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All-else-be-damned love.
    Finding it in a union with Lord Bonniebroch seemed as unlikely a prospect as sprouting a pair of wings.
    “How do I make certain he sticks to his word and honors the contract?”
    “Have no fear. Yer aunt will see to that.” Brodie shivered, his diaphanous form shimmering in the air. “No man can stand before that auld dragon.”
    “That’s no good.” She’d steeled herself to bear a loveless marriage, but one with an unwilling bridegroom was beyond her comprehension. “I’ll no’ force the man to the altar.”
    “A lass doesna have to force a man to marry her. She only has to torment him into it.”
    “Torment him? That sounds lovely. Shall I sharpen the pruning shears and snip away at him then?”
    “Nay, lass. If he were no’ a cursed MacGregor, I’d tell ye to flirt with him like a little tart. Ye need only tease and please and drive the man wild with kisses and—” Brodie stopped himself. “But he is a MacGregor and therefore ye ought no’ to sully yerself with his ilk. Forget what I said about flirting and—”
    “Too late.” Lucinda picked up the tray and headed back toward the parlor. She’d already thrown herself into the man’s arms once.
    How hard could it be to do again?

“On the subject of masculine fashion, we aver this truth. If one wishes to know what’s truly on a man’s mind, even skin-hugging knee britches, such as those worn at Almack’s, are a poor second when compared to a Scotsman’s kilt. However, close attention to a man’s trousers can prove most illuminating to the knowledgeable lady who uses the eyes God gave her.”
     
    From The Knowledgeable Ladies’ Guide
to Eligible Gentlemen

    Chapter Three
    “And so ye see,” Hester MacGibbon said with a shake of her bulldoggish jowls, “the contract is duly signed and notarized right here.”
    “But that’s not my signature,” Alexander protested.
    “Are ye no’ laird of Bonniebroch?” she asked.
    “Well, yes, but—”
    “That’s how the contract was signed. Lord Bonniebroch. Plain as the nose on yer face. It doesna signify a flibbet what yer Christian name might be. Only yer title and ye’ve already admitted to that.”
    “She has a point,” Clarindon put in unhelpfully.
    “But a marriage contract cannot be enforced between an unnamed woman and a title.”
    At least, not in England. Scotland was undoubtedly another matter. Alexander paced the room, nervous energy crackling off him. As an unattached covert agent, he was prepared to take risks a married man would shun. There was no place in his life for a wife. It wasn’t safe, for him or the lady.
    “This is no’ a private agreement, ye ken. ’Tis more like . . . two goin’ concerns joining forces with the added blessing of a Christmastide wedding thrown in,” Hester said.
    Lucinda MacOwen glided into the parlor then, her kid-soled slippers making soft swishes on the threadbare carpet. Without a glance at Alexander, she set the tray on a low table, served her aunt the tot of rum, and settled before the tea service to pour out.
    “How will ye be takin’ your tea, Sir Bertram?” she asked with a smile of such luminous glory, it nearly took Alexander’s breath away. She certainly hadn’t smiled like that at him. Winsome, hopeful smiles, yes, but nothing like this dazzling display. He forced himself to look elsewhere, but his gaze kept returning to Lucinda MacOwen’s graceful white hands as they fluttered over the tea things.
    Clarindon told her he preferred tea with milk and made appreciative noises over the fresh bannocks. The fact that she gave preference to his friend by serving him first was not lost on Alex, but he supposed he had injured her feelings rather badly. After all Clarindon’s needs were met, Lucinda MacOwen finally turned her attention to him.
    The smile that had been an expression of unabashed pleasure and welcome became brittle. “One lump or two?”
    He wondered if she were thinking of lumps she’d