“I asked yer groom for directions,” he said, indicating the man riding at the rear of the parade. “He looked at me like I was an idiot, so it follows he’d give me the simplest route.”
She cleared her throat in what might have passed for a chuckle. “This is truly your first time in London?”
“Aye.” He felt more than saw her sideways glance at him. Next she’d be asking if he’d ever kissed a lass, because from what he’d always heard about the Sassenach, they thought every man who’d never been to London was no man at all. “Is that White’s club?” he asked, indicating the plain building front that looked very much the same as all the others, with the exception of its prominent bow window. He’d seen a drawing or two of that, as he recalled.
“Yes. Is your father a member?”
Niall snorted. More English snobbery. “Nae. My da is a chieftain of clan Ross. That’s the only club he’d ever care to join. A gaggle of Sassenach sitting about and arguing over how important they are is a bigger waste of time than milking a cat.”
Her smile loosened a little. “That’s a bit severe, isn’t it?”
Was it? “I’ve nae seen a thing to change my opinion.”
“That’s because you haven’t seen anything at all but an evening at Drury Lane Theater and a morning riding down the street.” She squinted one eye.
“Either ye’ve a twitch, or ye’re wanting to say someaught more, lass. Dunnae be shy with me. I dunnae offend easily.” Aside from that, he’d very much appreciated the way she’d blasted at Coll last night.
With a barely audible sigh, she nodded. “We’re to be friends, aren’t we? In-laws, if our parents have their way. Tell me, then, if your father so dislikes London and the English, why did he marry your mother?”
“That’s a question we’ve debated for two decades,” he answered truthfully. “He claims it was for her da’s money. I reckon he got cracked in the head by Cupid, but he willnae admit it now out of pride.”
Her mouth, with which he’d been fascinated all morning, quirked again. She’d be terrible at card games, because every emotion she felt mirrored itself on her pretty face. For God’s sake he hoped it wasn’t the same with him, or they’d all be in trouble.
“‘Cracked in the head by Cupid,’” she repeated, chuckling. “Not quite as poetic as being struck by the cherub’s arrow, but I imagine falling in love could be somewhat … chaotic.” She sent him another glance. “Would you agree? Have you ever been in love, Mr. MacTaggert? Niall, I mean?”
“I’ve been near to it half a dozen times, Miss Baxter,” he returned, spotting the next street plaque and turning the group north accordingly. “Nae close enough to fall over the cliff.” At this moment he was wishing one of those lasses had caught his heart; if he’d been already married, especially without knowing about the bloody agreement his parents had signed, he would likely have been excused from this mess and happily still in the Highlands.
But after last night, that wasn’t quite true, either. The play had been better than he’d expected, but so had the conversation. Especially when he’d thought to be seated in the back row watching while Coll attempted to speak to an empty-headed flower about nonsense. It had begun that way, aye, until Coll had pushed too hard. Had his brother suspected he was being bamboozled? More likely he’d just been overly annoyed by the entire thing, but she’d definitely taken her moment to speak her mind.
“What about your brother?” she asked.
Niall blinked. “What about him?”
“Has he … been in love?”
Oh, that. “Nae that he’s admitted.” He sent her another look, catching a glimpse of blue eyes slanted in his direction before she faced forward again. “Ye definitely caught his attention last night.”
“If you try to tell me he was intrigued rather than entirely put out, I will call you a liar, sir.”
A laugh burst from his chest. He tried to stifle it with a cough, but doubted he’d been at all successful. “He wasnae indifferent about it. I’ll admit to that.”
“Well, I shall be minding my tongue this morning, just so you know. I misspoke last night, however … provoking he might have been. I know better.”
That seemed a damned shame, but since Coll wasn’t anywhere about and Niall had lied to get her to the coffee shop, he was almost willing to wager that she would be misspeaking again this morning. He looked forward to it.
Just past the corner on the left in front of them, a wooden sign bearing a drawing of a Turkish coffeepot and fancy lettering proclaimed that they’d arrived at The Constantinople. The shop below the sign boasted large windows and a rich, exotic scent that drowned out the coal-and-manure smell around them. His stomach rumbled. While he’d had coffee, he’d never been to a place dedicated to the brew.
This morning might have been worse, he supposed; Mrs. Baxter might have sent them to a recital or a tableware museum. What he knew about finer folk’s music and dinner plates wouldn’t fill a thimble.
Niall dismounted. Miss Baxter, still up on Mirabel, held out a gloved hand to him and smiled. Blowing out his breath, he stepped forward. His ancestors had fought off the English for decades. Surely he could keep one lass at arm’s length for one morning while he told her charming and complimentary tales about his eldest brother. And then with any luck, he could hand her over to Coll and go take a gander at other lasses—ones who weren’t practically engaged already. Ones he could imagine leaving behind while he returned to the Highlands.
Chapter Four
If she’d known that the first MacTaggert with whom she would have to interact this morning would be Niall rather than Lord Glendarril, Amelia-Rose might have had a less fitful night’s sleep. Or perhaps a more fitful one.
His brother the viscount had an almost aggressive handsomeness to him, rather like a dark-haired lion who hadn’t decided whether she was a friend or a meal, but not only did Niall have a face that half her friends would simply swoon over, but his sense of humor almost dared her to misbehave. And that was not a good thing. Whatever she decided to do about this marriage nonsense, she wanted it to be her decision, not something she accidentally destroyed or got trapped into because of her unreliable tongue.
Perhaps the youngest MacTaggert brother had only been attempting to counter his brother’s fierceness last night, but he’d made an impression, regardless. Those light, light green eyes, complemented by long, dark lashes, a nose and jaw to which not even Michelangelo could do justice, wild brown hair that practically begged her fingers to brush it from his temple—if he hadn’t been Scottish, he would very nearly have been perfect. Or rather, he would be perfect for some other young lady. The name on the agreement her parents had signed was Coll MacTaggert.
While John saw to Jane Bansil, Niall approached her and Mirabel. She held out a hand for assistance in reaching the mounting block, but before she could do more than grip his shoulder he put his hands around her waist and lifted her out of the saddle without any apparent effort. The sensation of being lighter than air, of flying, quite took her breath away.
A gentleman should ask for permission before grabbing hold of her so intimately. Everyone knew that. But then he was a barbarian Highlander and barely a gentleman even if he seemed to know how to dress like one. “That was improper,” she said a little breathlessly, reaching up a hand to straighten her bonnet as he set her feet on the ground.
He kept his hands around her waist. “Should I put ye back up, then?”
“No, it’s done now. Do release me.” That wasn’t what she wanted to say, but it seemed like the proper response. “We wouldn’t want your brother to see you putting your hands on me.”
His eyes narrowed a fraction. “Nae. We wouldnae want that. So being helpful is a sin?”