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“My goodness, this is breakfast in Scotland? I was expecting bannocks with my tea. Genie, do come along lest I eat everything I see.”
    “Miss Daniels?” The earl waited politely for Genie to pass before him into the room. “May I fix you a plate?”
    “Thank you, but I don’t typically enjoy much of an appetite first thing in the day.” Genie cast Augusta a look probably intended to convey a plea for help—which would not be forthcoming. For the earl to see to a lady guest’s plate was perfectly proper and even considerate.
    “The scones are very good,” he said, quirking an eyebrow. “I’m thinking you’d best have a couple lest Miss Hester remove them as an option.”
    “Smart man.” Hester plucked a pastry from the tray as she cruised along the buffet. “And you’ll want to watch the butter, because Augusta slathers it on like she’s trying to keep every bossy cow in the shire secure in its employment.”
    “We have a lot of cows here in Aberdeen. Good morning, Miss Merrick. I hope you slept well?”
    And there was not a hint of innuendo, humor, or anything in his inflection or his expression. Such an accomplished actor would likely lie convincingly as well, which was a disconcerting realization.
    “I did sleep soundly. I kept the terrace door open to humor my cat. I think the fresh air agreed with us both.”
    “Imagine that—a feline being pleased with something. I don’t know as I’ve seen the like.” He turned back to Genie, who was hovering by the array of food. “Some bacon, ma’am? A bit of ham?”
    “Just the scone for now, thank you, my lord.”
    “None of that. You’re my guest. Balfour will do, and I shall call you Miss Genie, hmm?” He set her plate on the table and waited to hold her chair, while Genie shot Augusta an even more panicked look.
    “Of course you shall call her Miss Genie,” Augusta said, reaching for the teapot. “Formalities at breakfast do not aid digestion.”
    She could not endorse lingering behind a privet hedge with a handsome earl as an aid to digestion either.
    “Hear, hear.” Hester waved her fork in a little circle to emphasize her agreement. “I could do with a spot of that tea, Cousin. I’ve an entire tray of scones to wash down.”
    “Save some for me,” the earl said. “If my brothers descend… speak of the devils.”
    The earl started filling his plate while Connor and Gilgallon came into the breakfast parlor, boots thumping on the polished wood floor.
    “Morning, all,” Gilgallon said, his blond good looks showing to advantage in riding attire. “Ladies, you each look to be blooming. This tells us Ian hasn’t attempted any polite conversation yet.”
    “Don’t let him spoil your appetite,” the earl stage-whispered to Genie as he took the place at her elbow. “Scots are nothing if not tenacious, and I’m determined to beat some manners into him.”
    “I’d help,” Connor said, “but I think beating manners into a fellow something of a contradiction. Ian, I am going to tattle to Mary Fran that you’ve left us only a half-dozen scones, and you, Miss Hester, will be my corroborating witness.”
    Augusta watched as the earl occasionally dropped his voice to whisper something to Genie, who gradually relaxed under the onslaught of his charm. He topped up her teacup, passed her the cream and sugar, sliced a ripe peach—Her Majesty was said to adore a peach at the conclusion of her evening meal—and put most of it on her plate.
    It was breakfast with a side helping of subtle, well-disguised overtures from a man interested in gaining a lady’s notice. By the third cup of tea, Genie reached for a bite of peach from the earl’s plate then froze with her hand in midair.
    “I beg your pardon, my lord.” Her hand returned to her lap, while color rose in her cheeks. “I should not presume upon your very breakfast.”
    Gilgallon reached across the table and plucked the slice of fruit from his brother’s plate. “Why not? If you