Free Highlander's Hope by Collette Cameron Page A

at my office at the crack of dawn, Sethwick. ‘Tis fortunate I keep early hours. You never know who may arrive unfashionably early with impractical requests.”
    Ewan shot him a warning glare. His gaze swept around the table. Yvette was looking at him again, a puzzled expression on her face. She senses the undercurrent, blast it. He knew what Yancy and Harcourt were about. The two louts thought it great fun to pop over and tease him about his sudden betrothal.
    “So, when do the nuptials take place?” Harcourt’s gaze, flicked to Ewan, before sliding back to Yvette, and examining her much too closely for his comfort.
    “Were I to have a bride as exquisite as Miss Stapleton,” Harcourt dared, “I’d commence with the ceremony and what comes after, with all due haste.”
    Yancy entered the fray, a wide grin on his face. “Do tell, Sethwick. When can we expect the bans to be posted? Or do you intend to use the special license you’ve been toting around for weeks, after all?”
    Ewan remained silent, shooting daggers at both men with his eyes. He pushed his full plate away, having lost his appetite.
    “Course, you could save yourself a great deal of trouble and hightail it to Scotland with your beautiful bride-to-be,” hinted the duke. “Gretna Green mayhap?”
    Ewan fidgeted. Merde , they are both insufferable!
    “Indeed,” agreed Yancy, “you Scots do make getting married profoundly easy.”
    Scotland? Yvette took a sip of tea, sending Lord Sethwick another curious look from beneath her eyelashes. Whatever is going on?
    Mr. Carmichael chortled outright. He attempted to hide his chuckles behind his napkin, feigning a fit of choking.
    Yvette wasn’t fooled. The man was laughing, and heartily.
    She felt an odd sense of panic beginning to build somewhere in the corner of her mind. Something wasn’t right. Since when did Mr. Collings—that is—Mr. Carmichael have a sense of humor? He hadn’t cracked a hint of a smile during their entire Atlantic crossing.
    No, something was off, to be sure.
    Shifting her gaze from his shaking shoulders, she glanced at the duke and earl before settling her gaze on Lord Sethwick. Did he look a tad bit worried? His scar was white and his jaw was clenched. No, he’s angry again. Faith, he has a dark temper.
    “Why, Sethwick, Harcourt and I could stand up for you, and Mrs. Pettigrove could act as a witness for Miss Stapleton. What say you? Shall we arrange a quiet ceremony for this afternoon?”
    What? Yvette’s gaze flew to Lord Ramsbury. Was he serious?
    “I’m amendable to the suggestion,” Harcourt agreed, drumming his fingers on the tablecloth. “The only thing delighting me more would be if your beautiful bride threw you over and agreed to have me instead.”
    Merciful God, was he serious?
    Yvette looked to Lord Sethwick in alarm. His features had hardened into stern lines, and his eyes brimmed with annoyance.
    “An excellent idea, Your Grace, for the marriage ceremony to take place immediately, that is,” agreed Mrs. Pettigrove. She puffed her massive chest outward and batted her eyelashes.
    Yvette almost spilled the cup of tea she had raised to her lips. She set the cup in its saucer with a clank. Tea sloshed over the brim and pooled round the cup. Folding her shaky hands in her lap, she squeezed them until her fingers numbed.
    I must put a stop to this charade.
    “Your Grace, my lord, I must confess . . .”
    Lord Sethwick interrupted, agitation thickening his brogue, “As much as it would please me—us—to accept your generous offer, I’m afraid we must decline. ‘Tis Lady Warrick’s greatest wish to be present at her cousin’s wedding. ‘Tis only fitting. Miss Stapleton was present at hers.”
    His gaze met Yvette’s across the table, and his mouth curved into a lazy smile. “That’s where we met.”
    Returning his smile, she pressed her hand to her middle. Lud, her stomach was all aflutter.
    She averted her gaze from his, then nodded, speaking to the