Scottish Brides by Christina Dodd Page A

a nun than he had of being a monk. Yet the conclusion was inescapable.
    Interestingly, Jeremy, for all he was watching avidly, showed no signs of the same susceptibility.
    And when she missed and Duncan took charge of the table again, his every muscle locked when she settled close beside him.
    The discovery was curious—and utterly fascinating.
    She thrashed him resoundingly.
    Â 
    Curiosity, Rose had often been told, was her besetting sin. The observation had never stopped her before; it was not going to stop her now. But the size of the house party, and the consequent length of the dining table, forced her to restrain her besetting sin until the gentlemen rejoined the ladies in the drawing room after concluding their ritual with the port.
    Her fell intent—to further probe Duncan’s sudden and amazing susceptibility—was, to her surprise, aided and abetted by Clarissa Edmonton. The girl—Rose could not think of her otherwise, she seemed so very young—linked arms with her as soon as the gentlemen appeared, and steered her directly toward Duncan, who had helpfully entered at Jeremy’s side.
    Clarissa smiled sweetly as they bore down on their victim; Rose’s smile held a different promise.
    â€œI thought we should plan what we will do tomorrow,” Clarissa innocently suggested.
    Duncan looked down at her, his expression unreadable, then he glanced at the still-uncurtained windows, through which the loch with its backdrop of craggy peaks was visible. “There’s a mist coming down; it’ll most likely be damp, drizzle if not rain, at least for most of the morning. Not the best weather for riding.”
    â€œOh.” Clarissa followed his gaze. “But I hadn’t meant . . .” Turning back, she smiled at Duncan. “I must admit, I don’t ride all that well, so you must not think you need make up a riding party just for me. And the scenery hereabouts is a trifle bleak—the mountains seem to close in on one so, don’t you think?—so I thought perhaps we might play charades or have a musical morning, singing songs.”
    She looked up, into Duncan’s face, her expression sweetly eager. Rose bit her tongue, swallowed her laughter and equally eagerly fixed her gaze on Duncan—and waited, breath bated, for his reaction.
    His lips thinned, his face hardened, but his voice remained urbanely even. “I’m afraid I only arrived late last night and have urgent business I must see to in the morning. You’ll have to excuse me”—his gaze lifted to Rose and Jeremy—“but no doubt the others will be happy to join you.”
    Rose wasn’t having that. “Actually,” she purred, catching Duncan’s gaze and smiling knowingly, “I rather think Lady Hermione intends to exhort us to music here and now.”
    The words proved prophetic. They all glanced at Lady Hermione; she saw and imperiously beckoned them. Mrs. Edmonton sat beside her on the chaise.
    â€œClarissa, my dear, your mother has been telling me how wonderfully you play the pianoforte; I do so enjoy a well-rendered air. I really must entreat you to entertain us all—just a few pieces to enliven the evening.”
    â€œOh. Well . . .” Clarissa blushed and demurred prettily.
    Prompted by a look from his mother, Duncan politely added his entreaties. “The company would be honored.” He offered his arm. “Come, I’ll open the pianoforte.”
    Clarissa gifted him with a too-sweet look; his expression impassive, Duncan led her to the piano, sited between two long windows overlooking the terrace. He handed her to her seat; Jeremy opened the piano while Rose handed Clarissa the stacked music sheets. The rest of the company eagerly gathered around, shifting chairs and chaises to get a better view. After sorting through the music, Clarissa chose two pieces; Rose restacked the rest on the piano, then joined Jeremy and Duncan at the side