her cane. It surprised him just enough to have the desired results.

“Where . . . are we going?”

She fixed him with an impatient stare. “To the parlor, of course. Come. Come.”

He really had no choice, with her herding him as she was. And he suddenly regretted his decision to leave his room. If he’d been wise, he could have avoided all of this—and that unfortunate kiss—by sleeping the day away as Ranald was.

But when Lady Esmeralda—Essie—opened the door to the parlor, his friend sat, still and uncomfortable on the divan looking remarkably like a prisoner of war.

“I thought you were resting,” Hamish said.

Ranald made a face. “So did I.”

“Nonsense. I have no use for layabouts.” Both men opened their mouths to dispute this accusation, but Lady Esmeralda did not give them a chance. “Henley, a tea tray for me and whisky for the gentlemen,” she barked. Then she picked up a thick folder and began thumbing through it.

While Hamish was more than happy to stay—now that there was sustenance on the way—he did have to wonder, “What work have we to do?”

Esmeralda gave him another one of those looks, one that inferred he was hopelessly clueless—which he was—and she sniffed. “We need to plot out our strategy for the season.”

Hamish chuckled. “This is hardly war, madam.”

“Oh, it is,” she warbled. “It most certainly is.” And then she laid the papers out on the table and spread them around.

“What’s all this?” Hamish asked.

“Invitations, dear boy. Invitations. They started coming in once word got out that the duke was coming.”

“How on earth did word get out?” Ranald asked.

Lady Esmeralda fixed her features in a credibly innocent mien. “I’m sure I have no idea. People do gossip, don’t you know.”

“I’m sure they do.”

“Nevertheless, here’s what we have. We need to decide which events to attend.”

Hamish and Ranald stared at the papers, all inscribed with flowing script and on very expensive-looking vellum. They glanced at each other and shared a shrug. “You expect us to help in this?” Ranald asked.

Honestly, neither of them had the slightest clue.

“Of course. Don’t be difficult.”

Hamish cleared his throat. “We’re not being difficult, Lady Esmeralda—”

“I told you to call me Essie.”

Ranald gaped at him and mouthed the word Essie? and heat crept up Hamish’s cheeks. “But we doona know the first thing about London society,” he sputtered.

“Well, we shall have to tutor you, won’t we, my boy?” She patted his knee. Her hand lingered. Somewhere to his left, Ranald snickered.

Hamish shot him a glower but was relieved when the door opened and Anne and another lovely blonde entered the room. It was only politic to leap to his feet . . . and Esmeralda’s hand fell away.

“Ah, there you are, gels.” She shot a sardonic glance at the men. “We’re saved,” she said drily.

“I heard you were sifting through the invitations,” Anne said. She glanced at the men and then pointedly took a seat on the other side of the room.

Hamish was reminded of what Elizabeth had told him, and indeed, he could see a hint of pain and distrust in Anne’s eyes. It really was a shame because she was quite pretty.

“What fun,” the other blonde said.

“Ah, Catherine, do sit.” Esmeralda waved vaguely in the girl’s direction. “This is Catherine Ross. Catherine, Ranald Gunn, Baron of Bower, and Hamish Robb.”

“So good to meet you,” she said with a smile. “I understand you’ve come in lieu of the duke.”

Both men nodded and Esmeralda snorted. “The duke promised to come.”

“He sends his regrets,” Ranald reminded her.

“He would know which parties to attend.”

Hamish held his tongue because that fact was patently untrue. Lachlan would rather be fishing in a stream than attending a stuffy ball any day. Besides which, he eschewed anything having to do with London society. But there was no harm in letting Esmeralda have her delusions. In fact, it was easier that way.

“Where shall we begin?” Catherine said, picking up several of the invitations. She immediately made a face. “Ugh. This one is a no.” She handed the paper to Esmeralda, who responded with a grunt.

“Definitely not. Preeble is a pompous ass.”

“Here’s one from Tiverton,” Anne said in a dry tone.

Catherine made another face. “You can go, if you like. I prefer not to encourage him.”

“Nonsense, gel. How could you encourage him? You are betrothed to Mackay.”

“Tiverton seems to think he can change my mind.”

Anne laughed. “I can only imagine what Mackay thinks about that.”

Esmeralda barked a laugh. “Not one to keep his thoughts to himself, that boy.”

“He’s hardly a boy,” Anne said. Her lip curled, just slightly.

“Well, he’s a boy to me,” Esmeralda said. “Most men are anymore.” She shot a glance at Hamish, and he shifted in his seat.

Just to be helpful, or occupied at least, he picked up a piece of paper. “How about a house party at Lord Mulberry’s?”

“Don’t be absurd.” Esmeralda snatched it from his hand and tossed it into the fire.

Then she effectively nixed every invitation in his pile. Honestly, why did she need them present if she was going to make all the decisions anyway?

Then she found one that made her light up. “Oh. This masquerade at Lord Daltry’s tomorrow night is a must.”

“I do love a masquerade,” Catherine said.

“I find them annoying,” Anne said.

“Yes, well, you would,” Esmeralda responded. “Ah. The Moncrieff ball.”

“Ooh,” Catherine cooed. “The Dark Duke.”

Anne frowned. “We can’t go to that one. He’s far too scandalous a character.”

“We dare not miss it, for that very reason,” Esmeralda huffed. “Besides, he’s married now, and everyone knows what they say about reformed rakes.”

Hamish frowned. He didn’t know. “What do they say?”

Esmeralda glowered at him. “And look here. A musicale at the Smythe-Winstons’.”

Anne made a face. “Torture.”

“Perhaps, but an excellent venue for finding the right men.”

Catherine grinned. “Men in dire need of rescuing, I dare say.”

“Lady Smythe-Winston does not allow card tables,” Esmeralda told Ranald in a conspiratorial tone.

“Is that a good thing?” Ranald asked.

“A very good thing.” Esmeralda’s eyes glimmered. “The beasts cannot escape, you see.”

Hamish couldn’t help that ping of pity for the poor beasts who could not escape. Considering they were British beasts, he wasn’t altogether sure why.

They worked through the afternoon for quite some time—much more time than an activity like this should command—but Hamish was able to bear it on account of the fact that Henley had procured whisky. In fact, by the end of the ordeal, he was feeling quite mellow.

So mellow, in fact, that when Elizabeth breezed through the door, looking lovely and rested, his heart only gave a little jump.

“Well, that was perfect timing,” Anne said with a small smile. “We’ve just finished.”

“Finished? Finished what?” Was it his imagination or did her gaze linger a little too long on his lips?

“We’ve drawn up our plans for the season.”

Elizabeth’s smile faded. “But I wanted to help.”

“Tut,” Esmeralda warbled. “Cannot be helped. We’re all done.”

Elizabeth sighed and dropped onto a Hepplewhite, holding out her hand. “Let me see it.”

Esmeralda handed over her hastily scratched list and Elizabeth scanned it. “Oh dear,” she said with a glance at Catherine. “Tiverton’s?”

Her friend smiled blindingly. “I’m not going to that one.”

“He is rather . . . insistent.”

“He is.”

Esmeralda glowered. “You gels are missing the point.”

“Which is?” Anne drawled.

“We are not going to Tiverton’s party to consider Tiverton, but to consider his friends.”

“Preeble is his friend,” Elizabeth reminded her.

“It goes without saying we are not considering Preeble either,” the matron responded in stentorian tones.

“Thank heaven for small favors,” Anne said, sotto voce.

Hamish grinned and took another sip of his whisky. Though he had not liked Henley terribly this morning, this afternoon he was fast becoming a dear friend. When he held up his glass, the butler was right there with a refill.

As he took a sip, his gaze clashed with Elizabeth’s, and the little wench smiled. It was a wicked smile, one that brought to mind his assertion of earlier that she would drive him to drink.

Well, she would. She did. She was.

He took another healthy drought.

“Don’t get pickled,” Lady Esmeralda said, and it occurred to him that he needed to mind himself because others were watching.

But still, his gaze was drawn to Elizabeth again and again and his mind floated back to that kiss . . . and what might have happened, what could have happened . . . until he became quite uncomfortable in the trousers.

He set his glass on the table and adjusted his seat.

It did not help.

“So will you be dancing with us at the balls?” Elizabeth asked. That she asked it of Bower annoyed the hell out of Hamish.

Ranald chuckled. “I dare say we will no’.”

“Do you not know how to dance in Scotland?” Anne asked, a trifle too acerbically.

The baron stilled and his gaze locked with Anne’s. “Aye, lass,” he said in a low tone. “We do indeed.” It was duly noted that Anne shivered and then pointedly looked away. “But during this season, we will be present as chaperones only.”

“A reminder, if you will, to all and sundry that we have the duke’s blessings,” Esmeralda added.

“To that end, we shall be wearing the Sinclair kilt,” Ranald said.

His timing was unfortunate, as Anne had just taken a sip of tea. Which now spewed forth. “What?”

“Och aye.” Ranald held her gaze again and then winked.

How interesting that a blush arose on those alabaster cheeks.

“I think that is a wonderful idea,” Elizabeth said.

Anne’s brows rose. She sputtered for a moment and then managed, “What nonsense!”

“Kilts are verra attractive.” Elizabeth affected a brogue.

“They are savage.”

Hamish could tell the moment the words escaped, Anne regretted them. Her face turned beet red.

“I mean . . .”

“We know what you mean, lass,” Ranald said. “And if it’s the truth you’re wanting, savagery was our intent.”

“Oh yes,” Esmeralda said, clapping her hands in delight. “Just so. An excellent way to remind the members of the ton that our duke is a Scot through and through. And what better way to begin as we mean to go on than to attend Almack’s tonight?”

Hamish swallowed heavily. Tonight?

Oh. Perhaps he shouldn’t have had that second whisky.

“Almack’s?” Anne frowned. “But we have not received vouchers.” It was a well-known fact—even in the far reaches of Scotland—that without the approval of the patronesses, one would be barred at the door.

Esmeralda’s smile was wicked. “Of course we have received vouchers. Are we not connected to the Duke of Caithness?” She winked. “It doesn’t hurt that Lady Jersey is a friend.”

“Surely they will not allow them in.” Anne waved at Ranald in a thoroughly dismissive manner. Hamish did not miss his frown.

“Nonsense. Of course they shall.” She patted Hamish’s knee. “In fact, no doubt, our savage Scots will be the talk of the town.”

Hamish and Ranald exchanged wry glances. Aye. No doubt indeed.

Like a general to her troops, Esmeralda rose to her feet and bellowed, “Well, gels, what are you waiting for? Let’s get ready for the season to begin!”