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called Deirdre.”
    “Is that so?” the woman asked, her interest clearly aroused. “And would you be married still, your lordship? Because, if you’re not, I ken a bonny lass who’d be just perfect for you.”
    “Oh, aye?” Still smiling falsely, he arched an eyebrow. “And what sign would she be then?”
    “She’s a Gemini,” the woman replied, beaming in a way that suggested the fix-up in question was probably her daughter.
    “Ah. I see.” He cleared his throat. “Well, Deirdre , that’s too bad. Because, you see, I make it a strict policy never to get tangled up with anyone born under the sign of the twins. They’re too changeable for me, I’m afraid.”
    He signed her book and handed it back. He made more or less the same claim whatever the answer. Well-meaning women were forever trying to set him up—usually with themselves. He sought out Lady Vanessa again, wondering what sign she might be. Given what he’d seen when he probed her mind, his money was on Aquarius. Unconventional and unsentimental—the opposite of himself.
    Still, there were worse signs. Water-bearers were unpredictable, so she’d keep him on his toes, and fiercely loyal once they’d made up their minds to commit—no small feat for someone born under the influence of freedom-loving Uranus. And, well, whatever her other attributes, she was stunning, highborn, and clearly wanted to hook up.
    “What do you suppose she’s doing all the way up here?” he asked Duncan, keeping his eye on the lady in question.
    “From the looks she’s giving you, I’d say she’s hoping to get into your kecks,” his friend returned. “And from the one you’re giving her, I’d wager she’ll get what she came for.”
    Warmed by another burst of lust, Callum tore his gaze away. A twenty-something lass with frizzy blond hair stepped up and, beaming at him, held out her copy of Political Astrology Through the Ages.
    “I can’t believe I’m meeting you in the flesh,” she exclaimed as he took it from her. “I follow your blog every day and have all of your books.”
    The smile that bloomed in response was genuine this time. As much as he hated these events, they did boost his ego. They also taxed him, mentally and physically. He was ready for it to be over, ready to be home in bed—though not necessarily alone. As he robotically scrawled his signature line— Let the stars be your guide, Callum Lyon —he shot another hopeful glance toward the refreshment table.
    Aye. Good. Madam Butterfly was still there, still watching.
    Why didn’t she join the queue to have him sign her book? She didn’t strike him as the bashful type. Far from it, in fact. Something in her air gave the impression of self-sufficiency. Or was it superiority? She was standing there so coolly, like she owned the whole bloody room and, soon enough, meant to own him, too.
    Not that he objected.
    Swallowing hard, he shook his head to clear the thickening cloud of lust. The room was cold, but he was sweating. He wanted to shed his jacket and loosen his tie, to get away from all these people, but he only smiled and handed the blonde back her book.
    He took the next one from a young man in wire-rimmed spectacles, keeping one eye on his butterfly. Her father was a liberal, like himself, but unlikely to support the dissolution of the political foundation upon which his power rested. Especially after the failure of last year’s referendum on Scottish independence. Still, Lord Bentley couldn’t know Callum had quietly poured money into the cause of Scottish freedom for decades, nor could his daughter. It was a secret shared only by Duncan and a few other die-hard nationalists who, like him, weren’t about to give up the fight just because the majority of Scots had fallen prey to English fearmongering.
    Duncan was a wolver, a benevolent type of lycanthrope found in the Shetland Islands. Most worked as fishermen, as Duncan had done, before he realized he could help more indigent