School For Heiresses 3- Beware A Scot's Revenge Read Free Page B

is hard.” He seized Aunt Maggie’s hand. “I vow to help you every step of the way.”
    “I do not need your help, sir.” Her cheeks pinkening, Aunt Maggie snatched back her hand. “Nor have I given you permission to be so familiar with me.”
    His jovial laugh showed he wasn’t the least put off. “Indeed you have not, Your Majesty.” He pokedVenetia jocularly with his elbow. “I hope she won’t order me executed for my impertinence.”
    “Don’t tempt me.” With a sniff, Maggie turned toVenetia . “Come, my dear, we’re holding up the line.”
    Laughing,Venetia followed her. As soon as they’d left the receiving line, she said, “You’ve certainly made a conquest.”
    “Lord help me,” her aunt snapped, although her eyes shone brightly.
    “Oh, he’s not so bad.” As they skirted the room,Venetia gestured to the masked guests swirling in a wave of tartan and splendid gowns. “You see? Despite your fears, the ball is lovely—very festive and Scottish, but tasteful.”
    “No doubt the other committee members voted down his more boorish ideas.” They halted near a pillar.
    “I only hope that he thought to designate a ladies’ retiring room. I have need of it. What about you?”
    “I’m fine. I’ll stay here.”
    “Very well, I shall return shortly.” Her aunt cast her a teasing glance. “Perhaps one of your ballad heroes will float by while I’m gone.”
    Venetiafrowned as her aunt walked off. Float by, indeed.
    “Surely the dancing’s not so bad as all that,” remarked a husky male voice at her elbow. Venetiaturned to find the Bonnie Prince Charlie from earlier standing behind her. Speaking of ballad heroes…She tried not to stare, but he was even larger close up, a decided improvement on the original short and slender Prince Charlie. “Beg your pardon, sir, are you speaking to me ?”
    The corners of his mouth crinkled up. “Aye. You were frowning, and I wondered if it was the dancing that failed yer inspection.”
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    “Not at all,” she said with a flirtatious smile. “I adore Scottish dancing.”
    “Ah, then perhaps it’s the garish excess of tartan. Too many kilts and such.”
    “Certainly not. The kilts are my favorite part. Every man should wear one.”
    He eyed her askance. “Every man?” He nodded toward a portly gentleman kicking his hairy legs up dangerously high. “Even him ?”
    She stifled a laugh. “All right, I concede the point.”
    “We should ask that fellow and the king to refrain from the fashion.”
    “Oh, I heard about the king’s kilt! You must have been at the levee for the men. Was His Majesty’s attire really as appalling as everyone says?”
    His gaze grew shuttered. “I don’t know, lass. I didn’t arrive in town until yesterday, so I only read about it in the papers.”
    She sighed. “Me, too. But I heard that he wore flesh-colored pantaloons underneath his kilt.”
    His eyes gleamed at her through the slits in the mask. “So you prefer the alternative, do ye?”
    What a shocking thing to say! Yet she rather liked his daring. It tempted her to be equally reckless, something she could never be with English lords.
    “Not for His Majesty. Frankly, I think he should stay away from kilts entirely.” Her gaze trailed down to her strapping companion’s knees, bare below his own kilt. “But other gentlemen are certainly welcome to practice the old traditions.”
    He chuckled. “Glad to know you approve, lass,” he said in a throaty brogue that melted her bones. He lowered his voice. “Now I can guess what had you frowning so fiercely a moment ago. You were trying to figure out which gentlemen were practicing the old traditions.”
    Torn between laughter and outrage, she said, “I certainly was not!”
    “Were you imagining the king in his pink pantaloons?”
    “No, nothing like that. If you must know, I was…” She cast around for a suitable excuse.