The Devil Wears Tartan Read Online Free PDF Page A

that she was a source of fascination for them. Perhaps some other time she would be concerned about all those interested eyes. Right at the moment, however, she could not help but concentrate on the man to her left.
    Instead of speaking about his accomplishments or his title, her aunt should have mentioned that Marshall Ross, Earl of Lorne, had brown eyes so dark they appeared as black as his hair. Or that he was tall, easily towering over her, and that each of his features was perfect and arranged handsomely.
    If she didn’t stop herself, she’d spend the whole night in rapt silence, studying him. She finally fixed her gaze on her folded hands, forcing herself to listen to the minister. He was reading some kind of blessing. She should spend the time heeding his words rather than musing on how attractive Marshall was. Or wondering about what was to come.
    Would the act be different if the man was handsome?
    Dear heavens, was she blushing again? She rarely blushed. Yet the idea of being alone in a room with this man was occasion enough to incite a warm flush traveling through her body. The idea of being made a wife seemed, well, impossible. It could not happen. Not with him. She would die of embarrassment.
    “Why are you blushing?” Marshall asked from beside her.
    “Did you know that there are people who are afraidof homilies?” she asked, glancing at the minister. “Do you think a sermon is frightening?”
    “It depends on the subject matter. Are you afraid of them?”
    “No,” she said, forcing herself to look at him. He was smiling, and for a moment—barely more than a second, actually—she was struck dumb by how handsome he truly was. “I’m not afraid of very much. I quite like storms, for example. And winter. And roses.”
    “That’s good to know,” he said softly. His voice was very low, very seductive, and sounded oddly enough like the J. S. Fry & Sons chocolate her aunt occasionally brought her from London.
    “I’m not afraid of you,” Davina said, with more bravado than truth. “Or marriage. Truly. It’s simply a different experience, and I’m not used to being married. I shall have to adjust. Did you know that in Africa it’s tradition to pay for a bride with livestock?”
    “Ambrose has quite a few cattle,” Marshall said. “Sheep as well. We would not have been averse to paying your dowry.”
    She looked at him fully then, startled by two facts. He hadn’t questioned her knowledge of obscure African tribes. And he was teasing her.
    “I wear spectacles,” she said in the silence. “‘Honesty is best, don’t you think? If I lose mine honor, I lose myself.’”
    He looked a little bemused. “Shakespeare?”
    She nodded.
    “I can’t read without them,” she added. “You should know that now. I’m almost blind. Not normally, butwhen I try to read, I mean. The words go all squiggly.” She blinked a few times. “Did you know that a frog has four fingers?”
    “I don’t mind that you wear spectacles,” he said, his smile back in place. “And I did know about frog fingers. I was quite the adventurer as a boy.”
    When their meal arrived, she gratefully paid attention to it, eating slowly and with great deliberation, the better to lengthen the meal.
    Only to herself would she admit the degree of her trepidation. Very well, fear.
     
    How did he reassure her? Or was there anything he could say? Were the moments between them to be punctuated by this awkward, stilted silence? He sat back, his appetite as poor as it had been for months, his interest spurred instead by his new wife.
    Perhaps he should simply retreat to his chamber and recognize that he’d made a mistake. He glanced at her to find her looking at him out of the corner of her eye. Just as quickly, she stared down at her lap again.
    He’d be an idiot to retreat to his chamber and a fool to go to hers.
    Still, awareness thrummed between them, something oddly arousing. He wanted her—he was not so much of a fool that he