It had been determined—over breakfast—that the betrothal ball would be held at the Moncrieff Mansion in London in one week’s time.

Naturally, with such a time line, the house party in Brighton would have to come to a close: The matrons would need to return to town and set things in motion.

Once the decision was made, it was astonishing how quickly everyone was packed up and loaded into the various carriages. To Isobel’s delight, she and Nick were seated together in the Duke of Moncrieff’s luxurious coach, with both their parents.

Her delight waned quickly when she realized the purpose behind this peculiar seating. There was, apparently, to be an eight-hour discussion of the wedding, interspersed only occasionally with her father grilling Nick on his pastimes, activities, interests, and intentions. As mortified as Isobel was with the interrogation, she learned a lot about Nick during that ride.

Yes, he enjoyed horses, and planned to breed them once he decided on a location for his estate. No, he did not partake in gaming. Yes, he did prefer whisky over brandy, but did not think highly of men who over-imbibed. Yes, he enjoyed visiting Scotland. Yes, the family had an estate in Stirling where he had learned to hunt as a lad. Yes, he did support the Bankers Act.

And this question, from her mother . . .

Yes. He did want lots of children.

When he answered that one, he smiled at her and took her hand. She smiled back, because it was expected, but it cost her. Because suddenly, she’d had the vision of an adorable black-haired boy running rampant through a garden filled with flowers.

The image stole her breath.

Her chest ached when she remembered there would be no black-haired boys because there would be no wedding and she would be in Scotland, living out her life utterly free of any servitude, while he was married to someone else in London.

Giving her babies.

All of a sudden, she hated this faceless woman.

She knew her envy was foolish, because this was her choice, but she could not deny it.

It would be wise for her to stop indulging in such fanciful imaginings.

They stopped in Pease Pottage once again for a late lunch, and once again, Isobel and Nick were allowed to sit together at the rough and rustic table. They were close enough to converse without anyone overhearing.

“How are you doing,” he asked with concern in his eye.

She tipped up her chin. “I’m fine. How are you?”

“Fine.”

“Good.”

“Good.”

Silence rang in an awkward cloud around them. Then their gazes met and they both smiled. Then laughed.

There was no reason for awkward silence. This was Nick.

“I thought you did verra well,” she told him.

He quirked a brow. “At what?”

“The inquisition.”

“Ah.” He grimaced. “Your father was verra thorough.”

She didn’t miss the fact that he’d slipped into a brogue. It surprised her how well it fit him and how much she liked it. “He always has been my protector, even before he knew he was my father.”

“For which I am glad. I understand you were a hellion as a child.”

“Pffft. I was a Dounreay.” She shot a smile at Papa. “Once, when I was climbing on the roof—”

“Once?”

“Aye.” She grinned. “He kept me from plunging to my death.”

His expression sobered. “I am verra glad he did.”

Her wink was far too playful for such a subject. “As am I.”

“Promise me you willna do anything as foolish as that again.”

* * *

Isobel’s response was thoroughly unsatisfying, and at the same time, mystifying. “Promises are dangerous things,” she said darkly.

His heart lurched. “How do you mean?”

But before she could answer, though he was certain she had no intention of doing so, Lady Esmeralda broke in. “What are you two talking about?” she barked, as though annoyed to be left out.

Isobel blinked. “Why, the betrothal ball, of course,” she lied.

“Och,” Mother sighed. “I canna wait. Susana and I have such plans.”

“Do you intend to invite the Swoffords?” Uncle Ewan asked sarcastically, and Mother pulled a face.

“I think not.”

Sorcha snorted. “Which means they will probably come anyway.”

Mother paled. “How awful would that be?”

Laughs rounded the table at her expression.

Lady Esmeralda snorted. “I would offer her the cut sublime.”

“Hand her her congé at the very least,” Sorcha added.

Mother sniffed. “You know I will do none of those things, because she will not come. She wouldn’t dare.”

Esmeralda gaped at her. “That woman knows no shame. No doubt she’s already in town, hissing her venom to all her cronies.”

“Which only makes it more essential that we send out the invitations as soon as we arrive home.” At a time like this, Mother was all business. And of course, the conversation then turned to the more intricate details of their plans, which thoroughly engaged all the women and utterly bored the men.

But Nick didn’t care, because none of them were paying attention to the fact that he was holding Isobel’s hand beneath the table. And she was letting him.

* * *

The Duchess of Moncrieff outdid herself on the betrothal ball. Of course, she’d had a lot of help. Isobel’s mother, her aunts, and all of the duchess’s close friends had conspired to make this the event of the Season.

And judging from the responses to the invitations, everyone who was anyone was coming.

But Isobel wasn’t fooled. She knew the ton planned to come so they could get a good look at the girl who had stolen their viscount away.

She was thoroughly expecting the evening to be a circus of the highest order, but she was willing to tolerate it for Nick’s sake. And that of his mother, for whom she had developed a great fondness. The duchess had taken her under her wing and treated her as though she were already a treasured daughter.

Which hardly caused any guilt at all, if Isobel didn’t think about it.

But truly, she’d never expected the lengths to which Kaitlin would go to make her feel a part of the family. As she entered the ballroom that night, her breath caught. The walls were swathed in plaid, in a combination of the Sinclair blue and the MacAllister red. A re-creation of her family crest held the place of honor over the hearth. And all the members of the string quintet were kilted.

As was the duke. He bowed over her hand as she was presented to him in the receiving line.

“Ah, Isobel,” he said with a warm glint in his eye. “You look lovely tonight.”

“Nonsense, Edward,” his wife said, giving Isobel a hug. “She looks lovely every night.”

While the duke and duchess turned their attention to the rest of Isobel’s party, she hugged Sorcha and moved on to . . .

Oh.

Her heart thudded as she laid eyes on him.

Had there ever been such a glorious specimen of a man?

And while his father wore the MacAllister colors, in honor of his wife, Nick was outfitted in a Sinclair kilt.

She wasn’t sure if he fully understood what a statement that made.

Surely he didn’t realize how it touched her.

“Isobel.” He smiled at her with such heat, she couldn’t look away. When he took her hand, she didn’t want to take it back.

She would have stood there all night, staring at him, if Mama hadn’t given her a nudge.

“You have all night, dear,” she said sotto voce. Then she took Isobel’s arm and led her to the top of the stairs that flowed into the ballroom proper.

As the butler announced her, silence fell. All heads turned her way.

Heat crawled up her cheeks. A touch of trepidation skirled thorough her belly.

But then Ellie Tully, who was standing by the stairs with Robert and Declan—who were also wearing kilts, of the Granger clan—waved and then sprinted up the stairs to her side.

“You’re here,” she gusted, and with a glance at Isobel’s mother, she commandeered Isobel’s arm and guided her to the clutch of friends awaiting her.

They had all been waiting there, just for this. To welcome her and make her feel at home.

It was a lovely gesture.

“Ach,” Declan said with a bow. “Aren’t you a pretty lass?”

She proffered a curtsy. “Thank you, Declan.”

“We’ve been ordered to escort you until The Third has finished with the receiving line,” Robert said with a wink.

“We’d better get our dances in now,” Declan murmured. “Nae doubt once The Third is free, he won’t let you out of his sight.”

Isobel chuckled. “And how long does the receiving line last?” she asked.

Ellie rolled her eyes. “Forever.”

When Catriona joined them—as she had been at the end of the Sinclair queue—Robert grinned. “Ah, here’s my dance partner,” he said.

Ellie rolled her eyes. “Come along. Let’s get some lemonade before these beasties trample your toes.”

But before they could move on, the butler made an announcement that had them all gaping in horror.

“Lord and Lady Swofford,” he intoned from the top of the stairs. “Lord William Swofford. Miss Celia Swofford.”

Isobel heard her mother gasp. Ellie’s hand tightened on her arm.

“She did not come,” Ellie whispered.

“Apparently she did,” Declan drawled.

“Lud, Isobel.” Ellie tugged on her arm. “Let’s give them a wide berth.”

Robert and his brother exchanged a wry glance. “And how.”

The four of them rounded the ballroom and stepped into the antechamber that had been elegantly set up with supper tables and a light buffet—groaning with all her favorite foods. “How lovely,” Isobel said. She was delighted and humbled at the lengths the duchess had gone designing a party for her.

Guilt, of course, pricked her again, but she pressed it away and took a glass of lemonade along with the other ladies. The men turned up their noses, averring they would rather drink swamp water than lemonade, and then Ellie assured them there was probably plenty of that in the card room decanters.

“Doona tempt us,” Robert said.

“As though you won’t decamp there soon enough,” Ellie responded.

“Certainly not until our duty has been done here.” Declan offered his arm to Isobel. “Would you care to dance? I believe a reel is next.”

“Ach. I do love a good reel.”

The dance with Declan was delightful—he hardly trampled her toes at all—as was the next with Robert. By then, Nick’s friends Tully and Penny had arrived and they asked her to dance as well.

Of course, the entire time, she kept watching the stairs in hopes that Nick would soon be released from his duties. It occurred to her that being a viscount, or a duke for that matter, was more work than it was worth. It was a good thing she had no intention of becoming a duchess. Wasn’t it?

By the end of her last dance, she was breathless and thirsty once more.

Penny walked her to the lemonade table and stood with her while she gulped down her second glass. He even deigned to drink with her.

“I thought men didn’t drink lemonade,” she teased.

He bowed. “I would make any sacrifice for you, Miss Isobel.”

“How kind,” she said with a grin. But then her grin faded as she spotted an unwelcome face heading toward her. “I don’t suppose you would dance with Lady Celia?”

He grimaced. “Not that. Anything but that.”

“She’s coming.” It was probably politic to warn him. His expression tightened, and he looked as though he might run. Fortunately, he was a stalwart sort and stood by her side as Celia and her friends crowded around them.

They were all as tight-lipped as she, and there was something almost pugnacious in the way they surrounded the two of them. Isobel didn’t care for it in the least. She had a pretty good idea that it was a confrontation Celia had in mind.

What a pity the dear girl had no idea with whom she was dealing.

“So you’ve done it,” Celia said in a snide voice. She had the good grace to keep her voice down, but that was probably more to save her reputation than Isobel’s.

Isobel smiled sweetly and batted her lashes. “I beg your pardon?”

Celia’s eyes narrowed. “I said, so you’ve done it.”

“Done what?” Playing innocent was always a good way to annoy people itching for a fight. And annoying Celia would be great fun.

“You know what. You’ve landed a duke.” This, she spat.

“Hardly a duke.” Her smile widened.

“You knew I’d set my cap for him. You knew he wanted me. But you still stepped in and tricked him into your bed.”

Isobel batted her lashes, leaned in, and whispered, “I daresay, there was no bed.”

Was it wrong to be delighted, watching the various colors rise on Celia’s pouty puss? Probably. It was a mercy Isobel didn’t care if it was.

Celia sputtered for a while and then stepped closer. Isobel didn’t care to be this close, but she wasn’t backing down. All the while she kept her expression serene and—dare she say it—duchesslike.

“You are nothing but a low-bred Scottish trollop.”

“Now see here!” To his credit, Penny stepped forward to defend her. Isobel held him back.

“As I recall,” she said sweetly, “you are the one who disrobed in his room and awaited him there.”

Celia gasped, as though she had not expected a direct attack. As though she had expected Isobel to crumple beneath her ire like a flan. Her friends shot her scandalized looks, and some took a step back.

In the chasm of shock, Isobel continued. “It’s hardly my fault he dinna want you. Although I can understand your disappointment.” She went as far as to pat Celia’s arm.

Apparently, that was the straw, as they say, that broke the mare’s back.

Celia hauled off and slapped Isobel.

Right there, in front of everyone.

The sound resonated through the suddenly silent dining room, followed by Isobel’s laugh. Of a certain, her cheek stung, but to be fair, she’d had worse. Aside from that, Celia had no power over her and never would. And neither would her friends.

“Never say you are asking for a duel?” she said in her thickest brogue. She allowed her expression to devolve into something savage. “What do you say? Bow and arrows at dawn?”

Her foe made a noise then, something akin to a whimper, as her face went ashen. No doubt she was remembering Isobel’s prowess on the archery range. She whirled away on the pretense of outrage and—

Plowed right into Nick, who stood at the entrance to the dining room, with an expression of disbelief on his face. It quickly turned to rage.

“Did you just slap my fiancée?” he said in a tone Isobel had never heard. It was a low, dark rumble that made the little hairs on her nape rise.

Celia opened her mouth and then closed it again. After a moment of collecting herself, she tipped up her chin and said, “She deserved it.”

He did not respond. He simply stared at Celia until she withered. And then, one word and one word only. “Go.”

There was no need to repeat himself.

She was gone in a flash.

Nick stormed over to Isobel and took her cheek in his large palm. He dredged his thumb over Celia’s handprint. “Are you all right?” he asked with a catch in his voice.

Isobel had to chuckle. If only to assure him. If only to wipe that look of guilt and pain from his eyes. “Of course I’m fine, my lord.” Not Nick, of course, because people were watching. And my, were they.

“I am so sorry about this. Had I known—”

“Please. Stop. You know I can handle myself.” This, she said more to the attending crowd than to him. It would be a good thing to send a message to any others who thought they might try some kind of similar incident. The last thing she wanted to do for the entire Season was put deranged debutantes and their mamas in their place.

“Good. Come then. Mother and Father want to make the announcement. Are you ready?”

Was she ready?

To stand before the ton and be welcomed as the viscount’s affianced?

Not in the least.

But she smiled, because he expected it—everyone expected it—and she hooked her arm in his and together they made their way to the dais to be presented to London’s society as man - and - wife - to - be.

And the Swoffords were nowhere to be seen.