Courting an Angel by Patricia; Grasso Page B

for a fool. ’Twas ill done of ye.”
    Rob opened her mouth to reply, but he pressed one finger across her lips in a gesture for silence. She stared up at him, mesmerized by the gleaming intensity in his eyes, oblivious to the effect her own disarming gaze was having on him at the moment.
    “I’m sorry for frightenin’ ye,” Gordon apologized in a voice no louder than a husky whisper.
    Rob straightened her back proudly, unable to cast her fierce heritage off completely. “’Twasna fear ye saw on my face, merely a smidgen of uneasiness,” she lied. “I knew ’twas yer anger talkin’ and didna believe ye’d do anythin’ rash.”
      “Is that so?” Gordon raised his brows at her and warned, “I always mean what I say, and make no mistake aboot it.”
    “An admirable trait that few men possess,” Rob said with a conciliatory smile, purposefully deflecting what could have become another argument.
    “Thank ye, I think.”
    “Would ye care to step inside and share a goblet of wine?” she invited him.
    “Aye, lass.” Gordon flashed her one of his devastating smiles. “I love bein’ in yer company.”
    Carelessly spoken words uttered by a sophisticated man of the world, Rob told herself as a warm, melting sensation heated the pit of her stomach and then spread through her body, making her limbs weak. Great Bruce’s ghost, his effect on her verged on sickening.
    Rob dropped her gaze to the hand he offered her in truce and then peered up at him from beneath the fringe other sooty lashes. With a shy smile, she placed her hand in his.
    At that hour of the afternoon, the great hall was nearly deserted. In fact, only the earl and his countess sat in chairs drawn up in front of the hearth. Earl Richard rose when they entered the hall and offered Rob his scat. As if on cue, Jennings arrived and nodded once at his lord’s unspoken command to bring refreshment.
    “I assumed the girls would be aboot,” Rob remarked, feeling horribly awkward. She loved her aunt’s brother, yet here she sat in the company of her Scots husband and her aunt.
    “Last night wearied them,” Lady Keely told her. “They willingly went down for a nap. Even Blythe and Bliss.”
    Rob smiled. “Where’s Isabelle?”
    “She’s gone,” the countess answered.
    “Lady Delphinia recalled her to court,” Earl Richard explained. “The message arrived shortly after you’d ridden out.”
    “I didna get the chance to bid her farewell,” Rob cried.
    As she always did when upset, Rob traced a finger back and forth across her birthmark. She turned an angry glare on the marquess whom she blamed for taking her away from Devereux House. She should have been here with her friend.
    The marquess missed her accusing glare. His interested gaze rested on the movement of her hands as she furiously ran a finger back and forth across the devil’s flower.
    Rob despised anyone but family seeing the mark, and she quickly moved her right hand to cover the stain. When the marquess raised his gaze to hers, Rob flushed with embarrassment and looked away.
    “Dubh escorted Isabelle to Hampton Court,” Earl Richard said, noting the byplay between them.
    “Dubh too?” Rob echoed, her spirits sinking. Who would help her entertain the marquess? At least, her brother could have kept the man busy. If only Henry would come home from court . . .  
    Jennings chose that moment to return to the great hall. Instead of refreshments, the earl’s majordomo carried a scaled parchment and bouquet of flowers — a single, perfect orchid in the midst of six red roses.
    “A courier just delivered these from Hampton Court,” Jennings announced, handing both to her.
    “How lovely.” Rob opened the missive and read it. Without looking up at the others, she said in a voice filled with disappointment, “Elizabeth has chosen Henry to be this year’s Lord of Misrule. Plannin’ the Yule’s activities prevents him from returnin’ home for a visit.”
    Uneasy about what she