Page 54 of What a Highlander’s Got to Do

And she had been.

Obviously, Tully’s comment about her being a damsel in distress had been designed to annoy him.

It had worked

It worked so well, he’d lain awake all night and overslept in the morning.

Damn, and blast.

He called his valet and dressed quickly, although not too quickly to overlook something critical. When he scrutinized himself in the glass, he was pleased. He looked all that he was. A wealthy, powerful lord, on his way to call on a woman.

Ah. Except the daisies.

Fortunately, he was able to find a flower girl with just such an offering, and he bought her entire basket.

And then, with a whistle on his lips, he made his way to Sinclair House.

He ignored the fact that he’d never actually made a morning call before.

Surely that churning in his gut was excitement and not dread.

To his horror, as he approached the Scottish duke’s residence, he spotted Penny coming from the other direction, with an armful of red roses, probably purchased from a hothouse at great expense.

As the two men saw each other, they both stilled, and then picked up their pace, in time with each other; by the time they reached the door, they were practically running.

Naturally, Nick made it first, but only by a hair. He shot his friend a smirk as he pulled the bell.

Penny glanced at his daisies and snorted and then they stood in uncomfortable silence as they waited to be admitted. Fortunately, it didn’t take long for the butler to come to the door. He took a moment to survey them—down his nose as any good butler would—and then he asked for their cards.

The guardian at the gate did allow them into the foyer then, which, Nick noticed, was wreathed in hothouse flowers. The odor was dizzying. He sent a slick smile to Penny, who had noticed as well. Penny’s consternation was amusing.

The butler took their cards into the parlor, and in that brief moment, when Nick caught a glimpse into that hallowed room, he was left with the impression of pastel dresses, perfume, and feminine laughter.

For a moment, he had to question his decision to come here.

Was he ready for this? Facing the mavens of the ton? Declaring himself officially on the market?

Because that was what this meant.

He was not fool enough to think otherwise.

By afternoon, the word would be out. Viscount Stirling was available.

He shuddered at the thought.

But then, he remembered Isobel’s laugh, her smile . . . her kiss, and he decided it was worth it. Whatever was to come as a result of this declaration.

He wasn’t getting any younger.

And he’d never met a woman like her.

And the thought of Penny, or Tully, or anyone else getting in first drove him to distraction.

So, as the butler opened the grand doors to the parlor and announced them, he pushed in front of his friend and stepped into the room first.

Which, of course, meant he took the brunt of it. The stares. The hungry, slavering smiles. The predatory assessments.

And one frown.