Page 42 of What a Highlander’s Got to Do

Sorcha snorted. “Because they’re from Scotland, naturally. According to that set, Scots are little better than animals.”

Scotland?

Hell.

His pulse thudded. His blood surged. His fingers tightened on his glass. He tried very hard to remain blasé. Still, his voice cracked a little as he said, “Scotland?”

“Aye.” Mother folded her hands in her lap and gazed at him pleadingly. “They are such wonderful people.”

“Are they?”

Perhaps he was playing it too cool, because his mother frowned. “Don’t be like that, Edward.”

“Ahem. Like what?”

Sorcha sniffed. “Supercilious.”

“I’m not being supercilious. You know I don’t think that way about Scotland.” Though he knew many Londoners did feel superior to their northern neighbors. “I love it there.” Loved everything about it.

“I should hope you are not one of those. That would disappoint me greatly.”

Heaven forfend he disappoint his mother. It would likely kill a part of his soul if he did.

“All right. So tell me about your friends,” he said, and was gratified when she smiled.

“Well, you remember the St. Claire sisters?” she asked. He did not, but nodded, because he could tell she was going to tell the story anyway. “Those lovely girls are cousins to none other than the Duke of Caithness.”

“I see.” This was the only response necessary, if even that. And a lucky thing it was, because he was utterly incapable. Excitement swirled through him. Isobel was connected to the Caithness household. He’d found her. And so easily. His delight was dizzying.

“The duke has a niece who’s of age for the Season, and the whole family has come down to explore London.”

Excellent. “I see.” The Lochlannach lass, no doubt.

“So there’s the duke, his brothers-in-law, one of whom is a baron, and his sisters-in-law.”

“And all their children,” Sorcha added on a laugh. “They’re prolific. Ten under ten.”

“Mmm.” He wasn’t interested in babies. He was only interested in—

“And then, there’s Catriona—”

Ah. The Lochlannach lass.

“The Baron of Bowermadden’s daughter.”

Confusion rumpled his brow. “Bowermadden?”

“You’ll remember that Anne St. Claire and Bowermadden were married ten years ago.”

Ten years ago, he’d been ten. No he wouldn’t have remembered, or cared.

His interest dissipated.

“They sound lovely, Mother, but unfortunately, I have plans for this evening.”

“Oh.”

Hell. There it was. The disappointment he dreaded.