The duchess had arranged for the cèilidh to be held outside, on the south side of the house, in the gardens, which was the perfect spot for it. When Isobel arrived, with Catriona by her side, she caught her breath.

Though the sun had not yet gone down, lovely lanterns lit the paths and hung in the trees like fireflies. The grand patio, around which the garden was laid out like spokes of a wheel, was set with tables and a dancing floor, and a string quartet next to the fountain played Gaelic melodies.

The tables themselves were draped with alternating plaids, with the Sinclair tartan being the most prominent, in honor of Aunt Lana. The aroma of delicious Scottish dishes—like haggis and Cullen skink and Scotch pie—filled the air, making Isobel ache with homesickness . . . but it was a good ache.

“Goodness,” Catriona said. “She has certainly outdone herself.”

Indeed, she had thought of everything.

The duchess saw them and came through the crowd to greet them. “What do you think?” she asked, beaming with pride.

“It’s fabulous,” Isobel said.

“Och. It was so much fun for me.” She hooked one arm in each of the girls’ and pulled them into the fray. “We’ve invited some of the neighbors, too. I hope you doona mind.”

“Ach, nae. The more the merrier,” Catriona said.

Isobel, of course, was searching the crowd for one face.

A pity he was not here.

“The girls are over there,” the duchess said, waving Isobel and Catriona—in the opposite direction of Celia Swofford—to where Sorcha, Ellie, and Elizabeth stood. It was yet another subtle hint, one Isobel was more than happy to take. She joined the other girls, making a fuss over each of their outfits.

Most of the ladies here had opted for a kilted skirt, or a tartan sash or shawl. The men, of course, wore kilts. It was easy to see who was comfortable in such dress, and who was not. Indeed, Englishmen rarely had cause to bare their legs in public.

Isobel tried not to be amused, but it was a challenge.

“I canna help noticing Celia is here,” Catriona said, once the girls had helped themselves to punch. Isobel nearly spewed hers out. Oh, she’d been wondering, but had decided it not politic to comment in the event the duchess had invited her.

Perhaps she was losing her rebellious edge? Thank heaven Catriona wasn’t, because Isobel was burning with curiosity.

Sorcha did not disappoint.

She snorted heartily. “Aye,” she said in the same tone she had used before.

Ellie shook her head. “Scandalous, that.”

Scandalous? How . . . delicious. “What?”

“Truly shocking,” Elizabeth Pennington, the youngest, tsked. “Even I know better. And I am barely out of leading strings.”

“What?” Isobel squawked.

Sorcha hugged her friend. “You’re not so young. And yes, you do have better manners.”

“What!”

Finally the three turned to her with equal expressions of revulsion on their pretty faces. “They came uninvited,” Sorcha confided.

Isobel blinked. “Surely, they dinna.”

“Oh, they did,” Ellie said.

“Naturally, they pretended the invitation to William had been extended to them all, but it had not.” Sorcha sighed. “Edward is overset.”

Isobel frowned. “Which Edward?”

“The Third.”

Ah. Nick. That was a relief.

Sorcha sniffed. “She’s been hunting him, you see.”

Something bitter skirled in Isobel’s belly. “Hunting him?”

“Aye. When he was in Newcastle, she even tried to slip into his bedroom.”

Ellie shook her head. “How vulgar.”

“Why would she do that?” Catriona asked, but Isobel knew the answer.

“If they were caught, he’d be forced to marry her.”

Sorcha met her dark glower with one of her own. “I can’t conscience my brother being forced into anything, much less marriage to a woman who would stoop so low. I’m worried she’ll try something like that again. Here.”

“We can’t let that happen,” Ellie said. “Edward deserves so much better than that.”

“We should protect him,” Elizabeth suggested. “Form a phalanx around him as they did in Roman times. She shall not penetrate our shields!”

Sorcha grinned and said to Isobel, “Elizabeth loves to read histories.”

“Of wars,” Elizabeth clarified.

Ellie nodded. “She’s quite bloodthirsty.”

“If it helps protect my brother, I’m all for it,” Sorcha said. “I suggest we stick to him for the entire house party. If, perchance, Celia gets close to him, one or all of us must swoop in and intercede.”

“Spike her guns,” Elizabeth added.

“Brilliant idea,” Catriona said with a grin.

Isobel liked this idea, but for one small factor. If Nick was constantly surrounded by other women, there would, indeed, be no chance to be with him alone. Not that she wanted to . . . But judging from the disappointment that rippled through her at the thought, she had apparently wanted that every much.

Sorcha’s grin widened. “And speak of the devil . . .”

Isobel followed her gaze and froze.

Six handsome men—Declan, Robert, Penny, William, Tully, and Nick—had just arrived. Each was magnificently garbed in formal Highland dress, from tasseled wool socks right up to their jauntily cocked tams.

But only one of them made Isobel’s breath catch and her pulse thrum.

She stared at Nick, swallowing the drool in her mouth.

Oh, God. He’d been handsome in laborer’s clothing. He’d been striking dressed as a London lord. But like this . . .

Like this, he was irresistible.

Apparently, too irresistible.

Celia cut a swath through the crowd, headed for him like a moth to flame.

“En garde,” Elizabeth whispered, and, as one, they charged.

* * *

The first person Nick saw in the crowd was Isobel. She shone like a light in the darkness. She wore the Sinclair dress tartan that flowed from her hips in a lovely waterfall. Her hair was braided in an intricate crown around her head and, most important, she was looking at him, her eyes wide and shining with—dare he hope?—fascination.

His heart stuttered when she came toward him, as though in a dream.

He couldn’t stop his smile. He couldn’t help moving toward her as well.

But suddenly, something stood in his way. Something small and annoying and resolute.

“Viscount Stirling,” it said in an ingratiating tone.

It took a moment for him to rip his gaze from Isobel and focus on this intrusion. And a moment more to recognize the threat.

Celia Swofford.

He shot a glare at William, who shrugged. And then—cowards that they were—all his friends and cousins slithered away.

Damn and blast.

“My.” Celia surveyed him up and down. Her nose curled when she got to his bare legs. “Don’t you look . . . festive.”

He bowed, as protocol demanded. “Lady Celia. A cèilidh is a festive occasion.”

“I’m sure it must be.” Her smile was sincere, but the emotion behind it was forced. “How . . . charming that your mother has given you the opportunity to play at being Scottish.”

He frowned. “I am Scottish.” Half at least.

Celia raised a brow, making her appear very much like her mother. “How fortuitous it is only half,” she whispered.

“Oh, Edward!” a cheerful voice wafted to him, shattering the cocoon Celia had been trying to weave around them. Thank God. Sorcha was here to save him. He owed her for this . . .

But then he realized he was surrounded by not just Sorcha and Ellie and Elizabeth, but Catriona and Isobel as well. “Ladies,” he said with a—very—sincere smile of thanks. “Don’t you look lovely?”

“Ah, ah, ah, Edward,” Sorcha said teasingly. “Tonight you must speak with a brogue. This is a cèilidh, after all.”

“Och, aye,” he said. “I willna forget.”

He couldn’t help noticing the curl of Celia’s nose and the parting of Isobel’s lips at his speech.

He noticed the latter a bit more than the former. She obviously liked a brogue on him. Declan had suggested as much while he’d helped him dress, but Nick hadn’t given the suggestion much merit. Until now.

Aside from which, anything that would repulse Celia was seemed like a good idea.

“So, are you enjoying Mother’s party?” he asked all of them in general and Isobel in particular.

“It is . . . rustic, isn’t it?” Celia responded. Ironic, that, because she was the only one he decidedly had not asked.

“Rustic?” Catriona crossed her arms a trifle offensively, and the others bristled.

“You know.” Celia tittered. She waved her hand in the general direction of the company.

“I’m afraid I doona,” Isobel said between her teeth. “Perhaps you could enlighten us?”

Celia, oblivious of any offense, did just so. “Have you visited the food tables? I’ve never seen a selection of such . . . primitive offerings.”

Isobel blinked. “Primitive?”

“Yes indeed. Did you know there is one dish that is made in a sheep’s stomach?”

Catriona opened her eyes wide. “No!” she gusted.

Celia completely missed her sarcasm. “Indeed. In a sheep’s stomach. How revolting. In fact, this entire display is crude beyond belief.” She leaned in and whispered, “It’s shocking to see so many bare thighs, don’t you think?”

“I rather like seeing them,” Catriona said.

Isobel nodded. Her grin was feral. “Much better than the padded cods one sees in London, wouldn’t you say?”

Nick couldn’t help but laugh.

Celia reared back and gaped at him, her eyes wide. “Surely you do not approve of this nonsense?”

It was only right to be honest, wasn’t it? “Of course I approve. My mother went to great lengths to make tonight as authentic as possible. I think she hit the mark. Don’t you?” he asked Isobel.

She nodded. “She did indeed.”

Celia’s lovely nostrils flared in a display of shock—also very much like her mother’s. “Honestly, Stirling. What would your friends in London say?”

Nick shrugged. “I honestly canna say I care.” Was it wrong of him to emphasize his brogue so? Probably not, when Isobel choked on a laugh.

“Well, I never,” Celia huffed, and to his unending delight, she turned tail and marched away.

“Good riddance,” Sorcha said beneath her breath.

Ellie snorted. “Imagine, coming uninvited and having the gall to criticize the hostess?”

“Well, I must say, thank you for protecting me,” he said to his sister. He would have tousled her hair, but if he touched that elaborate thing on her head, she would probably flatten him.

She smiled at him. “We’ve made an oath, the five of us.”

Nick blinked. “An . . . oath?”

“Aye,” Isobel said with a smile that warmed the cockles of his . . . something. “To save you from her.”

Elizabeth nodded. “Whenever she gets too close, we shall swoop in and save you.”

“You can count on us to have your back,” Ellie added.

He bowed. “I certainly appreciate it. Especially from you two.” He nodded at Ellie Tully and Elizabeth Pennington. “Your brothers promised to do the same and where are they now?”

“I daresay they are hiding behind the spirits table,” Elizabeth said with a smirk. “But you should have known better than to count on them for a campaign so vital to your future.”

“Indeed, I should have.”

“When it comes to the sticking point, you must realize it is every man for himself.”

“Women, however,” Ellie said, “are much more generous.”

“And brave,” Sorcha added.

Isobel chuckled. “And willing to go for the jugular.”

Her smile engendered his. “And that is why I adore you,” he said to all of them in general.

And one of them in particular.