Nick raked his fingers through his hair and paced across the length of his father’s office. All the adults—in the entire house party, it seemed—had been woken and had assembled there to discuss what should be done.

It was mortifying in the extreme, all those eyes on him.

“I swear. I didn’t sleep with her,” he repeated.

“Aye,” Uncle Ewan said. “I understand completely. You came to your room at the break of dawn and there she was, waiting for you. Naked. It’s happened to me many a time.” When Aunt Violet glowered at him, he shrugged. “But it has.”

“The difference here being that you, Mr. St. Andrews, are not a titled lord,” Lady Swofford sniffed. “The expectations are quite different for the lower classes.”

Uncle Ewan made to lunge at her, but Nick’s father held him back. He sent Lady Swofford a reproachful glance. “To be honest, it’s happened to me as well. It’s happened to many of my friends.”

Mother snorted. “It happens often when one is an eligible, titled male, as distasteful as it may seem.” That her gaze landed on Celia with this was probably a coincidence. Mother was far above making a direct accusation. Even when it was well deserved.

Lady Swofford, however, took it as such and screeched her rage. “Surely you are not saying this is my daughter’s fault?”

“Most probably, yours,” Ewan said helpfully. “Apples and trees and all.”

Which resulted in another screech.

Mother tipped up her chin. “The point being, if my son says he dinna besmirch your daughter, I believe him.”

“He’s lying,” Lady Swofford spat. “How can you explain the fact that I found the two of them in his room in the wee hours, and she was completely naked?”

“Because I made the mistake of not locking my door?” This Nick said sarcastically, but even to his own ears, it came out wrong. He meant he hadn’t locked his door when he left, not when closeted with Celia in there. And damnation, it was just the fuel Lady Swofford needed.

“I demand satisfaction,” she said in a lofty tone.

Uncle Ewan tipped his head to the side, and his brow wrinkled. “You want a duel?”

“No, I don’t want a duel, you filthy barbarian. I want a proposal.”

Nick’s gut clenched. Bile licked at the back of his throat. Panic made his blood grow cold.

Celia Swofford as a wife?

It would be untenable.

He would be miserable.

And Isobel . . .

Well, there would be no Isobel, would there?

He glanced up at that moment, as though drawn to her by fate, to see her step into the room. Her expression was somber. Her hands were twined. Her face was pale. They shared a speaking glance, one of regret and desperation and bitter defeat.

It was over between them.

There was no escape.

“You expect my son to propose?” Mother looked a trifle wan.

Uncle Ewan bristled. “You canna prove he’s taken her.”

“You can’t prove he hasn’t,” Lady Swofford said smugly.

Sadly, she was right.

And then a glorious voice rang out, cold and clear in the room. “He wasn’t with Celia last night.”

Nick whipped around and gaped at Isobel. Something cold coiled in his gut. He knew what she was going to do, just knew. And he knew the consequences to any confession, even if she thought she could flout them. And it could destroy her. “Darling. No—”

Susana Lochlannach stood up and stared at her daughter. “What are you saying, Isobel?”

She swallowed heavily, tipped up her chin, and said, “He was with me. All night long.”

Gasps rounded the room, accompanied by Lady Esmeralda’s whispered, “Good show.”

Isobel’s father stood then, as well, and glowered at Nick, making a growling sound at the back of his throat.

Lady Swofford snorted. “Liar!” And then, inconsistently, “Whore!”

Andrew Lochlannach turned his glare on her, which was a relief, but only for a moment. Nick knew it would be back. Perhaps accompanied by a fist.

“I can prove it,” Isobel said, and the cacophony in the room fell silent.

All eyes turned to her with curiosity. Including Nick’s. How on earth did she intend to prove something like that?

She turned to Celia and crossed her arms over her chest. “He has a birthmark on one of his buttocks. If you spent the night with him, you would be able to tell us which one.”

Nick’s jaw dropped. His heart soared. Oh, he loved this woman. He could just kiss her . . .

But then he glanced at her father again and thought better of it for the moment.

For her part, Celia seemed confused. Nick could tell from her expression, she knew she had a fifty–fifty chance of getting it right. She glanced at her mother for advice, and then, after a brief consultation, she smiled demurely and said, “The right buttock, of course.”

All attention veered from Celia to Nick then, which was discomfiting to say the least. But he bore it. Because he knew something Celia didn’t.

His mother barked a laugh. “Wrong.”

“Of course, I meant the left—”

“Let’s see the buttocks,” Lady Esmeralda crowed.

“I have no intention of showing my buttocks,” he informed her. To which she put out a lip.

“Indeed, Lady Swofford,” Mother said in a cold tone. “The fact is, Edward has no birthmarks, save the family mark above his lip.”

“Well,” the lady blustered. “This is ridiculous. It is still no proof of his innocence.”

“But perhaps proof of your lies,” Uncle Ewan growled.

Lady Swofford went red in the face. “Did you just call me a liar?” she squawked. And then, to the duke, “He just called me a liar.”

Nick’s father merely blinked.

“Well, I never . . .” The good lady sputtered for a moment—and her face went more to purple—then she grabbed her daughter’s hand and, to the relief of all, stormed from the room.

“Good riddance,” Lady Esmeralda muttered.

“To bad rubbish,” Uncle Ewan added.

“Do you suppose she’s leaving for good?” Father asked hopefully.

Conversation rose among the elders, and Nick took the opportunity to rush to Isobel’s side and pull her into his arms. “You shouldn’t have done that, darling,” he said, though he was wholly glad she had.

She snorted, in the most ladylike fashion. “I couldna let her trap you into marriage. No one deserves that.”

He stared down at her, his chest aching. Didn’t she realize? Didn’t she know what she had just done to herself? She had consigned herself to marriage. To a dreaded Englishman.

Clearly, by her brave smile, she did.

His heart warmed. She did . . .

Mother rushed up and wrapped her in a hug. “Isobel, darling.”

Isobel’s mother came to hug her as well. “That was clever of you, darling, but dangerous to lie like that.”

Perhaps Isobel’s expression was just a tad too ingenuous, because both mothers paled.

“It wasna a lie?” Susana staggered back. Unfortunately, into her husband’s arms. And yes, the glower was back.

Andrew Lochlannach bristled. “Tell me it was a lie,” he growled.

Nick and Isobel exchanged a glance. When neither responded—for what could they say?—her father’s meaty fists began to work.

“Now, dear,” Susana said, patting him, as though that would calm his rage. “This is no’ so bad.”

“No’ so bad? He seduced our baby!”

Isobel sniffed. “Technically, I seduced him—”

“I’ll kill him.”

Thankfully, Nick’s mother came to his defense. “You willna kill him.”

“Of course not,” Susana said.

And then, in tandem, both mothers said—as Nick had expected—“They will be betrothed immediately.”

Nick swallowed hard and glanced at Isobel, to see how she was taking the news. To his delight, and admitted befuddlement, she seemed at peace with the sentence. Indeed, she smiled at him and took his hand.

“Betrothed?” her father said, as though he’d never heard the word before.

“Aye.” Susana smiled, but it was a dark smile. “You both agree, do you no’?”

Nick nodded and glanced at Isobel. To his heartfelt delight, she nodded as well.

“Excellent,” Mother said. “We shall plan a betrothal ball.” She hooked arms with Susana and, chattering like mad, they quit the room. All the other elders followed them out, astonishingly, leaving Nick and Isobel alone. And Andrew Lochlannach barely scowled at him at all.

Apparently, now that they were to be betrothed, there was no danger in them being private.

Isobel leaned against him and wrapped her arms around his neck and whispered, “This is perfect, Nick.”

“Is it?” he asked. His mood lifted. Thank God she’d finally come to see reason, to accept the fact that they were meant to be together forever. His heart was light and his soul sang.

“I don’t know why I dinna think of it before.”

He pulled her closer with a chuckle. “Think of what, my darling?” Ah. How sweet it was to call her that.

Her expression was gleeful. “Do you no’ see? We can be betrothed throughout the Season, spend all the time we want together . . .” That sounded wonderful. “And then when it’s time for me to return to Scotland, we can have some terrible fight—publicly, of course—and break it off.”

And his heart plunged to his very toes.

* * *

“You’re looking very pleased with yourself,” Catriona said to Isobel as the two of them strolled around the lake later that morning. “Considering.”

Isobel blinked. “Considering what?”

“The fact you’ve just gotten yourself betrothed. To a man. What did you say? A fate worse than death?”

She had to laugh. “This is different. This is Nick. He understands.”

Catriona gaped at her. “What do you mean?”

“He knows this is just for show.”

“Just for show? Isobel, nothing about a society betrothal is just for show.”

“Everything about a society betrothal is just for show. And in this case, it serves our purposes. Nick and I will be able to talk privately, dance as many times as we want. Kiss . . .”

“And then you marry him.”

A gusty laugh escaped. “No. Then I return to Scotland after having had a wonderful holiday with a handsome man.”

“And what about him?”

“Him? He’ll be fine. He’s a viscount. He has women falling all over him.” Even as she said it, a bitterness cloaked her mouth.

“I canna believe you just said that. Do you see the way he looks at you?”

“Well, of course I do. He lusts after me,” she said matter-of-factly.

“It’s a sight more than that, I think.”

“Balderdash.”

“Isobel, the man is head over heels. What if you break his heart?”

The thought gave her pause. She would not like to hurt Nick. He was so dear to her. But, “He knows how I feel. He’s always known I have no intention of marrying. I’ve told him many times.”

“Men can hear things and still not believe them, you know. It happens every day.”

“I’ve been verra clear with him.”

Catriona snorted. “I’ve been clear with men before,” she muttered.

“Nick is different.” He was. He was . . . perfect.

“What about your mother?”

Isobel barked a laugh. “What about her?”

“She seems so . . .”

“What?”

“Pleased. So pleased that you are happily betrothed. What will she say when you tell her it was all a lie?”

A lie? Isobel frowned. She didn’t think that was a fair accounting of it. “Mama will understand.”

“Will your father? When you break it off, he will likely blame Nick.”

Isobel swallowed hard. She hadn’t thought of that. “I’ll make it clear it is my decision.”

“You admitted you two have . . .” Catriona waved her hand illustratively to avoid having to say the words.

“Aye?” What was her point?

“Well . . .”

“Just say it.”

“You’ll be ruined.”

“Ruined? Bah! You know I’ve never cared a whit for nonsense like that. Why should I?”

“One day you may want to marry. One day you may care.”

“I canna imagine why.” She was certain she didn’t want to belong to a man. Not to anyone. “I am no’ a property to be bartered.”

Catriona frowned. “I doona think of Anne as my father’s property. And he doesna see her like that.”

“Anne and your father are different. They love each other.”

“And what about your parents? Is your mother a lesser creature in your father’s eyes?”

“Again. They are different.”

“How?”

Honestly. Sometimes Catriona could be so irritating. Isobel sputtered for a moment and then pronounced, “Both men are Scots.”

“Ah. So if Nick were a Scot—”

“He’s half Scot.”

“I fail to see how that signifies.”

“Besides, both my father and yours love their wives.”

“Because they’re Scots.”

“Exactly.”

“So Nick, because he is half English, could only half love you?”

Isobel stopped short, propped her fists on her hips, and glared at her friend. Such serpentine logic made her head hurt. “Love is not at issue here,” she snapped.

Catriona’s smile bordered on a smirk. “I beg to differ. You just admitted that love makes the difference between a happy marriage and bondage to a man.”

“I did no such thing.”

“You most certainly did.”

Isobel sucked in a deep calming breath and then let it out slowly. “What is your point, Catriona?”

Her friend shrugged. “No point. I was just trying to understand why you are so determined to escape marriage from a man you clearly adore.”

“I doona adore him—” Once the words were out, she bit her tongue. She rather did adore him.

It wasn’t love, or anything like it, she was quite sure of that, but adoration? Certainly. He was handsome and funny and charming and sweet and kissed like the very devil. And she wanted to spend every moment she could with him. If that wasn’t adoration, she wasn’t sure what was.

But not love.

Love was too . . . frightening.

Too forever.

Love could consume a woman.

Make her lose herself.

Yes. That was probably the root of her resistance.

She didn’t want to lose who she was. She didn’t want to submit to a man and let him remake her.

The fact that she couldn’t imagine Nick trying to do so was something she needed to ignore.

* * *

“Well, you’ve done it now.”

Nick winced at Tully’s sardonic tone. He tried to slump lower into the great chair by the fire in the library, but it was too late. His friends had found him. They gathered around, tsking and shaking their heads.

“Do we congratulate or commiserate?” Penny asked, pouring himself a whisky, though it was not yet noon.

Though, to be truthful, Nick had already imbibed. He’d needed a stiff drink to help him work through the emotions of the night and the early-morning hours.

On the one hand, he was thrilled to be finally free of Celia and delighted to be betrothed to Isobel. But her plan—to leave anyway at the end of the Season—had him at sixes and sevens.

He didn’t understand why she was so adamant about escaping any marriage—even one to him. He’d thought what they had was wonderful, perfect. That she didn’t feel the same was cutting.

“Judging from his expression,” Declan said, “commiserate.”

“I thought you were mad for her.” Tully poured himself a drink as well.

“Do go away.”

Declan barked a laugh. “Not a chance.” He pulled up a chair, and the others followed suit.

Nick frowned at them in turn. “Where’s William?”

Penny snickered. “Gone. His mother grabbed him by the scruff.”

“They’re all gone,” Declan added.

Thank God. It would have been awkward to face his friend after that debacle with his sister.

“So.” Tully gusted a breath. “When’s the wedding?” Nick glowered at him and he lurched back. “No need to be rude.”

Declan clapped him on the shoulder. “What is it, Nick? I thought you’d be pleased with the outcome.”

“I am. It’s just . . .”

“What?”

“She isn’t.” So hard to say. The words caught in his throat.

“She seemed pleased when I saw her at breakfast,” Tully said. “All smiles.”

“Because she doesn’t plan to go through with the wedding.”

All his friends stilled. Stared.

“What?”

“But you’re going to be a duke one day.”

“She doesn’t care.” That was the crux of it, wasn’t it? She didn’t care. Not the way he did.

“Nonsense,” Declan snorted. “I see the way she looks at you.”

“She insists she’s going to break it off after the Season and return to Scotland.”

“Hmm.” Declan rubbed his chin in thought.

Nick scowled at him. “What?”

“She does love Scotland. Maybe it’s the thought of living in London she dislikes so much.”

The prospect cheered him. Slightly. “I could live in Scotland.”

“Could you wear kilts every day?” Tully asked. “She likes men in kilts.”

And Nick scowled at him.

“You,” Tully qualified. “She likes you in a kilt.”

“She likes a brogue, too,” Declan said. “Maybe you could wear kilts and speak in a brogue and convince her you’re the man for her before the Season ends.”

Oh. That was brilliant. Nick straightened in his seat as a plan formed.

It occurred to him that he had been lazy, expecting Isobel to fall into his arms through seduction alone. Her mother had warned him early on that Dounreay lasses were difficult to win. His campaign would require patience and determination, but he could prevail.

At least he hoped he could.

Regardless, simply having a plan made him feel better.

He would use this time he had with Isobel to woo her heart. And to become as Scottish as he possibly could.