Elizabeth didn’t sleep well at all after her interaction with Hamish, and it wasn’t the effects of the kiss keeping her awake.

It was his comment.

And then, of course, the thoughts that followed.

Mortification, that he thought her young and fanciful, certainly, but there was an even more depressing suspicion floating about in her head.

By morning, she was sure she was correct in her assumption that it was not her youth that caused him to reject her.

He simply did not share her feelings, and he was loath to tell her to her face.

What else could it be?

She had kissed him that first time and while he had kissed her while she was sleeping, she’d turned it around after that and kissed him soundly. At which point, he had pushed her away.

No doubt he was mortified by her attention. As mortified as he’d been with Lady Jersey. That babble about him not being good enough for her was nonsense and they both knew it.

How many women had thrown themselves at him?

How many had he had to let down easy with some weak lie?

Childish fancy.

How hideous.

She wanted to hide in her room and never see him again, but she was hardly the hiding sort. Besides, around ten her maid, Elaine, scratched on the door and announced that they had visitors.

So she would rise.

She would dress.

She would attend morning calls with her head held high.

And she would never speak to Hamish Robb again.

* * *

How annoying was it that when Elizabeth entered the parlor, the only caller in attendance was Peter Ross, Catherine’s brother. She’d bestirred herself just for him? He and Victoria sat on the divan chatting and sipping tea. Elizabeth couldn’t help but notice the shine in Victoria’s eyes.

She glanced at Peter.

Dear heavens. There was a shine in his eyes too, which was, all things considered, a tad concerning because according to Catherine, Peter liked to gamble. He had, in fact, gambled his way into penury and it was only by the grace of Catherine’s betrothed, Duncan Mackay, that he was not in Newgate for his debts.

Elizabeth nodded to Anne and Mary, who were doing needlepoint, took a seat by Aunt Esmeralda, and said in a whisper, “You approve of this?”

“This?”

She nodded to the couple on the divan.

“Bah. He’s a good lad.”

“He gambles.”

Aunt Esmeralda’s grin was savage. “Not. Anymore.”

Her tone was so certain, Elizabeth did not dare gainsay her. Indeed, given Peter’s expression when he glanced at the matron, he would probably be afraid to consider it.

“Good morning, all,” Catherine chirped as she swanned into the room.

“Good morning.” A chorus.

“I see you’re feeling better,” Esmeralda said drily.

“Oh much, thank you.”

“Those megrims are a menace.” Dry as dust.

“Yes, they are.”

“Cake?” Elizabeth held up a plate.

“Don’t mind if I do.” Catherine helped herself and then poured her own cup of tea, because the rules did not apply when one was at home. At least, they had decided it to be so. “How was your evening at Almack’s?”

Silence rounded the room. Elizabeth glanced at Esmeralda in invitation. “It was charming,” she finally said.

“Lady Jersey has a penchant for Scotsmen, apparently,” Victoria said.

Catherine blinked. “Oh really?”

“My dear, I wouldn’t repeat that in company,” Esmeralda advised.

“It’s simply unfair how Scotsmen are treated in London. Don’t you agree, Peter?”

“Oh yes. Of course I do,” he said. Of course he did. He would have agreed that the king’s hair was blue if Victoria suggested it.

“Lady Jersey insisted that Hamish and Ranald remain outside the ballroom,” she continued.

“Of course she did,” Catherine said with a nod.

Victoria sighed. “But that is so unfair.”

“Indeed it is. However, she cannot set a precedent. Did you know she once refused Beau Brummell entrance?”

“I had heard that,” Esmeralda said. “But he was late, not a Scotsman.”

“My point is, she has standards to uphold.”

Victoria put out a lip. “They are supercilious standards.”

“I am not arguing that point. And where on earth did you learn a word like that, Victoria?”

Peter smiled at his sister. “She reads the dictionary,” he said in the tone of someone observing that Victoria could fly through the air.

“Oh, does she? How charming.” Catherine leaned over and whispered to Elizabeth, “How long has this been going on?”

“First I’ve noticed. Aunt Esmeralda doesn’t seem to mind.”

“Well, thank God for small favors. I for one would love having you as a sister.”

“What a lovely thing to say.”

“It’s true.”

Elizabeth eyed her friend for a moment. “Why are you so cheerful?”

“Am I not allowed?”

“Don’t be silly. But it’s . . .”

“What?”

“It’s not natural.” Also, it was annoying, because Elizabeth was decidedly uncheerful.

“Well, first of all,” she ticked off on her fingers, “I did not have to attend Almack’s last night.”

“That was something of a coup.”

“Believe me, I know. And then, my megrim is gone.” She nodded to Aunt Esmeralda. “And finally . . .” She took Elizabeth’s hand in a tight grip. “I’m seeing Duncan today. That is, I’m fairly certain he’s coming to call.”

Ah. True love. That was what it was.

When Duncan Mackay had arrived at Ross House, having bought Peter’s vowels and taken over the property—along with his sister. Catherine had come to live at Sinclair House while the banns were read, which was only proper. Duncan made it a point to visit as often as he could—which usually meant morning calls. But the process had been frustrating for both. It was clear they simply wanted to be alone together.

Unfortunately, Aunt Esmeralda took great joy in keeping them apart.

It was like a hobby for her.

“Well, there he is himself. The most popular man in London.” At Esmeralda’s dry jest, Elizabeth glanced up and caught sight of Hamish and Ranald standing in the doorway. Her stomach lurched.

Why did he have to be so handsome?

She forced her gaze away, but it cost her.

“Good morning, Lady Esmeralda,” the baron said, bowing over her hand. When Hamish did the same, Elizabeth had to look away again. This time, she caught Catherine’s eye.

“Are you all right?” her friend asked.

Elizabeth flashed her a toothy smile. “Megrim.”

Catherine’s eyes widened. “Oh.” Her gaze flicked to Hamish and back. “Oh dear.”

“It’s nothing,” she gritted. “I’m fine.” The last thing she wanted was to catch anyone’s attention, especially the tall handsome man with flaming red hair who thought her childish and unattractive.

On that note, she set down her cake. God forbid she plump up as well.

Naturally, once the men were settled with coffee and bacon—which apparently Henley would bring on command—conversation turned to the evening before, much to Elizabeth’s discomfort. Not that she didn’t want to go over it all again, relive the annoyance of Lady Jersey’s flirtation and Hamish’s subsequent mortification at her hands, but she didn’t. It was far too painful to hear him protest his interest. That arrow fell too close to the heart for comfort.

It was practically a relief when a deep Scottish voice boomed from the foyer, “By all the Gods,” shattering the conversational thread.

Duncan Mackay’s familiar voice was unmistakable.

Catherine issued a sigh, which was completely subsumed by Hamish’s whoop. At which Aunt Esmeralda steadied her teacup on her saucer and muttered, “Now really.”

Hamish, Ranald, and Duncan ignored her and greeted one another with great hugs and manly slaps on the back.

Catherine turned to Elizabeth and whispered, “They know one another?”

“Apparently.” She forced a grin. “No doubt all Scotsmen know one another.”

“Indeed.”

“What the bluidy hell are you doing here?” Hamish asked.

“Language?” Aunt Esmeralda bleated.

“Ach, I beg your pardon, lass,” Hamish said with that crooked grin that was far too like a flirtation for Elizabeth’s comfort.

Her aunt wagged her folded fan at Hamish. “Never forget we are in the presence of innocents, sir.”

“Och, how could I forget?” Hamish said with a chuckle. He turned to Duncan and said, “We’ve been sent by the duke.”

Duncan boggled. “Caithness?”

Ranald nodded with a pained smile on his face. “Aye. The duke sent us as his representatives for the season.”

Lady Esmeralda’s nose curled. “That bloody duke. He was supposed to come.”

“Language,” Victoria whispered.

“I say, Duncan,” Hamish said. “Why are you in London?”

Duncan glanced at Catherine. “Ahem. Business.”

“Ah.”

“Lady Catherine.” Aunt Esmeralda broke into this reunion. Probably because it bored her. “Would you favor us with a song on the pianoforte?”

Catherine hid her grimace. She hated playing the pianoforte. And it showed. “Of course, Lady Esmeralda,” she said, and then she nodded in advance apology to the company. Duncan followed her and stood by her side, turning pages, which was probably one of the reasons she played so badly. Who could focus with a man like that at one’s side?

Catherine had butchered Mozart before, but in this, she surpassed even herself.

Before she was finished, Mary and Victoria hopped up and offered to take over and Elizabeth was certain she saw the relief in Catherine’s eyes.

But when Duncan took her arm and started to lead her out of the room—as he no doubt had been planning all along—Aunt Esmeralda stopped them. “Just where do you think you’re going?” she barked.

“For a walk, Lady Esmeralda.”

“I think not,” she warbled. “Not without a chaperone.”

“A chaperone? But Lady Esmeralda,” Duncan said. “We are betrothed.”

“What?” Hamish barked. And then he laughed. “But I thought you were in love with—”

Duncan’s face turned red. “Shut up,” he hissed at his friend. He glanced at Catherine, who had gone terribly pale, and then glowered at Hamish.

Hamish did not take the hint. “No, really. How many times did you talk about her—?”

“Shut. Up.” Practically a growl.

Bower leaned over and whispered something in Hamish’s ear, which made him wince and flick a remorseful glance at Duncan. “Sorry,” he said.

But it was too late. Catherine was devastated at the prospect of another woman. Who wouldn’t be? She put her hand to her head and grimaced through the tears. “Oh dear,” she said. “Another megrim.”

“Imagine that,” Aunt Esmeralda murmured.

Elizabeth leaped to her feet and ran to Catherine’s side. “Come, darling,” she said. “A cool cloth, I think.”

“Yes,” Catherine said through a sob, but she let Elizabeth and her sisters guide her up the stairs.

“Men,” Anne muttered as they turned to corner to their wing.

“Indeed,” Elizabeth agreed.

And Catherine? Catherine only wept.

Elizabeth could so relate. Because the man she imagined she loved did not love her back.

It was heartbreaking.

* * *

The rest of the day was a whirl, preparing for the Daltry’s masquerade. For some reason, Catherine’s bleak mood had lifted and Elizabeth was fairly certain it had something to do with Duncan loving her after all, which was nice for her, but was dampening for Elizabeth.

As for the men, they had all disappeared to wherever it was men went when they were avoiding preparations for a ball.

Not that she wanted to see him.

She didn’t.

She was perfectly fine without seeing him.

Besides, she wouldn’t know what to say if she did see him.

Then, around tea time, Elaine informed Elizabeth that she had a caller. Curious, she headed for the parlor and was surprised—and alarmed—to find Aunt Esmeralda with a broad grin on her face, pouring tea for Lord Twiggenberry.

“My lord.” She curtseyed.

Esmeralda waved a hand. “Close the door.”

Oh dear. That was not good. But Elizabeth nodded to her aunt and complied.

“Lord Twiggenberry has something he’d like to ask,” her aunt said gleefully. For some reason, she could barely keep still in her seat. “Go on, my lord.”

Twiggenberry bent over Elizabeth’s hand. A waft of his pomade assaulted her nostrils. “You know I hold you in great esteem, my lady.”

Her stomach surged. Her pulse pounded. Her palms began to sweat. She thought, for a moment, she might faint. “I . . . ah . . . Thank you, my lord.”

He sent her an ardent smile. “Do call me Twiggy.”

Twiggy?

“I . . . ah . . . Yes, my lord.”

“We both come from the best possible stock, you know.”

Ah, yes. Like cattle.

“And my family has great regard for your cousin, the duke.” His smile dimmed, just a tad. “Even though he is, you know, a Scot. He is still a very wealthy man. That does erase many a social sin, you know.”

Did it?

“At any rate, my dearest Elizabeth. I am humbly pleased to offer you a position by my side for as long as we both shall live.”

She gaped at him. “I’m sorry?”

“Oh, don’t be. I know this is a shock. The season has barely begun, but I took one look at you and knew you were the woman I wanted to bear my heirs.”

Oh dear lord. Her stomach surged. “Did you?”

“You have fabulous hips.”

Really?

She glanced at her aunt, who was beaming. “This is famous. Absolutely famous. The season has hardly even begun and here we are. One down.”

Elizabeth didn’t know what to say. Her head spun and a buzzing howled in her ears. She could hear Twiggenberry continuing to speak, but none of the words made sense.

But one thing was clear. He wanted to marry her.

Marry. Her.

He wanted her to bear his children.

She had fabulous hips.

Something rose within her. Something bilious.

She couldn’t stop it.

She couldn’t keep it down.

She opened her mouth to respond, to scream “No! No! No!”

But that was not what came out.

What came out was nuncheon.

In fact, she evacuated all over Lord Twiggenberry’s elaborately embroidered vest and his perfectly polished shoes.

And then, mercifully, she swooned.