Page 2 of The Highlander Is All That

Only one of them had broken her heart.

“I cannot wait to finally meet the duke,” Victoria sighed.

“Me either,” Mary said.

Elizabeth merely sniffed. The man was taken now and useless to her. From all accounts, he was madly in love with his new wife. “Does he have a brother, do you suppose?”

Aunt Esmeralda frowned at her. “You know he does not.”

“Do I?”

“I’ve told you everything about him, gel.”

She probably had, but Elizabeth had long ago learned to tune her aunt out when she pontificated. And she did go on. “Do you suppose there are more cakes?” she asked instead, staring at the empty plate.

“You shouldn’t eat too many,” Esmeralda said. “You will plump out.”

“Men love rounded women,” Victoria exclaimed, though how she would know was a mystery. Or perhaps she also wanted more cakes. “I shall ring for Henley.”

But there was no need. Just then, Henley scratched on the parlor door.

“Come!” Aunt Esmeralda barked, sounding no less regal than the Queen of Sheba.

“Milady. You have . . . visitors.” This he said with a sniff. Above all things, Henley was a proper English butler. He could convey a novel with a look. And this look said he was utterly unimpressed with the persons in the foyer. “They’re . . . Scotsmen.”

“Oooh!” Elizabeth leaped to her feet and straightened her dress and smoothed her hair. “How exciting. The duke is here.” Finally, she’d be able to hear that lovely Scottish brogue again. How she’d missed it.

Her sisters all perked up as well, and Aunt Esmeralda went a little pink in the cheeks. Her lips puffed out and she snapped open her fan.

A widow, woman of the world, and lady of the top shelf of the ton, Esmeralda Van Cleve was rarely ruffled, so it was amusing to witness her agitation. She took a moment to collect herself and then imposingly intoned, “Do send him in.” Then she stood and took a moment to strike a pose before the fireplace, looking nothing less than a sovereign monarch standing for a portrait.

Elizabeth bit back a smile. This was too amusing.

When the door swung open, however, her attention snapped to the two men standing in the foyer. Surely one of them was the duke—

But, oh dear.

Neither of them looked in the least ducal.

In fact, they appeared bedraggled and travel worn and rather . . . ordinary.

Well, one of them was a little more than ordinary. Though he wore dusty clothes and scuffed boots, he was tall, broad, and striking. His face was beautifully sculpted and raw, like the tors. His chin was square and he had laughing green eyes. And his hair . . . a lovely shade of burnished red.

When he looked at her and smiled, and a dimple winked on his cheek, her knees went weak.

Elizabeth knew this man was not the duke, because Lachlan Sinclair had hair the color of ink.

Oddly enough, the other man—no less imposing—had sandy brown hair tied back in a queue.

Clearly, from this, and their bearing, neither of these men was the long-awaited duke.

Aunt Esmeralda, taking their measure and coming to the same conclusion, deflated. “Oh, I say,” she said. Apparently it was all she could manage.

“Lady Van Cleve.” The man with the brown hair stepped forward and bowed. “I am Ranald Gunn, Baron of Bower, and this is Hamish Robb.”

Ooh. His name was Hamish. It suited him.

“We are emissaries of the duke.”