To Tempt a Scotsman (Somerhart 1)
"Ha. He resisted quite easily a few weeks ago."
"Oh, no. Not easily."
She rolled her eyes behind closed lids. "What could you know of it? You saw him all of two times."
"True, but you'll remember that your cousin loaned him a manservant?"
"Mm."
"The boy assured me that your Mr. Blackburn slept not a wink the night before you left, and not so well the rest of his nights either."
"Really?" She opened one eye.
"Really."
She tried not to smile. "It was likely something else bothering him."
Danielle snorted in French disdain. "We will solve that mystery soon enough."
Collin tore the wrinkled cloth from his neck and hurled it across the room. The fine linen floated to the floor, landing with a disappointing whisper that tempted him to kick it for good measure.
"Need some assistance?"
"Where the hell have you been?"
Fergus stepped cheerfully through the door and bowed deeply. "Only following yer instructions, sir. We are here to sell horses, after all."
"Fuck off."
"I canna wait to meet the lassie's got you so tied up in knots."
"Well, don't hold your breath, you shit. She's not likely to come visit, is she?"
"I've nae idea. Is she?"
Collin ignored him and jerked a freshly pressed cravat from the bureau. "Did he sign it?"
"Happily. The wait to breed with Devil is now three years out."
"And well worth it," he grunted, staring down at the evil strip of starched cloth. "He's a fine one." Fergus's hand reached into his vision to pluck it from his grasp.
"Turn 'round."
"I can tie my own—"
"Just shut up and turn around. I've ne'er seen a man with such a sad inability to tie a cravat."
Collin turned slowly, crossing his arms over his chest, and glared at his manager. One of the downsides to being a lord was the dependence on another person to help you dress. Oh, he was happy to let someone polish his boots and press his shir
ts, but to stand like a child and be helped into jackets and shoes and cravats . . . Why not slip into shortpants and a smock for good measure?
Fergus flashed him a grin, making clear he enjoyed Collin's discomfort. The man knew horseflesh and he was a fearsome negotiator, but he took an inordinate interest in clothing and the latest styles. His blond hair and beard were always neatly trimmed, his coats cut from the finest cloth. And even the Frenchmen who came to Westmore complimented him on his intricate cravats. The Frenchwomen complimented him also, and looked stricken when they realized that Lord Westmore was actually the big brute in rough trousers and shirtsleeves.
"There. What do ye think?"
Collin was shoved around to scowl at his reflection. "It's fine."
"Fine? It's perfect."