The Laird and the Wanton Widow by Ann Lethbridge

Chapter One
    Ladies’ companions didn’t dance at balls, yet Kate Anderson’s foot insisted on keeping time to the music of a Scottish reel. London ladies and gentlemen didn’t have an ounce of the passion or fire the dance required.
    Exquisite in a jonquil gown, the blond Diana Buntin turned in her seat, her blue eyes alight with laughter. “The next time a gentleman asks you to dance, I will insist you say yes.” While her tone was gentle, Kate could see her employer meant every word.
    “Sorry,” Kate said, and stilled her foot.
    “Where is Denton with my lemonade?” Lizzie Mcrae, Diana’s equally blond and blue-eyed niece, raised up on her toes to see past the crowds gathered at the dance floor. At a quick glance she and Miss Buntin could have been sisters, even though they were related only by marriage. They both had the same fair English beauty and sweet dispositions. Unlike Kate, whose temperament was dictated by her red hair.
    “Oh no,” Lizzie said. Her face fell from happiness to misery.
    “What is it?” Diana asked. “Who do you see?”
    Seated against the wall in the vast Bertwick ballroom, neither she nor Kate could see much beyond the elegantly dressed members of the ton in their immediate vicinity.
    “It’s the ogre,” Lizzie said. “Why is he in Town? He’ll spoil everything.”
    The ogre was what Lizzie called the elderly bachelor from the adjoining Scottish estate, the man her father wanted her to marry. A surge of anger rose in Kate’s chest to see the child so upset. She longed to give Lizzie’s father a piece of her mind for proposing such a match.
    “Oh dear,” Diana said with a wince. “I have a feeling this is my fault.”
    At that moment, the crowds parted to reveal an impressively large gentleman with a stern expression on his fair, sun-bronzed face heading in their direction.
    Kate’s heart stopped as she took in the furrowed brow above hazel eyes, the set of the square, inflexible jaw, and the crisp waves of light brown hair.
    Harry?
    Was she seeing things? Her heart pattered the long-forgotten rhythm of a dimly remembered song. The room seemed to fade. All she saw was him, striding toward them with loose-limbed athletic grace.
    She wanted to look away, but she sat frozen, turned to stone, her parched gaze drinking in the strong, rugged features that had always reminded her of her beloved Scotland.
    The years had broadened his shoulders, strengthened his features, made him look sterner than when she’d known him in Edinburgh. But even though so many years had passed, he was still the handsomest man she’d ever seen.
    And now he was here. Coming directly toward them, his gaze intently fixed on Lizzie.
    Harry was Lizzie’s ogre? The bubble of joy in her chest burst, her heart felt leaden.
    “Your father must have sent him,” Diana exclaimed. “It really is too bad.”
    Kate could think of stronger words. She lowered her regard to her gloved hands resting on the dark gray fabric of her skirts. She stilled their tremble, breathed deep to calm the rapid beat of her heart.
    Harry. She’d never expected to see him again. Never wanted to, when she realized what a stupid mistake she’d made. Never ever had she even enquired about him, guessing he must have married long ago.
    Apparently not.
    What would he think when he saw her again? That she was much changed, no doubt. And not for the better.
    Good Lord, she was mad to think he’d remember her after all this time. For one season in Edinburgh, they’d lived in each other’s pockets. Less than a season—a month. Then he’d departed for a family celebration promising to return. A few days later, a mutual friend had relayed gossip from a letter she’d received that he’d fallen for a beautiful woman visiting his parents.
    She’d been so hurt.
    And angry.
    So stupidly angry.
    “Good evening, Miss Buntin,” he was saying in that deep voice laced with the burr of the Highlands. “Lizzie.” He bowed. “I trust I find