Page 74 of What a Highlander’s Got to Do

Isobel covered her eyes with her arm. “Lying in bed is fun.”

“Not as fun as taking the measure of the duchess’s guests.”

It was clear what she meant. The duchess had invited some handsome men. “Have they arrived then?”

“Oh, yes. Do come down.”

Isobel groaned. She was in no mood to socialize. Most specifically, she was nervous to face Nick after that explosion of passion last night.

What if she saw him and melted into a puddle?

How mortifying would that be?

“Do get up,” Cat wailed. “I canna be expected to entertain them all by myself.”

Isobel peeked out. “How many are there?”

“Quite a few. Now hop up. I’ll ring for Vera.”

No doubt Cat would continue to badger her until she did, indeed, rise, so with a great groan, Isobel sat up.

Cat took a look at her face and lurched back.

“What?” How bad could it be?

“You have wrinkles.”

“Egads.”

“From the pillow, silly. Let me get you some warm water . . .” She bustled off, which was a relief—Isobel flopped back down on the bed—but Vera came in shortly and she had to rouse again.

How was she to function as a human today, with no sleep and with a mind awhirl with memories and hopes of kisses past and future?

The duchess made it so much easier than she imagined. As Isobel and Catriona came down the stairs, she greeted them with a smile. “There you are. Did you have a nice rest?”

Isobel nodded. A lie, but a forgivable one.

“I’m so glad. Today we’re planning a picnic on the bluff overlooking the sea. How does that sound?” she asked as she led them along a wide hallway to the back of the house.

“Lovely,” Cat responded.

“Almost everyone is here. The children are assembled in the music room.” She smiled at Isobel. “They’ve been waiting for you.”

“Lovely.” By the grace of God, her sarcasm didn’t come out. She’d had quite enough of children with the herd of them running around Sinclair House.

“Come in. Come in.” The duchess waved them through the door.

Isobel glanced around the room, surprised to see these children were fully grown.

“You remember my daughter, Sorcha, the redhead playing the piano? And the lovely blonde who is singing is the Earl of Darlington’s daughter, Eloise Tully. The three of you are of an age. I do hope you get on.”

“Of course.” She did adore Sorcha, and Eloise seemed just as nice. Indeed, she smiled and waved from her station next to the piano.

“And there, leaning against the mantel looking supremely bored, is my brother-in-law Malcolm. The boys playing chess as though it is a pitched battle are Sean, Tay, and Hamish Wyeth. Do avoid them all. They are nothing but trouble.” But she said so with an adoring smile.

“And in the far corner, embroiled in a battle of wits I doubt they are, either of them, equipped to fight, are the Edwards.”

The neck on her nape prickled. “The Edwards?”