Free How to Marry a Highlander by Katharine Ashe Page A

success finding husbands for every unwed lady in Harrows Court Crossing, including the elderly spinster sisters who lived above the parsonage and the butcher’s old sow. Except herself, of course.
    “It was going so well,” she sighed.
    “They’re new to it yet,” Tobias said easily. “They’ll learn. And Lady B didn’t mind it.”
    She peered at him. “You seem cheerful. Did you enjoy yourself?” Despite Lily’s mishap?
    “I did.” He turned his face toward the window and the light from the street lamp without illumined his drawn brow.
    “Toby? Are you regretting having given your consent to this project after all?”
    “No. It’s only . . .” He shook his head. “It’s nothing to worry your head over. Ah, look, we have arrived. You must be fagged to death.” He handed her out and sent the carriage on its way.
    “Won’t you ride home?”
    He took a deep breath and stood tall and square shouldered on the walkway. “I could use a stroll to—well, to clear my head. And my rooms aren’t far. Now you go on and I’ll watch you inside.”
    She went onto her tiptoes and bussed him lightly on the cheek. “I don’t know what is amiss with you, but I do hope it will be well in the morning.”
    He nodded shortly. She went up the steps and he waved as the door closed behind her.
    “What time is it, Michael?” she asked the sleepy footman as he drew the night bolt.
    “Half past one, miss.”
    “I suppose Mrs. Yale has long since gone to bed?”
    “Yes, miss.”
    She would’ve liked a cozy chat with Diantha. But the baby was waking her friend at all hours; it would not be fair to bother her now. And of course Diantha might not be alone in bed. She was fortunate enough to be married to a man she loved and who loved her in return.
    “Thank you, Michael. I will sit in the parlor for a bit. I’ll put out the candles on my way to bed.”
    “G’night, miss.” He bowed and disappeared into the back of the house.
    She took up a candle and went into the parlor to the writing desk, and drew her latest pages out of the drawer. A few minutes working on her newest story would cheer her. Freddie would split his seams when he read about the blacksmith and curate’s wife getting trapped in the old cider house. A smile twitched her lips.
    The parlor door opened. “Miss, a gentleman is here calling on you,” the footman said with a twisted brow. “Should I turn him away?”
    “A gentleman? At this hour?”
    “Says he’s a lord, miss.”
    She ran to the window and peeked through the draperies. Her heart did a miserable little thud.
    “He should not come inside,” she said because she knew it to be true but also because she could not bear to face what was about to come. “I will go to the door. You can go ahead to bed now. I’ll bolt it after he leaves.”
    “Yes, miss.”
    The Earl of Eads looked as handsome in the candlelight slicing through the cracked open door as he did beneath the brilliant illumination of a ballroom chandelier.
    “You needn’t say a thing,” she said with heavy resignation. “I already know.”
    “Invite me in, woman,” he only said.
    “I really shouldn’t.”
    “Ye will, nivertheless.”
    Her throat was thick as she drew the door open. She clasped her hands before her, the pale pink lace reticule that matched her gown still dangling from her wrist, albeit limply; it had soaked up Effie’s punch.
    “All right,” she said dully. She’d never imagined defeat would come so early and in quite this manner. “Say what you have come to say.” She wanted to shout, “No!” She had feared this moment—the moment when he would tell her that the game had been amusing but now he was putting a halt to it.
    “I came to tell ye why I was late to the ball,” he said.
    She blinked. “You did?”
    He glanced toward the open parlor door. “What’re ye doing awake?”
    “I was . . . That is, I was . . .”
    “Writing a story?”
    Her heart tripped. “What?”
    “I read yer