perhaps I do."
She had to smile. "You don't need protection from me, Lord MacLean. I don't bite—though if I don't get something to eat soon, I may change my mind."
His eyes sparkled with laughter. "By all means, then, let us eat." He led the way to the dining room, standing aside to allow her to enter.
As she brushed past him, a hot sensation told her that his gaze was lingering on her posterior. She glanced back and found that she was correct. "Lord MacLean!"
He reluctantly lifted his gaze. "Yes?"
"Is something wrong with my gown?"
"No. There's absolutely nothing wrong with your gown. Or what's in it."
She should have been shocked by his impropriety but instead was pleased he'd noticed. "Thank you. I must say…" She allowed her gaze to travel across him. "You fill your clothes well, too."
She'd thought to shake him, but MacLean's green gaze heated, and he took a determined step toward her.
Sophia spun on her heel and whipped around the table, sliding into her seat. "I hear Mary in the hallway, so dinner will be served shortly. The soup course is already on the table." She gestured toward a soup tureen that sat, steam seeping from the lipped edge.
His gaze dark, MacLean nodded and took the chair across from hers.
She watched beneath her lashes as his chair rocked with his weight. MacLean scowled and grabbed the edge of the table. Angus had cut varying lengths from each chair so that some rocked, while others were at a distinct forward slant so that you had to press back to keep from sliding into the floor.
"Is something wrong, MacLean?"
"This chair." He scooted forward and slipped a little. With a scowl, he stood and pushed his chair to one side, selecting another.
"Lord MacLean—"
"Dougal," he said firmly, sitting down in the new chair. This one rocked backward, and he lurched, as if afraid it would topple over completely.
Sophia coughed to cover her amusement. From the dark scowl turned her way, she hadn't succeeded.
"That's it." Dougal shoved back the chair and stood, glancing about the room. "Ah!" He strode forward and picked out a thin book of sermons from a set on a side table. He lifted the back of his chair, placed a book beneath one leg, and sat down. "Much better."
Sophia wished he weren't quite so enterprising. She and Angus had worked for hours to make every chair a uniquely uncomfortable experience.
Dougal peered into the soup tureen. "This looks interesting."
His foot came to rest beside hers beneath the table, his boot pressing along her slipper. Was it intentional or an accident? She moved her foot back.
His followed.
She moved her foot a bit to the right.
Again, his followed, only this time he slowly, with feather-light precision, rubbed the edge of his boot along her foot. To her surprise, her skin prickled with awareness.
He caught her gaze. "Sophia?"
"Yes?" She realized he'd used her given name and stiffened. "I haven't given you leave to address me in that way."
"Since we've established that I'm not a gentleman, I thought we could dispense with all of society's silly rules."
Alarm fluttered through her. "Some of society's rules are necessary." For her peace of mind, if nothing else.
"Surely not the use of your name. That one lone rule can be tossed away. At least, until your father is well enough to join us."
Did that mean MacLean would stay longer than one night? She almost gave a bounce of exultation.
I could bring this to a close in three nights, if he'll give it to me
.
He smiled across the table, a wicked, knowing smile. "Would you care for some soup, Sophia?"
Her gaze dropped to where he held the soup tureen toward her dish, the ladle filled. She forced her mind to focus. "Yes, please."
"Yes, please,
Dougal
," he said, ladling soup into her bowl. "How much soup would you like, Sophia?"
The way he said her name made her think of a crackling fire. One might be drawn to the flame, but that didn't make it scorch any less.
She considered pretending outrage at his use
She had to smile. "You don't need protection from me, Lord MacLean. I don't bite—though if I don't get something to eat soon, I may change my mind."
His eyes sparkled with laughter. "By all means, then, let us eat." He led the way to the dining room, standing aside to allow her to enter.
As she brushed past him, a hot sensation told her that his gaze was lingering on her posterior. She glanced back and found that she was correct. "Lord MacLean!"
He reluctantly lifted his gaze. "Yes?"
"Is something wrong with my gown?"
"No. There's absolutely nothing wrong with your gown. Or what's in it."
She should have been shocked by his impropriety but instead was pleased he'd noticed. "Thank you. I must say…" She allowed her gaze to travel across him. "You fill your clothes well, too."
She'd thought to shake him, but MacLean's green gaze heated, and he took a determined step toward her.
Sophia spun on her heel and whipped around the table, sliding into her seat. "I hear Mary in the hallway, so dinner will be served shortly. The soup course is already on the table." She gestured toward a soup tureen that sat, steam seeping from the lipped edge.
His gaze dark, MacLean nodded and took the chair across from hers.
She watched beneath her lashes as his chair rocked with his weight. MacLean scowled and grabbed the edge of the table. Angus had cut varying lengths from each chair so that some rocked, while others were at a distinct forward slant so that you had to press back to keep from sliding into the floor.
"Is something wrong, MacLean?"
"This chair." He scooted forward and slipped a little. With a scowl, he stood and pushed his chair to one side, selecting another.
"Lord MacLean—"
"Dougal," he said firmly, sitting down in the new chair. This one rocked backward, and he lurched, as if afraid it would topple over completely.
Sophia coughed to cover her amusement. From the dark scowl turned her way, she hadn't succeeded.
"That's it." Dougal shoved back the chair and stood, glancing about the room. "Ah!" He strode forward and picked out a thin book of sermons from a set on a side table. He lifted the back of his chair, placed a book beneath one leg, and sat down. "Much better."
Sophia wished he weren't quite so enterprising. She and Angus had worked for hours to make every chair a uniquely uncomfortable experience.
Dougal peered into the soup tureen. "This looks interesting."
His foot came to rest beside hers beneath the table, his boot pressing along her slipper. Was it intentional or an accident? She moved her foot back.
His followed.
She moved her foot a bit to the right.
Again, his followed, only this time he slowly, with feather-light precision, rubbed the edge of his boot along her foot. To her surprise, her skin prickled with awareness.
He caught her gaze. "Sophia?"
"Yes?" She realized he'd used her given name and stiffened. "I haven't given you leave to address me in that way."
"Since we've established that I'm not a gentleman, I thought we could dispense with all of society's silly rules."
Alarm fluttered through her. "Some of society's rules are necessary." For her peace of mind, if nothing else.
"Surely not the use of your name. That one lone rule can be tossed away. At least, until your father is well enough to join us."
Did that mean MacLean would stay longer than one night? She almost gave a bounce of exultation.
I could bring this to a close in three nights, if he'll give it to me
.
He smiled across the table, a wicked, knowing smile. "Would you care for some soup, Sophia?"
Her gaze dropped to where he held the soup tureen toward her dish, the ladle filled. She forced her mind to focus. "Yes, please."
"Yes, please,
Dougal
," he said, ladling soup into her bowl. "How much soup would you like, Sophia?"
The way he said her name made her think of a crackling fire. One might be drawn to the flame, but that didn't make it scorch any less.
She considered pretending outrage at his use
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