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Her gaze exuded sharp insight, as if she looked right into his soul. A knot tightened in his heart, as if an invisible thread connected the two of them. She set her glass aside and straightened her stance.

Her eyes belied her age. They were the eyes of someone who’d lived a lifetime already. As they continued to stare at each other, her brow furrowed, and she lifted a hand to her left arm and rubbed it.

Aye, lass, I see yer pain.

As if she heard his thoughts, she stiffened and lowered her hand.

Her gaze still on him, she reached for her glass, but she knocked it over and the contents spilled onto her skirts.

She broke the gaze, and Murdo felt a sharp tug at his soul, like a cord snapping.

He rubbed his eyes and glanced about the ballroom.

But the dance was in full swing, the rest of the party oblivious to the two souls who’d shared a connection.

Fool, that’s what ye are, Murdo McTavish.

As he scolded himself, the gray-haired duchess approached the young woman whose dress now bore a dark stain.

Rather than admonish the young woman, she touched her cheek in a gesture of affection.

The young woman, who must be the unfortunate Miss Martingale, smiled at the duchess, and Murdo’s heart soared to see it—the glimpse of joy behind the sorrow.

Then the duchess waved at a footman, who scurried over with a cloth.

The duke approached, and the young woman stiffened again, but he patted her hand and gave her the indulgent smile of a doting parent.

The kind of smile Murdo had never received from his own father.

A knot of envy swelled in his gut at the obvious love they shared.

Miss Peacock approached them, and the young woman stiffened, fear clouding her expression.

Miss Peacock issued a simpering smile to the duke and duchess, who smiled in return, then she exchanged a few words with Miss Martingale before gliding away.

Miss Martingale pulled a face at Miss Peacock’s retreating back.

Then she stiffened, as if she knew she were being watched, and glanced at Murdo.

He winked, and her mouth twitched into a smile.

The dance drew to a close and a ripple of gloved applause filled the ballroom, then footmen circulated with trays, replenishing glasses.

At the far end of the room, Murdo’s cousin was deep in conversation with Miss Goodchild.

Murdo moved toward them until he caught sight of Miss Peacock, then he veered away and found himself standing before Miss Martingale, who now sat alone once more.

She stiffened, then lifted her gaze to his, apprehension in her chocolate-brown eyes.

Would it be forward to introduce himself? Might her English sensibilities be offended by a stranger approaching her while she sat alone, unchaperoned?

Why do I care about a woman’s sensibilities?

Her expression hardened.

“Like what you see?” she sneered.

Murdo recognized her tone for what it was—a layer of armor protecting her unease.

“I-I wondered if ye cared to dance, Miss…?”

She reached for her glass, which had been refilled.

“No.”

A refusal he might have expected, but not delivered with such bluntness. Generally, a young lady followed an insult with a social nicety.

“Is that all ye have to say?” he asked.

She sipped her drink, then mischief flickered in her eyes. “I could always ask why you bothered to ask me to dance.”

“There’s only one reason a man asks a lass to dance.”

“Don’t take me for a fool.”

“I don’t understand.”

She rolled her eyes. “Do you think I didn’t see you prancing about with her ?”

“Whom?”

“Spare me!” she said. “No. I don’t want to dance. Not with anyone—least of all with you . Why can’t you and your kind leave me alone?”

She swallowed another mouthful of punch.

His kind ? So that was it—yet another Sassenach who drowned herself in liquor and thought his countrymen beneath her.

“Are ye a poor dancer?” he said. “Or perhaps ye’re only here for the liquor.” He gestured to her skirts. “Ye’ve put it to good use—it’s all that stuff’s good for, given it tastes like rat’s piss.”

He regretted the words almost before he’d finished, and his conscience battered him at the flicker of pain in her eyes.

She blinked, slowly, and her mouth hardened into a thin line. Like all prey, her hostility was a shield to conceal her vulnerability. And, utter bastard that he was, he’d just ripped it from her.

“Miss Martingale, forgive me,” he said. “I didn’t mean—”

“How do you know my name?” she said. Then she glanced toward Miss Peacock and let out a mirthless laugh. “Of course—you heard it from Little Miss Fancy-Tits.”

Devil’s ballocks , she had a mouth on her.

“Perhaps, Miss Martingale, ye’ve had too much—” he began, but she jerked her arm forward and a splash of cold liquid exploded in his face.

He staggered back, tasting punch on his lips as the sticky liquid trickled down his cheeks. Then he lifted his hand and plucked something from his upper lip—a slice of peach.

“ Well! ” a voice cried. “I’ve never seen anything the like!”

“What can we expect from her ?” Miss Peacock said. “She shouldn’t be allowed out in Polite Society.”

Murdo turned toward Miss Peacock, then he smiled and popped the peach slice into his mouth, before resuming his attention on Miss Martingale, who now bore a look of wide-eyed terror.

“Sweet Lord! What’s happened?” The duchess appeared, her eyes gleaming with anger. “What have you done ?”

“Ma’am, don’t be angry with the lass,” Murdo said. “I asked her to indulge in a game my countrymen play on occasion. Ye see—I was thirsty and wanted to taste her drink, and she obligingly gave it to me.”

“Do all Scots toss their drinks at each other?” the duchess asked.

“Only when there’s an R in the month.”

“It’s June ,” she retorted.

“Then she can toss a drink at me when September comes,” Murdo said. “I’ll make sure to keep my mouth open.”

Miss Martingale let out a snort. Murdo met her gaze, and his heart swelled as her lips curved upward and mirth danced in her eyes.

“At last!” he cried. “If I’m not to be gifted with your hand for this next dance, then I’ll settle for a smile.” He turned to the duchess. “Ma’am, there’s nothing to admonish this young lady over. She’s committed no sin.”

She fixed her imperious gaze on him. “I know that. I was asking you what you’d done to upset my daughter.”

“It wasn’t my intention to cause her pain,” Murdo said. “If I did, I apologize unreservedly.”

He glanced at Miss Martingale, hoping for another smile, but she scowled.

“Have I caused further offense?” he asked.

“In my experience, an unreserved apology is a false one,” she replied. “It’s weak to apologize when you don’t mean what you say.”

“Are ye accusing me of falsehood?” he asked.

“No, I’m accusing you of sycophancy toward a duchess.”

“Clara, my love,” the duchess said, placing a hand on Miss Martingale’s shoulder. Then she turned her clear gaze to Murdo. “ Is that what you’re indulging in, sir? Sycophancy?”

“It’s the last thing me and my kind can be accused of,” Murdo said, “though we Scots are often subjected to prejudice.”

Miss Martingale colored. “I-I didn’t mean…”

“What can we accuse you of, sir?” the duchess asked.

“Our frankness,” Murdo replied. “We’re too honest for our own good, which lands us in trouble up to our ballocks.”

Miss Martingale let out a coarse laugh, then stopped herself, her cheeks reddening further.

“Clara, my love…”

“I know, Mama,” Miss Martingale replied. “I’m trying to behave, honest.”

“But it’s difficult when such a model of bad behavior stands before ye?” Murdo said.

Footsteps approached and two identical young men joined them, their stern blue gazes directed at Murdo.

“What have you done to upset our sister?” one said.

“It’s my fault, Corn,” Miss Martingale said. “I’ve landed myself in trouble up to my…” She glanced at Murdo, her eyes gleaming with mischief.

“Ballocks?” Murdo suggested.

She giggled, but the young man frowned.

“Clarry, you promised Mama Betty you’d behave tonight. You’ll never triumph in London if you can’t learn.”

Her smile disappeared and Murdo’s heart tightened at the dejection in her eyes.

“I think your sister’s perfect as she is,” he said.

“And who are you ?” the young man asked.

“An admirer—that’s what he is,” his twin said.

“Don’t be a fool, Nate. How can a man admire our sister when he doesn’t know her?”

“Perhaps that’s why he admires her.”

“ You’re hardly awash with admirers, Nate,” Miss Martingale said, “though doubtless you’ll say that’s because you’re my brother and nobody wants me for a sister-in-law.”

“Then they can go to hell and rot, Clarry. Nobody insults my favorite sister.”

“She’s our only sister.”

“Don’t spoil the moment, Corn. I’m trying to be gallant.”

“You wouldn’t know gallantry if it stabbed you in the arse,” Miss Martingale said. Then she glanced at her mother, as if awaiting admonishment.

Murdo grinned at the duchess. “How can I not admire yer daughter when she speaks with such frankness?” he said. “Forgive me for not observing etiquette, but let me make reparation. Would ye do me the honor of introducing me to yer daughter?”

“I don’t know who you are myself,” the duchess said.

“Permit me to introduce myself,” Murdo said, clicking his heels together and bowing. “I’m Murdo Alastair James McTavish.”

“Then, Murdo Alastair James McTavish, I am Elizabeth, Duchess of Pittchester.” She gestured to the young men. “These are my sons, Lord Cornelius Martingale and Lord Nathaniel Martingale. And this”—she placed a hand on the young woman’s shoulder—“is my daughter, Miss Clara Martingale.”

Miss Martingale flinched, and Murdo understood enough, from Miss Peacock’s tales, why she was referred to as a mere Miss .

“May I dance the next with ye, Miss Martingale?” he said, offering his hand. “Though I fear I’m ungainly on my feet.”

She glanced at his boots, then lifted her gaze slowly, pausing at his bare knees. Her nostrils flared and Murdo’s manhood twitched under his plaid as he caught a spark of desire in her eyes.

Aye, lass, there’s a real man standing before ye tonight.

What might she make of him if he lifted his plaid to reveal the jewels that lay beneath?

She parted her lips, and the tip of her tongue flicked out to moisten her lower lip.

She reached toward Murdo’s proffered hand, and his skin tightened in anticipation.

Then a gong sounded, and she jerked back.

“Time for supper, mes amis !” Lady Cholmondeley trilled.

“Might I escort your daughter to supper, Yer Grace?” Murdo asked.

Doubt and mistrust swirled in Miss Martingale’s eyes, then she shook her head.

Swallowing his disappointment, Murdo bowed again. “Perhaps another time.”

Ballocks . What had frightened her off?

More to the point—who?

Then he caught Miss Peacock watching them, spite glittering from her eyes.

There really was no predator worse in the world than the perfect Society lady .