But a gentleman? A nobleman?
A noble … man?
He’d planned on eviscerating her publically for questioning his word and nobility in front of his men. For costing him precious time in the fields. For making him wait for dinner.
And for dominating his thoughts all bloody afternoon.
But perhaps she’d provoked his ever-ready ire because she gave voice to the doubts that Liam had about his ability to turn a demon into a laird.
He’d waited for that look of wide-eyed, astonished panic all evening. However, it became apparent to him immediately that any intentions he’d had involving thought or speech would have to be reconsidered. As he was bereft of either at the moment.
The blame for that, too, rested squarely on her shoulders. Her lovely bare shoulders.
Liam gripped the sturdy table for support. Nothing he’d imagined she hid behind that veil and thick wool pelisse could have prepared him for the unadulterated view of Miss Philomena Lockhart he now enjoyed.
Her dinner dress was a simple, modest green silk affair with little adornment but for some black cording about the bodice and a few black lace ruffles at the hem of the skirts. But on a figure like hers, it was nothing less than a stitched scrap of temptation. The cords, through some magic of tailoring, puffed into translucent sleeves below her shoulders, which met with the edges of her long black dinner gloves. A simple onyx satin ribbon about her lovely throat was her only ornamentation.
There was something about that Liam grudgingly admired. She didn’t need any jewels in order to catch the eye.
She was enough all on her own.
Liam knew he’d meet her seamstress in hell for the slew of pure sin racing through his mind and pouring down his body like molten lava. For the wicked fingers that had made this dress knew exactly what they were doing to any man who had to submit to the presence of this woman in that gown. It was crafted to the specifications of propriety, but anyone should know that a woman with breasts like hers should be buttoned to the neck.
The gown had been constructed to make him suffer.
Liam swallowed a rush of profuse hunger flooding his mouth with anticipatory moisture. Philomena Lockhart was, in a word, delectable. Her lips plump and ripe as strawberries. The mounds of her breasts lush and white as Devonshire cream. Her wealth of hair swept back but for a few tantalizing waves spilling down her shoulder like a garnet cabernet.
His eyes snagged on the unrealistically dramatic flare of her hips, at the way her gloves bound to the soft flesh about the upper arm. His hand tightened on the table until the creases of his knuckles turned white. For unlike the oak he gripped to keep his balance, she’d be so soft beneath his hands … Beneath his—
“Not quite the retired older man ye expected, is he, lassie?” A chuckling Russell broke the silence, and Liam glanced to his right, noticing for the first time that his middle-aged steward had also taken more care with his appearance than usual. He’d even trimmed his russet beard, which he rarely did before winter’s end.
It was lucky, Liam realized, that everyone’s focus remained on her, and no one noticed how affected he was.
Except for, perhaps, the lass.
“I—I confess, I don’t know what to say.” Her breasts heaved with breath as she obviously prepared for a lengthy apology regarding the afternoon.
The thought pleased Liam a great deal less than he’d anticipated, and so he didn’t allow her to finish.
“Permit me to present my children, Miss Lockhart, Rhianna and Andrew Mackenzie.” His children, both inherited the Ravencroft ebony hair, had very opposite yet equally inappropriate reactions to the introduction.
“What happened to yer lip?” Rhianna demanded, her chocolate eyes wide as saucers in her angular face. “And are ye wearing cosmetics? Did ye get them from Paris? I heard they’re only worn by actresses and prostitutes.”
“Haud yer Wheesht, Rhianna,” Liam commanded, earning him a glower from his daughter, though she complied. She had no manners and even less respect, Liam was ashamed to admit. In the army, one caned or shot someone for insubordination. With a slip of a daughter, Liam was at a loss for what to do. He dare not raise a hand in anger to his children. There had been enough of that in this house, and Liam refused to be like his father.
“Ye see, Miss Lockhart, how in need we are of your expertise. Rhianna will apologize for her discourtesy.”
Everyone held their breath, wondering if Rhianna was about to throw one of her famous tantrums, but she merely slid out her lower lip in a dramatic pout and muttered, “Apologies,” without looking up.
Miss Lockhart’s glove had gone to her own lip and self-consciously lingered there. After a few surprised blinks, she lowered her hand and gifted his daughter with a kind smile. “I’ve always had a fondness for an inquisitive mind. I suppose now is the right moment to explain to you all that I was … in a carriage accident not a week ago and sustained a few abrasions. The cosmetics were a capitulation to my vanity and maybe a little to my hopes of making a good impression here.”
Her voice was the auditory equivalent of warm honey, sweet and languid, and Liam let it coat his senses for a beat longer than he should have.
“A carriage accident?” he repeated, grasping at the vestiges of stoicism. “Ye seem to be rather prone to those of late.”
The comment took her more aback than he’d thought it would. “Yes, well…” She blinked at him, at an apparent loss for words.
“We’re just glad ye’re not hurt,” Russell said, gifting the lass with his most charming smile.