“No, that should suffice. But as you are standing in for my nearly betrothed, you may call me Amelia-Rose,” she decided, despite the sharp look that earned her from Jane. Her shy second cousin had become exceedingly proper as she aged, and while Jane did serve to remind Amelia-Rose to behave, she also represented what happened when one was too reserved. Amelia-Rose was nineteen, and she had no intention of becoming a thirty-three-year-old spinster.
Niall downed another biscuit. “Nae,” he said, his tone amused. “Amelia-Rose is a damned mouthful for a barbarian Highlander. I reckon I’ll call ye adae.”
“Why? What does that mean?” she countered, deeply suspicious even though it sounded quite pretty in his deep brogue. “I won’t agree until you promise me you aren’t calling me a turnip or something embarrassing.”
When he grinned, her heart gave a stutter. No man should be that handsome. Especially not the brother of the man supposedly courting her. “I’d nae call ye a turnip, lass. It means ‘rose,’ like yer name. Only less twisty on my tongue.”
Rose. Well, it was half her name, which people generally tried to shorten anyway, but in Scots Gaelic it felt … prettier than the “Amy” her mother disliked so much. Adae. It was very nearly poetical. “Very well,” she said, with an exaggerated sigh. “But if I find out it does mean something else, I shall wallop you.”
He laughed, the sound deep and musical and enticing. The pair of women seated behind him both turned their heads to look. One of them fanned herself, and they leaned together, whispered something, and both blushed. Amelia-Rose took another sip of her sweet coffee and pretended not to notice, but of course she did. She knew both of them. And even if Niall was just her beau’s brother, the reaction of other ladies to his presence was mollifying. She’d spent the last two years trying to be just like everyone else and falling short. Let someone envy her for once.
Especially considering last night, when the viscount had vanished five minutes into Romeo and Juliet, a bit of envy was nice. If she didn’t wish to become a laughingstock, though, she would have to encourage the displays of manliness and charm from whichever MacTaggert appeared to escort her, and she would have to discourage the barbarian Highlander behavior.
What a tangle this was becoming, and only after one day. Jane looked like she’d been forced to swallow an insect, Niall sat eating biscuits as if he’d been starved for a month, and she had an absent almost-fiancé. She should have been embarrassed and even more troubled, she supposed, as a proper lady would be when the man she was supposed to pretend was falling for her didn’t bother to make an appearance. But at this moment she wasn’t troubled. She was having a blasted good time.
At the table directly beneath the side window a trio of men argued over whether a pheasant was a more noble creature than a swan. One of them had even brought drawings to support his claim for the swan, and loudly recounted the law that allowed only the aristocracy to eat them—a sure sign of their high standing.
“Do we request more coffee?” Niall asked, setting his cup aside. “Or do I get ye home so I can fetch Coll and a carriage before two o’clock?”
“We should go,” Amelia-Rose replied. She still had to write Lady Margaret and ask to be re-included in the luncheon even though she’d canceled just yesterday. And she had to make certain there would be enough food to satisfy the tall, lean man seated opposite her. She had no doubt that Coll MacTaggert wouldn’t be her escort, and that was fine with her. More than fine.
“Aye.” He stood and moved around to hold her chair out for her.
“You cannot be serious, Francis,” one of the bird men exclaimed. “The entire world acknowledges the nobility of the swan. A pheasant must be hung for three days before it’s even edible.”
“You, sir!” one of the men said, putting a hand on Niall’s shoulder. “Which bird do you prefer?”
Niall looked straight at his newfound friend, all trace of easy amusement gone from his face. The man abruptly lifted his hand away and took a half-step backward without Mr. MacTaggert having to say a word. Everyone seemed to be looking at him, as a matter of fact, and all he’d done was stand and be taller and more muscular than every other man in the shop.
He held out a hand to her, and she placed hers in it. For a hard beat of her heart she felt … regal. Protected. Anyone would be a fool to cross such a fine, fit specimen of a man—and yet she’d done just that. Well, not so much cross him as use his own desire to hide trouble in order to gain herself an escort to a luncheon she wanted to attend, but that only seemed to have amused him.
“Since ye asked,” he said, glancing over her head at the bird admirers, “I prefer a swan poached in a sauce of peaches and saffron.”
With that they strolled out of the shop. “You shouldn’t have said that,” she commented as they returned to John and the horses. “Coffeehouses are the home of meaningless philosophical arguments, especially from professors—which they looked to be. And only the nobility is permitted to dine on swans.”
“So ye reckon they’re jealous?”
“What? No. It’s…” She glanced at him, to find him wiping a soft grin from his face. “You were teasing them.”
“I’d nae be able to call myself a Highlander if I ever ate swan poached in saffron. It’s nae bad stuffed with mushrooms and oysters, but I prefer duck.”
“You do know you could be tossed into gaol for eating a swan.”
He tilted his head. “Did ye forget I’m an earl’s son and a viscount’s brother?”
She had forgotten, and that was very stupid of her. She was practically engaged to said viscount, after all. “It’s just that you don’t … act like an aristocrat.” Immediately she regretted her words. Stop talking, she ordered herself.
“I’ll take that as a compliment, adae. Ye didnae offend me, if that’s why ye willnae look me in the eye now.”
Before John could give her a hand into the saddle, Niall stepped up, standing so close she had to lift her chin to meet his gaze. He looked at her while her heart did an odd flip-flop again. “Yes?” she prompted when she began to worry she would wrap her arms around his shoulders and kiss him.
“Permission to put my hands on ye, lass.”
“Oh. Certainly. If the wind’s not too strong.”
Holding her gaze, he slid his hands around her waist and lifted her into the air. For a split second she forgot what they were doing, until her backside bumped against Mirabel and her sidesaddle.
Pay attention, Amelia-Rose, she ordered herself, fitting her knee around the saddle horn and then refusing to hold her breath when Niall grasped her ankle and slid her foot into the single stirrup. For heaven’s sake, since her debut last Season no fewer than five men had helped her onto Mirabel. None of them, though, had given her the delighted shivers. Of course she’d been attempting to impress them with her manners and decorum, while here she didn’t have to trouble herself.
“Ye’ve a delicate ankle,” he mused, his hand still on her foot. “It’s a wonder ye can stand on it.”
Her cheeks warmed. “I assure you that though I’m not constructed of iron and tree trunks like you are, I manage quite well,” she retorted. “What did you think I tottered about on?”