More like a bleedin’ palace, if you ask me, though tatty around the edges. I’m not sure how the young master affords it.”
“He’s always looking out for a rich gel to wed,” Hugh said, stroking his chin thoughtfully with his free hand. “’Tis always the case, isn’t it? A hall is a very hungry mistress.”
“He’ll have enough lassies with sires who have deep pockets to suit him,” Fulbert said with a snort. He turned to Stephen. “But we’re here to see to
your
future, nevvy.”
“My future,” Stephen said weakly. “There’s nothing to see—”
The ale in Fulbert’s mug splashed over the sides and landed silently on the floor where it disappeared. “Pull out that invitation from that young rogue from Kenneworth.”
“What invitation—”
“The one in your gear!”
Stephen looked to Ambrose for aid, but the laird of the clan MacLeod had only resumed his seat and was watching the goings-on with an amused smile. Stephen sighed and supposed there was no use in arguing further. He reached over for his portfolio. The invitation was there, of course, burning a hole in the leather. He waved it wearily at Fulbert. “This one?”
“Send your acceptance over your wee mobile phone,” Fulbert instructed. “Now, before it grows any later.”
Stephen considered the three sitting across from him. He could say no, of course, because he was quite certain there was nothing they could do to him besides haunt him endlessly. Avoiding that, however, might be enough to induce him to suffer through a long weekend of rich food and deadly dull conversation. He pursed his lips and looked at Ambrose.
“Is there a reason you’ve chosen this event as your means of torturing me?”
Ambrose only smiled.
He turned to Hugh McKinnon. “Surely you’re not interested in healing the breach, as it were, that lies between the Prestons and the de Piagets.”
Hugh rolled his eyes. “Of course not. We’ve more important business here!”
Stephen suspected he knew just what that important business was. He looked reluctantly at Fulbert. “Is there someone there I’m supposed to meet?”
“Ye’ve already met her!” Fulbert exclaimed.
“I’m not sure I follow—”
“Mistress Peaches Alexander!”
Stephen frowned. It was one thing to be bellowed at in his own study by one of his ancestors. It was still that one thing to even be in his study
looking
at one of his ancestors. It was another thing entirely to be told by that same percher in his family tree that he was supposed to go to a fancy weekend party so he could become involved with a woman he couldn’t bear to be in the same room with.
For all the reasons he’d gone over before.
“I’m busy,” he said firmly.
“Unbusy yourself,” Fulbert demanded.
“I—”
“Nay!”
“But—”
Fulbert stood and twitched aside his cloak to put his hand on his sword. “I’m prepared to prod ye there with me sword, nevvy.”
Stephen looked at Hugh, who was looking equally fierce. Ambrose MacLeod, however, was just looking at him, smiling slightly. Stephen pursed his lips.
“Nothing to add, my laird?”
Ambrose lifted a shoulder briefly. “You know how things will proceed there, I imagine. It isn’t as if you would leave any woman to David of Kenneworth’s clutches now, is it? Not even, I imagine, a wheatgrass-drinking lass who turns your knees to mush.”
“She doesn’t turn my knees to mush.”
“De Piaget men do not lie,” Fulbert said sternly.
Stephen blew out his breath. It was preferable to throwing up his hands. An entire weekend spent trying to avoid being slandered by David Preston whilst keeping Peaches out of Preston’s clutches. He exchanged another long, meaningful look with hisuncle the appropriate number of generations removed, then sighed deeply. He pulled his phone out of his pocket and texted Kenneworth’s social secretary. He set his phone down on the side table, then looked at Fulbert.
“Satisfied?”
“’Tis a
“He’s always looking out for a rich gel to wed,” Hugh said, stroking his chin thoughtfully with his free hand. “’Tis always the case, isn’t it? A hall is a very hungry mistress.”
“He’ll have enough lassies with sires who have deep pockets to suit him,” Fulbert said with a snort. He turned to Stephen. “But we’re here to see to
your
future, nevvy.”
“My future,” Stephen said weakly. “There’s nothing to see—”
The ale in Fulbert’s mug splashed over the sides and landed silently on the floor where it disappeared. “Pull out that invitation from that young rogue from Kenneworth.”
“What invitation—”
“The one in your gear!”
Stephen looked to Ambrose for aid, but the laird of the clan MacLeod had only resumed his seat and was watching the goings-on with an amused smile. Stephen sighed and supposed there was no use in arguing further. He reached over for his portfolio. The invitation was there, of course, burning a hole in the leather. He waved it wearily at Fulbert. “This one?”
“Send your acceptance over your wee mobile phone,” Fulbert instructed. “Now, before it grows any later.”
Stephen considered the three sitting across from him. He could say no, of course, because he was quite certain there was nothing they could do to him besides haunt him endlessly. Avoiding that, however, might be enough to induce him to suffer through a long weekend of rich food and deadly dull conversation. He pursed his lips and looked at Ambrose.
“Is there a reason you’ve chosen this event as your means of torturing me?”
Ambrose only smiled.
He turned to Hugh McKinnon. “Surely you’re not interested in healing the breach, as it were, that lies between the Prestons and the de Piagets.”
Hugh rolled his eyes. “Of course not. We’ve more important business here!”
Stephen suspected he knew just what that important business was. He looked reluctantly at Fulbert. “Is there someone there I’m supposed to meet?”
“Ye’ve already met her!” Fulbert exclaimed.
“I’m not sure I follow—”
“Mistress Peaches Alexander!”
Stephen frowned. It was one thing to be bellowed at in his own study by one of his ancestors. It was still that one thing to even be in his study
looking
at one of his ancestors. It was another thing entirely to be told by that same percher in his family tree that he was supposed to go to a fancy weekend party so he could become involved with a woman he couldn’t bear to be in the same room with.
For all the reasons he’d gone over before.
“I’m busy,” he said firmly.
“Unbusy yourself,” Fulbert demanded.
“I—”
“Nay!”
“But—”
Fulbert stood and twitched aside his cloak to put his hand on his sword. “I’m prepared to prod ye there with me sword, nevvy.”
Stephen looked at Hugh, who was looking equally fierce. Ambrose MacLeod, however, was just looking at him, smiling slightly. Stephen pursed his lips.
“Nothing to add, my laird?”
Ambrose lifted a shoulder briefly. “You know how things will proceed there, I imagine. It isn’t as if you would leave any woman to David of Kenneworth’s clutches now, is it? Not even, I imagine, a wheatgrass-drinking lass who turns your knees to mush.”
“She doesn’t turn my knees to mush.”
“De Piaget men do not lie,” Fulbert said sternly.
Stephen blew out his breath. It was preferable to throwing up his hands. An entire weekend spent trying to avoid being slandered by David Preston whilst keeping Peaches out of Preston’s clutches. He exchanged another long, meaningful look with hisuncle the appropriate number of generations removed, then sighed deeply. He pulled his phone out of his pocket and texted Kenneworth’s social secretary. He set his phone down on the side table, then looked at Fulbert.
“Satisfied?”
“’Tis a
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