Page 1 of One Night in Glasgow (The Scottish Billionaires #15)

CHAPTER ONE

BETH

I was back in my childhood bedroom, a gilded cage I thought I’d escaped years ago.

The emerald silk of the gown, chosen by my mother, naturally, felt like a chic straitjacket against my skin.

I was just applying a slash of defiant crimson lipstick, the shade aptly named “Rebellion Red,” when a discreet, almost apologetic knock sounded at the door.

“If that’s you, Angus, and you’ve come bearing last-minute edicts from on high, you can tell Her Majesty I’m indisposed,” I called out, my voice tight.

My parent’s butler entered, his posture impeccably straight, but his eyes, when they met mine in the mirror, held that familiar weariness. Poor sod, he’d seen decades of MacLeod family dramas; I was probably responsible for at least half of them.

“Your mother wished me to convey her expectations for this evening, Miss Elisabeth.”

“Expectations?” I capped my lipstick with a sharp click and spun on my stool to face him. “Or marching orders, Angus? Let me guess—dazzle the donors, don’t embarrass the family name, and for the love of all that is holy and tax-deductible, bat my eyelashes at Stewart bloody Beauchamp.”

Angus cleared his throat, a sound that conveyed years of practiced diplomacy and quiet suffering.

“Mrs. MacLeod was particular about Lord Beauchamp. She emphasized the importance of you making him feel attended to.” He paused, as if bracing himself.

“She’s made arrangements that, ah, benefit from a… congenial atmosphere.”

My laugh was short and harsh. “Congenial atmosphere? Or my soul sold for a hefty donation? So, she’s weaponizing charity now?

That’s a new low, even for her.” I rose, the silk rustling around me like angry whispers.

“Well, Angus, you can tell my dear mother that I shall be the absolute pinnacle of congeniality. Just perhaps not in the way she envisions.”

I stalked over to the antique decanter on my side table, pouring a generous measure of amber whisky into a crystal tumbler. The fiery liquid went down in one smooth, confident gulp, a welcome contrast to the icy dread coiling in my stomach. Liquid courage, Beth. You’ll need it.

“The car is waiting, Miss Elisabeth,” Angus said, his gaze carefully neutral, as if he hadn’t just witnessed me downing scotch like it was water.

“Let it,” I retorted, the burn of the whisky already fortifying my resolve. “The sacrificial lamb will proceed to the slaughter when she’s damn well ready.”

My phone buzzed on the side table, a jarring sound in the tense quiet of my room.

I glanced at the screen, a name I hadn’t seen in years flashing on the display: Colter.

A ghost from my past, from a wilder, freer time before my parents had fully tightened the leash.

A small, genuine smile touched my lips for the first time all day.

Colter: Beth, you in town? Need to see you. The Pot Still tomorrow? Say 8? Urgent-ish.

I typed back immediately, a surge of defiant energy coursing through me. This was exactly what I needed. A link to my real life, not this suffocating performance.

Me: Colter! Blast from the past. Yeah, I'll be there. God, I need to be around a normal fucking person for a change.

He replied instantly.

Colter: Attagirl. See you then.

Tossing the phone into my purse, I felt a fresh wave of resolve. Tomorrow, I’d see Colter. But tonight, I’d face the vipers' den alone.

I watched my reflection swimming in the crystal champagne flute as I drained it.

What was it? My fourth? Fifth? The bubbles had stopped tickling my nose an hour ago.

The charity gala swirled around me in a haze of glittering gowns and penguin suits.

All here tonight in Glasgow’s finest halls for.

..something. Orphans? Whales? Honestly, who cares?

We all know I’m the one truly up for auction.

Christ, I needed something stronger than champagne.

“Bethie, darling!” A plump woman air-kissed my cheeks. “So good of you to support the cause.”

I plastered on my best pageant-winner smile, the one that said ‘delighted to be here’ while my soul was screaming for a drink. “Wouldn’t miss it for the world, love.” As soon as she toddled off, I rolled my eyes. These stuffy events were only good for booze and potential hookups .

“Another, miss?” A server materialized at my elbow; his tray balanced perfectly despite my slight wobble into him. His eyes flickered with recognition. Of course, he knew who I was. Everyone in this godforsaken circle recognized Elisabeth MacLeod, Glasgow’s favorite tabloid train wreck.

“God, yes,” I said, snagging a fresh glass while kicking off my Jimmy Choos under the nearest table. Six hours in these heels was criminal, even if they were stunning. “And if anyone asks, I’m not me.”

He gave a discrete nod, probably used to the drama of high society by now. As he glided away, I caught the murmurs beginning anew behind antique lace fans and into Cartier-draped ears.

“...can’t believe the MacLeod’s brings her to this…”

“...she’s twenty-nine, for heaven's sake. Getting a bit old for these sorts of antics, isn't she?"

"Honestly. You'd think she'd be desperate to settle down. Lord Beauchamp is a saint for not moving on.”

“...such a waste of potential...”

I knocked back half the champagne in one go, letting the bubbles burn away their words. I was beyond caring. Let them talk. It only proved what I already knew—that I was the most interesting thing in this room, full of stuffy old money and even older attitudes.

The room tilted pleasantly, the crystal chandeliers above creating halos around the lights, as I made my way toward the bar.

It was usually my salvation at these things, and would have been again if Lord Stewart Beauchamp hadn’t been planted there like a balding garden gnome in a black suit.

Mother’s attempt at marrying me off to some stupid old-fashioned title stood next to exactly the kind of man I actually wanted—tall, dark, and decidedly dangerous looking in his perfectly tailored tux.

The contrast was almost comical with Stewart’s pinched face and spreading waistline, standing next to this Adonis.

My mother’s voice repeated in my head from our numerous fights.

“Stewart has ties to both Scottish and French royalty, Elisabeth. Do you realize what that means for our family?” As if that mattered a whit to me.

It was probably a lie, anyway. Mum didn’t understand that you have to Google these things to see if it’s true.

I’m sure she’s promised Stewart all sorts of things, maybe even told him I’d specifically asked for him to be here tonight. Poor sod. He’s about to learn why they call me, Beth “The Menace” MacLeod.

I caught Tall-Dark-and-Handsome’s eye first, deliberately ignoring Stewart’s eager wave. The stranger’s gaze traveled slowly down my body and back up, one brow raising slightly. Oh yes, he would do nicely.

“Well, hello there, handsome,” I purred, sliding between them and placing my hand on the stranger’s chest. His heartbeat was firm and rhythmic beneath my hand. “Buy a girl a drink?” Stewart’s spluttering beside us was music to my ears.

The stranger’s cologne was expensive, something woodsy that made me want to bury my face in his neck.

A slow, appreciative smile touched his lips.

“Mademoiselle, a woman with your beauty, needs more than a drink. I would buy you the entire bar,” he said, his voice carrying a sexy French accent that totally stirred something deep inside me. “I’m Jacques de Valois.”

“Oh, trust me, a drink is just the beginning of what I plan on getting from you tonight, Jacques de Valois,” I said, as my fingers trailed down his lapel. “I’m Beth MacLeod. ”

“B-Beth,” Stewart interrupted, his face flushed red as a tomato. “Your mother said you were expecting me tonight?—”

“Did she now?” I turned enough to give him a withering look. “Let me guess, she told you I was desperate to see you? That I’ve been pining away?” I laughed, the sound sharp enough to draw stares. “Oh, Lord Beauchamp. Mummy dearest is playing you like a fiddle.”

Jacques shifted uncomfortably, but I tightened my grip on his jacket. “Don’t go anywhere, darling. I’m not finished with you yet.”

Stewart’s face crumpled, then hardened. “You’re drunk, Elisabeth. Let me call you a car to take you home?—”

“Drunk?” I released the stranger to step into Stewart’s space, jabbing a finger at his chest. “I’m not drunk enough to find you attractive, if that’s what you’re hoping for.”

A flash caught my eye; someone’s phone camera. Then another. The vultures were circling, sensing blood in the water. Fine. Let them watch. Let them see exactly what I thought about being auctioned off like prize cattle.

“You want to know why Mummy’s so keen on you for me?” My voice carried across the suddenly quiet ballroom. “Because you’re some kind of Lord, allegedly. And very, very safe. Not to mention one hundred percent passionless. The perfect bore to keep wild little Beth MacLeod in line, aren’t you?”

Another camera flash, closer this time. I spun toward it, nearly losing my balance. The photographer, some woman in a cheap blazer, kept her phone aimed at me.

“Stop the fuck filming me.” The room was spinning faster now, faces merging into a disapproving mosaic of pearls and bow ties .

“I’m just doing my job,” the woman said, backing away. “For the Foundations social media.”

The woman’s face swam in and out of focus.

“So, your job is to make me look like an arse on the internet?” I said, my voice slurred.

“Not today, bitch!” I lunged for her phone, my panty hose making my feet slide on the marble.

My dress rode up as I grabbed for her, probably giving half the room a show.

“Delete it! Delete the video right fucking now!”