Free Highlander's Hope by Collette Cameron Page B

duke. “Yes, indeed. Vangie has looked forward to my wedding since we were girls.” Her gaze shifted to Lord Ramsbury. “I couldn’t bear to disappoint her.”
    No lie there.
    Yvette plastered a smile on her face “She was thrilled to learn Lord Sethwick and I are to marry.”
    Colossal lie there.
    The door vibrated again.
    “Come in,” Lord Sethwick promptly called.
    A half-smile on her lips, Yvette toyed with a cherry on her plate. Lord Sethwick had been a bit too eager to bid them enter. One would think he was anxious for a change of subject.
    The clattering of utensils, muted by Mrs. Pettigrove’s squawk of delight, revealed Willard Pettigrove had at last been reunited with his wife. Once more, introductions were made. Yvette breathed a sigh of relief when, several minutes later, the door closed behind the Pettigroves.
    She wouldn’t miss that difficult woman. No she wouldn’t, not in the least. She flicked the cherry harder than she intended. It shot across the table and bounced off Mr. Carmichael’s plate before rolling onto the floor. Embarrassed, she looked round the table. Four pair of amused male eyes stared at her.
    She lowered her gaze as heat stole its way up her face.
    “Haven’t you pressing business to attend to elsewhere , Yancy?” Lord Sethwick’s pointed look took in the duke and Mr. Carmichael.
    Lord Sethwick had ceased to be subtle. Perhaps he was as eager as she to put aright this betrothal tangle.
    That Lord Ramsbury understood was clear. He stood and straightened his coat. “Ah, yes, we’ll be off then. There is something pressing that I . . .” his eyes met Harcourt’s and Carmichael’s amused gazes, “we should see to.”

Chapter 8
    Without further ado, the men took their leave.
    Yvette was alone with Viscount Sethwick at last. Odd, she hadn’t been nervous in his carriage or chamber.
    She hadn’t been betrothed to him then either .
    The sun’s bold rays penetrated the lace curtains, hinting at the temperature mounting outside. Inside, a different kind of heat was building. She had much to discuss with the viscount. She toyed with a curl, fidgeted with her choker, then wadded and unwadded her napkin.
    All the while, he sat silently, staring at her.
    She grew impatient, her apprehension rising with the temperature.
    Being alone with him after this morning’s humiliating events was disconcerting at best. Try as she might, she couldn’t keep her mind from wandering to those moments in his bed. Heat suffused her. She stole a glance at him, pretending to sip her tepid tea. Lord, but she was full of tea.
    Seeking a distraction, she looked about the room, noting the floral wallpaper and trump de l’oeil garden, complete with a painted fountain, on one wall. She returned her attention to the viscount.
    Why didn’t he say something?
    What was he thinking? She fisted her hand in the poor napkin. Was he trying to find a diplomatic way to extricate himself from their mock betrothal? Could she blame him? Wasn’t she trying to do the same thing?
    Smoothing the napkin, she inhaled a bracing pull of air. “My lord, what shall we to do?” Her worried gaze sought his before returning to the napkin. She folded it and placed it on the table, tracing the seam with her finger.
    “Do? Why journey to Somersfield of course.”
    Startled, Yvette’s head snapped up. “You’re to be my escort? What of Ian? Why isn’t he accompanying me?” She stopped fidgeting with the napkin. “Are Vangie and the babe well, my lord?”
    A smile played around the edges of Lord Sethwick’s mouth. “Call me Ewan, Evvy.”
    She bristled. He’d ignored her questions and was being most presumptuous, calling her Evvy. They were not intimate acquaintances. He assumed far too much.
    Piqued, she angled her head and met his bold gaze. In her frostiest tone, she admonished him. “I’ve not given you leave to address me so familiarly. Only my family and dearest friends may call me Evvy.”
    There. She had brought