“I reckon I could make a good go of it.”
Her expression speculative, the lass approached him, lifting up on her toes to make herself taller. Even so, the top of her head barely reached his shoulder.
“What sort of hunter are you, MacTaggert? Do you hang your trophy up on the wall for everyone to admire? Or do you eat what you catch?”
Good Lord, she was going to have him poking out from under his kilt in another damned minute. “I’ve a healthy appetite,” he returned.
“Persephone,” a female voice whispered from behind him. “Five minutes.”
“Ah, excuse me, MacTaggert. I have another costume change, and no more time to chat.”
As she passed by Mr. Huddle, the wee man leaned in to whisper something into her ear. At that, she sent another appraising glance at Coll before she vanished into the dim backstage. Coll would have asked what the devil they were gossiping about, but a stone wall rolled in between them, followed by a banquet table, a set of chairs, a giant candelabra, and a throne.
By the time all the furniture had made it onto the stage and the men who’d moved the things had returned to the wings, Charlie Huddle had vanished. More significantly, Mrs. Persephone Jones was nowhere to be seen, either. At least he knew where to find her: on the stage. While the scenery lads marched back and forth, replacing the forest with a fortress, Coll shifted toward the main curtains and parted them with his fingers.
The audience seemed full to the rafters, which made sense now, given both the lass’s talent and the fact that this was the final night of her being Rosalind. Shifting a little sideways, he could just make out Lady Aldriss’s box. Francesca herself sat there, stone-faced, while his sister Eloise dabbed a handkerchief at her betrothed’s nose. The two lasses and their families who’d come to ambush him remained, one of them in tears and the other one’s mother weeping.
Christ on the cross. Aye, he needed to find a wife before Eloise’s wedding, and that date now loomed but four weeks away. But if a lass could weep over losing him after three minutes of conversation, it wasn’t him she was after; it was his damned title. And he wasn’t desperate enough yet to agree to his mother’s suggestions, anyway.
When he’d first realized there was no getting around his mother’s edict, he’d thought to find himself a lass he could wed, bed, and leave behind in London while he returned to Scotland and did as he pleased. While he’d never admit to changing his opinion about that, his brothers’ success at finding women they loved—and who loved them in return—had turned his head a mite. He could tolerate an English lass if love were involved. If that didn’t happen, he could always fall back on his original scheme. Surely even a damned leper with a title could find a bride in four weeks.
In the meantime, he’d found a fine-looking lass to distract him from his bloody conundrum. And even if all he could do was watch her and indulge his imagination, that seemed a much more pleasant way to spend the evening than dodging marriage-minded goslings and the imperious goose in her well-positioned box.
“So, you’re the one who sent Waldring scurrying. Thanks for that,” a voice came from behind him in a very cultured Sassenach accent. “He tends to charm a lady onto her back before any of the rest of us can say hello. You’ve rendered him impotent—at least until that bruise heals.”
Coll stepped back from the curtains and turned his head. Sounding arrogant wasn’t an easy task when a fellow had to keep his voice pitched lower than a mouse’s squeak, but the tall, blond man standing in the shadows managed it, regardless. “And who might ye be?” he asked.
“Claremont. James Pierce, the Earl of, to be precise.”
Narrowing his eyes a little, Coll took in the gray coat, mauve waistcoat, and black trousers. Well-cut and expensive, he’d wager. The man had even brought a bouquet of red roses. And he was the one about whose absence the other two had been thrilled. “I’ve nae seen ye about.” That had to mean something, because he’d been dragged to nearly every proper event held in London this Season.
“I’ve been in the south, seeing to my properties. Well, overseeing the construction of a new wing at Claremont Hall, actually.” The pretty fellow tilted his head. “From the way you’re eyeing a certain attractive lady, I see Waldring isn’t the only one to have attempted to move in during my absence.”
A stone tumbled into the pit of Coll’s stomach. An unnamed disappointment over something he’d scented, but not gotten close enough to taste. “If she’s yers, ye’ve naught to fear from me. If ye’re another of the herd of Sassenach roosters preening in hopes that the hen’ll look in yer direction, then I reckon ye’ve a fight on yer hands.”
The earl smiled. “Ask her yourself.”
As if on cue, Penelope Jones emerged from the gloom, wearing yet another pair of trousers and a green coat. “MacTaggert,” she said, with a grin and a nod.
“There you are, my dear,” Claremont said, sketching an elegant bow and holding out the posies.
“Claremont!” she exclaimed, dabbing a quick curtsy. “I hadn’t expected you back yet.” She took the flowers, gave them a quick sniff, and handed them off to a woman walking at her heels. “I’ve no time to converse, I’m afraid.”
“That is what later is for,” the earl returned, sending Coll a very pointed look over her head—a look that said he’d proven his claim.
Her mouth had smiled, but her eyes hadn’t. Whether that signified anything or not, Coll didn’t know. But as he had a wife to find, and as Mrs. Jones had been a momentary, unexpected diversion, he shrugged. “I’m here for the play,” he muttered, folding his arms and leaning against a sturdy-looking upright as the lass strolled onto the stage and became a young lad once more.
If the lass was spoken for, that was that. A damned shame or not, in all honesty, he hadn’t come down here looking for her. Hell, he’d left Lady Aldriss’s box before she’d ever appeared onstage.
That had been a short hunt; more than anything else, it had served to remind him that he’d been reluctantly celibate for the past eight weeks, plus the week before that, as he, Aden, and Niall had meandered south with every bit of luggage they could pile atop their two wagons.
He’d been full of defiance then, ready for the three of them to challenge Francesca Oswell-MacTaggert head-on, tell her that she and her conditions for continuing to fund Aldriss Park could go to hell, and march back to the Highlands. But damn it all, they needed the blunt she provided. That money allowed the MacTaggerts to look after more cotters than any of the other chieftains in the area could manage. It allowed them to supplement a poor harvest, to purchase sheep and cattle when the fall weather made for fewer young ones in spring, and in short, to keep those dependent on them from starving.
And his idea of a united front against their mother—who hadn’t bothered to write a letter, much less visit in the seventeen years since she’d left her three sons behind—began to crumble the moment Niall had fallen for Amy. Coll gave a shudder. He liked the lass well enough now, but for God’s sake, his mother had meant Amelia-Rose Hyacinth Baxter for him. Thank God Amy and Niall had turned out to be perfect for each other and he’d been left out of the equation.