“Is she?” Hart answered, his voice cool.

“I am also fond of chocolate, and of raspberry fool.” Beth curled her ignored hand at her side. “At the moment I’d be fond of a cool drink of water and a soft bed.” Hart spoke directly to her for a change. “I don’t recall sending for you, Mrs. Ackerley. You’d even now be reclining on a soft bed if you’d gone upstairs with the maid.” Beth’s heart hammered. “The only person I ever allowed to send for me, Your Grace, was Mrs. Barrington, and that was because she paid me wages.”

Hart’s brows drew fiercely together, and Ian said, “Leave her be, Hart.”

Hart gave Ian a quick glance, then returned his scrutiny to Beth. The look told her Hart didn’t know what to make of Beth or what she was to Ian.

Beth wasn’t quite sure what she was to Ian either, but she saw that Hart didn’t like not understanding. He wanted to instantly sum her up and put her in a slot—likely he had done so before she even arrived, and having to reassess her made him irritable.

Hart said coolly, “Now that we’ve established you’re a woman of independence, will you indulge us a moment?  I’d like to talk to Ian alone.”

A man bound and determined to get his own way—always. Beth opened her lips to say a polite, “Of course,” but Ian spoke again.

“No.”

Hart’s eagle gaze swung to him. “What?”

“I want to see that Beth gets upstairs and settled in. We can talk at supper.”

“We have maidservants to help her.”

“I want to do it.”

Hart gave up, but Beth could see that it rankled. “The gong goes at seven forty-five and the meal is served at eight.  We dress formally, Mrs. Ackerley. Don’t be late.”

Beth slid her hand through Ian’s, trying to hide her nervousness.  “Call me Beth, please,” she said. “1 am no longer Mrs. Ackerley and have become, to our mutual astonishment, your sister.”

Hart froze. Ian raised his brows at him, then turned around and led Beth from the room. As they walked out, surrounded by the waiting dogs, Beth slanted a worried glance up at Ian, but Ian wore the broadest smile she’d ever seen.

She was a wonderful, amazing woman. Ian’s heart warmed as Beth emerged from her dressing room in a gown of dark blue silk. The bodice bared her-bosom, perfect for the necklet of diamonds he’d just given her. Beth gazed up at him serenely as he held out his arm to escort her down to dinner.  The necklet had belonged to his mother. Ian remembered his father’s pride in her beauty, remembered his father’s jealous rages when any other man so much as looked at her.  He’d had uncontrollable rages, with dire consequences.  Any other woman would have fallen over in fear when Hart turned that famous stare on her. Hart’s own wife had fainted on more than one occasion when Hart had looked at her. Not Beth. She’d stood straight and tall and told Hart what she thought of him.

Ian had wanted to laugh until the paintings of his illustrious ancestors rang with it. Hart needed a kick in his ass sometimes, and if Beth wanted to do it, Ian would let her.  Hart was quiet when they entered the dining room, and he pointedly remained standing until Ian seated Beth. Hart took the chair at the head of the table, and Ian and Beth sat across from each other a few feet down from him.  If Hart hadn’t been there, Ian could have had supper served in the little dining room in his own wing of the house. He and Beth could have sat side by side and basked in the privacy.

He’d wanted to linger in the dressing room with her and help her dress for dinner, but Curry had arrived and insisted he bathe and shave Ian and get him sorted. Ian’s Mackenzie kilt had been draped over Curry’s arm.  When Ian and Beth retired tonight, Ian would dismiss the overly helpful staff and undress her himself. He was determined to fall asleep in her arms and wake up in them as well.

“Did you hear me?” Hart said sharply.

Ian dissected the sole on his plate and ran through the words Hart had poured out while Ian had focused on Beth.  “The treaty you had drafted in Rome. You want me to read it and commit it to memory. I’ll do that after dinner.” “Are many treaties with foreign nations stored in Ian’s head?” Beth asked. Her voice was innocent, but her blue eyes danced.

Hart gave her a hard look. “Treaties have a way of reading a bit differently once committees get hold of them. But Ian will remember every word of the original.” Beth winked at Ian. “I’m certain it makes for fascinating teatime conversation.”

Ian couldn’t resist a grin. He’d not seen Hart this annoyed in a long time.

Hart bathed Ian in a cold stare, but Beth blithely ignored him. “Did your bowls survive the journey intact?” she asked Ian.

Ian’s pulse quickened as he remembered the cool brush of porcelain against his fingers, the satisfaction of Mather’s bewildered face. “I unpacked them and put them in their places. They fit well.”

Hart interrupted. “You bought more bowls?” Beth nodded after Ian had remained silent a moment, “They are both quite lovely. One is a white bowl with a blue flush and interlinked flowers. The other is red flowers and thinner porcelain. The wash and fineness of the porcelain indicate it might be Imperial Ware. Have I got that right?”

 “Exactly right,” Ian said.

“I found a book in Paris,” she said with a cheeky smile.

Ian looked at her and forgot everything else in the room.  He was aware of Hart’s stare but only peripherally, as though an insect buzzed on the edges of his hearing.

How did Beth always know what words he needed and precisely when to say them? Even Curry didn’t anticipate him like that.

She was taking everything in, the lavish room, the long table, the gleaming silver serving dishes. The paintings of Mackenzie men, Mackenzie lands, and Mackenzie dogs, and the white-gloved footmen hovering to wait on them.  “I was surprised you had no piper,” she said to Hart. “I imagined we’d be escorted to dinner to the drone of bagpipes.” Hart gave Beth a deprecating look. “We don’t have the pipes inside. Too loud.”

“Father used to,” Ian said. “Gave me raging headaches.” “Hence the ban,” Hart returned. “We’re not a storybook Scottish family with everyone wearing claymores and longing for the days of Bonnie Prince Charlie. The queen may build a castle at Balmoral and put on plaid, but that doesn’t make her Scottish.”

“What does make one Scottish?”

“The heart,” the Duke of Kilmorgan said. “Being born to a Scottish clan and remaining part of the clan inside yourself.”

“Having a taste for porridge doesn’t hurt,” Ian said. He’d spoken seriously, wanting only to stop Hart from going on and on about what it meant to be Scottish, but he liked the reward of Beth’s beautiful smile. Though Hart could speak English with no trace of a Scots accent, had been educated at Cambridge, and sat in the English House of Lords, he had firm ideas about Scotland and what he wanted to accomplish for his country. He could expound on it for hours.

Hart shot Ian a formidable frown and fixed his attention onto his food. Beth gave Ian another smile, which sent Ian’s imagination dancing.

They continued the meal in silence, the only sound the click of silver on porcelain. Beth was beautiful in the candlelight, her diamonds sparkling as much as her eyes.

When they finally rose, Hart rumbled something about his damned treaty.

“It’s all right,” Beth said quickly. “I’d love a turn in the garden before bed. I’ll leave you to it, shall I?” Ian walked her to the terrace door. The dogs sprang to their feet, tails wagging. Ian would prefer to have Beth join him in the billiards room, his imagination ripe with things he could teach her about billiards. But if she wanted a walk, he wouldn’t stop her. The garden could be just as entertaining.  Beth pressed Ian’s arm before he could form the words, and disappeared out the back door. The five dogs milled back and forth in front of her as she strolled down the walk.  Ian took the treaty from Hart and stalked with it into the billiards room, hoping the damn thing was short.

“You’re a very clever young woman,”

Beth turned at Hart’s voice. She’d walked, escorted by the dogs, down a well-tended path to a fountain that sprinkled merrily into a marble bowl. Plenty of light lingered in the sky, though it was already half past nine—Beth had never been this far north before, and she understood the sun barely dipped below the horizon here during the summer months.  She’d spent some rime figuring out which dog was which.  Ruby and Ben were the hounds, Achilles was the black setter with one white foot, McNab was the long-haired spaniel, Fergus the tiny terrier.

Hart stopped by the fountain, the end of his cigar glowing orange as he took in smoke. The dogs swarmed to him, tails moving furiously. When he didn’t respond, they moved off to explore the garden.

“I don’t think myself especially clever.” Beth had thought the night warm, but now she wished she’d brought a wrap.  “And I’m afraid I never went to finishing school.” “Cease with the flippancy. You obviously bamboozled Mac and Isabella, but I’m not so gullible.”

“What about Ian? Are you saying I bamboozled him?”

“Didn’t you?” Hart’s voice was deadly quiet.

“I remember telling Ian quite plainly that I had no interest in marrying again. And then there I was, signing a license and repeating that I’d be with him until death do us part. I believe Ian bamboozled me” “Ian is—“ Hart broke off and swung away to stare into the multicolored sky.

“What? A madman?”

“No.” The word was harsh. “He’s . . . vulnerable.” “He’s stubborn and smart and does exactly what he pleases.”

Hart pinned her with his stare. “You’ve known him, what, all of a few weeks? You saw that Ian is rich and insane, and you couldn’t resist taking down such an easy mark.” Beth’s temper flared. “If you had paid more attention, you’d have realized that I have a fortune of my own already.  Quite a large one. I don’t need Ian’s.”