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Northumberland, two months earlier.

D evil’s ballocks , was this how Sassenachs entertained themselves?

Murdo gazed about the ballroom, wincing at the violence of color before him. Women as thin as rails milled about, their bright gowns shimmering in the candlelight. Why a lass believed that wrapping herself in silk the color of poison made her alluring to the male sex was beyond comprehension.

As was the expression of discontent on the lips of every creature in the room.

Malcontents, the lot of them—with their downturned mouths and hard, glittering gazes.

“Beautiful, aren’t they, cousin?” his companion said.

“Surely ye’re jesting, Simon,” Murdo replied. “I’ve never seen such discontent. Is this how the English entertain themselves? I’d rather drink a bucket of horse’s piss.”

A gasp to his right told him that someone had overheard.

“Lady Cholmondeley,” Murdo’s cousin said. “What a pleasure to see you.”

A woman with iron-gray hair set in an elaborate array of curls and dressed in a somber shade of blue—at least it was somber against the vomit-inducing hues of orange and yellow circling the room—nodded in acknowledgment.

“Mr. Tuffington, I’m glad you could come,” she said, in a voice that conveyed anything but. “And your— guest ?” She arched a brow and fixed her pale-blue gaze on Murdo.

“My cousin, from the Highlands,” Simon said. “Younger son of my uncle, Laird of Strathburn. You were most gracious to extend your invitation to him.”

“Quite,” she replied. “Forgive me, I didn’t quite catch what you were speaking of, Mr.…?”

“McTavish,” Murdo said.

“Mr. McTavish.” Her gaze drifted across Murdo’s form, taking in his moss-green jacket and his plaid. Then she lowered her gaze to his bare legs, and her eyes widened with a flare of unmet female desire.

Ah, Lady Cholmondeley—does yer husband fail to satisfy ye in bed?

Pink spots appeared on her cheeks as she lifted her gaze to his.

She might deny it, but Lady Cholmondeley—like most women—preferred a savage between her thighs to a vapid English lord.

“Forgive me if tonight fails to meet your expectations for entertainment,” she said. “Our customs must be foreign to you—isn’t that what you were saying?”

Shit.

Simon, the treacherous bastard, let out a chuckle.

“What were you saying, Mr. McTavish?” Lady Cholmondeley continued. “If you’ve a particular preference, I’d be happy to oblige. I wouldn’t want it said that I’m unable to accommodate my guests.”

“I-I was merely telling my cousin that…”

That I’d rather drink a bucket of horse’s piss.

“…th-that I was anticipating a night of—of…”

“Unbridled bliss,” Simon said.

Their hostess tilted her head to one side. “ Unbridled ? Yes, I thought you’d said something about horses.”

She raised her hand, and a footman appeared at her side brandishing a tray of glasses.

“Do take some punch, gentlemen,” she said. “I trust you’ll enjoy it more than your usual drink of choice, Mr. McTavish, even if served from a glass, not a bucket .”

“We will, your ladyship,” Simon said. “I’ve told my cousin to expect the finest fare tonight. Will there be oysters, like last time, Lady Cholmondeley?”

She wrinkled her nose. “I’m not in the habit of killing my guests, Mr. Tuffington. I only serve oysters when there’s an R in the month. Please excuse me.”

She glided across the room, gesturing for the footman to follow.

Simon grinned. “Of all the ways to ingratiate yourself with our hostess, I’ve never tried declaring my fondness for horse’s piss.”

“Why didn’t ye stop me?” Murdo said.

“I didn’t realize she was nearby. That’s the thing about women—when you want one, she expects you to follow her about and prostrate yourself at her feet to win her attention. When you don’t want one, she’s always to be found at your side.”

“Shall ye prostrate yerself at a woman’s feet tonight?” Murdo asked, casting his gaze across the ballroom. “There’s slim pickings tonight—they look like a flock of underfed grouse. No meat on their bones—nothing for a man to hang on to, or bury his—”

“Mr. Tuffington,” a feminine voice interrupted. He glanced at the newcomer—an unremarkable-looking young woman in a gown of a shade that could only be described as puce .

Pretty enough, but she’d snap in two in the hands of a real man.

“M-Miss Goodchild.” Simon bowed. She held out her hand and he took it, brushing his lips against her glove. “A pleasure, as always. May I introduce my cousin, Mr. McTavish, of Strathburn Castle?”

“Charmed, I’m sure.” She glanced at Murdo, then resumed her attention on his cousin.

Clearly not every woman desired a savage. Or perhaps the brittle Miss Goodchild had yet to be awakened to the pleasures of the flesh.

“We’re engaged for the first dance, Mr. Tuffington,” Miss Goodchild said. Simon stared back at her with what could only be described as slavish devotion.

Clearly, he saw something in her that Murdo did not.

Well—it wouldn’t do for every man’s taste to be the same.

“Quite so, Miss Goodchild,” Simon said. “I trust the dancing will begin soon. Your gown is delightful—you’ll be the prettiest girl on the floor tonight.”

She blushed and dipped into a curtsey, before gliding across the floor toward a group of young ladies.

“Devil’s ballocks, Simon, I’ve never heard such foppish nonsense,” Murdo said. “Have ye lost yer senses?”

“I just know what a woman wants to hear from a man.”

“No woman would hear such nonsense from my lips,” Murdo said.

“Ah, but I’m not a savage.”

“Ye’ll be ruled by yer woman if ye speak to her like that,” Murdo said. “Women exist to be taken . It’s best they know ye’re the master sooner rather than later.”

“Even before you’ve put the bit and bridle on her?”

“Aye,” Murdo said. “Yer filly must at least know that she’s placing her neck in the noose. Only then will ye get the saddle on her.”

“Women aren’t wild horses to be broken in, Murdo.”

“What’s a man to do with a woman, then?”

“Woo her with delicacy and patience.”

“Such as sauntering about a ballroom in a girlish pattern to the strains of a violin?” Murdo laughed.

“Don’t criticize dancing until you’ve tried it.”

“What ye English do isn’t dancing ,” Murdo said. “It’s nothing more than walking from one end of the room to the other. Now a reel— that’s dancing. But the lasses here would faint at the thought of such savagery, given that it would make them break out in a sweat.”

“Ladies don’t sweat , Murdo,” Simon said. “They exude a healthy glow.”

“Ha! Next, ye’ll be telling me they don’t take a shi—”

“Hush, cousin! Do you want to be thrown out before the first dance?”

“It’d liven the place up,” Murdo said. “I’ve never been to a duller party in my life.”

“Then I’ll introduce you to some of the more interesting guests,” Simon said. “The Duke and Duchess of Pittchester are here, with their sons.”

“Why would I want to meet them ?”

“They’re my brother’s best friends at Oxford. Henry spent a fortnight at Pittchester Castle last vacation. The duke’s fortunes have taken a turn for the better since he remarried. His wife’s one of the wealthiest women in England, so Henry says.”

“What could I stand to gain from simpering to a duchess?” Murdo asked. “Unless ye think she’s in need of a real man between her thighs.”

“No, you fool!” Simon laughed. “She has a daughter from her first marriage. I’ll wager there’s a dowry there that could restore your fortunes and leave room to purchase a small county.”

“Devil’s ballocks, is that why you brought me here—to broker the purchase of a mare?”

“I doubt the duchess would appreciate your referring to her daughter as a mare ,” Simon said, chuckling. “But there’s no harm in looking at the goods.”

He gestured toward a party standing across the ballroom—a couple arm in arm and two young men.

In contrast to the eye-wateringly bright silks adorning the other guests, the woman’s gown was a muted gold, reminiscent of a setting sun on a summer’s evening.

Her granite-colored hair was fashioned into a simple style, with a curl cascading down either side of her face.

A handsome creature, even though her face was lined with age—in her prime she must have been an extraordinary beauty. Her eyes carried an expression of determination—of a heart of iron and a will of granite.

Her husband looked even more formidable.

He wore a jacket the color of pale charcoal, matching the color of his hair.

But despite his age, his form exuded athleticism and filled his suit to perfection.

He cast his gaze about the ballroom, and for a heartbeat, clear blue eyes stared directly at Murdo, before his gaze resumed its journey about the company.

They were not a couple to be crossed.

Their companions were barely out of boyhood, with rounded, fresh-complexioned faces and the bright-eyed expressions of hopeful adolescence. It was plain to see they were related to the older man—the shape and color of their eyes was identical. But their hair, rather than iron gray, was jet black.

“Magnificent, isn’t she?” Simon whispered. “She was something of a sensation in her younger days. Papa says that every man was in love with her. If you ask me, I think he was in love with her, though he’d never admit it.”

“I’d hope not,” Murdo said.

Aunt Fiona wasn’t the type to suffer fools—or philanderers. Uncle Adam would be minus his ballocks if she caught him sniffing around other women.

The musicians tuned their instruments, and Miss Goodchild returned with another young lady.

But while Miss Goodchild smiled, her companion’s expression was bitter enough to turn even the sweetest dessert sour.

Pretty enough, but her nose seemed permanently wrinkled into a sneer, as if she found everyone in the vicinity beneath her.

“Miss Goodchild,” Simon said. “And you’ve brought Miss Peacock. To what do we owe the pleasure of the company of two such beauties?”