He flicked a clod of muck off the sleeve of his greatcoat.
The fact was he was late.
A problem had arisen at Baile Ìm that was beyond his control and had demanded as speedy a resolution as possible.
Namely, a roiling case of frothy bloat.
Not in him, of course, but his sheep.
Unable to resist a field of spring barley, a group of a dozen sheep had snuck in and feasted on the delicacy to their heart’s content—but not that of their stomachs. So, it had been a treatment of mineral oil to get them all sorted, which had taken painstaking time.
Which had made him late for his neighbor’s supper party.
He flicked more mud off his sleeve. He’d already been dressed for the evening when the frothy bloat emergency had come to light, and he hadn’t time to change clothes before rushing here.
His father—the Earl of Carrick—had gifted him Baile Ìm after his return from Italy, as a way of preparing him for his future duties. “No son of mine will be throwing all I built into ruin.”
Da’s exact words.
And fair enough.
Rory had arrived a year ago determined to prove himself capable of succeeding at the honor and responsibility Da had bestowed upon him. He liked the work. Further, he liked that Baile Ìm neighbored Dalhousie Manor—which included supper party invitations. A boon for a bachelor laird, truth told.
Tonight’s gathering was to introduce their newly-arrived guests to the area. Of course, Rory was already well acquainted with Lady Delilah and Miss Juliet Windermere. Delilah was sister to his closest friend, Viscount Archer—known to all as Archie—and Miss Windermere was their cousin who had lived with them since she was in leading strings—a sister for all intents and purposes. Didn’t say much, Miss Windermere.
Of course, who could get a word in edgewise in a house full of Windermeres.
He’d just handed his greatcoat to Rivers, Dalhousie Manor’s ancient butler, when a figure appeared at the far end of the hall. Rory’s body lit with recognition. “Miss Dalhousie,” he called out before thinking better of the familiarity.
It was improper, of course, but he couldn’t help himself. When he’d first arrived to take possession of Baile Ìm, he’d thought his proximity might lead Miss Dalhousie to reconsider his marriage proposal, but very quickly he’d seen his nearness had no effect.
It had been surprisingly easy to shrug off the whole misbegotten idea.
Now, he noted a stiffness to her shoulders and an uncharacteristic rapidity to her step. Miss Dalhousie never held herself or moved so.
His head cocked. The woman approaching him was…
Tall.
Like a…
Windermere.
Raven-black hair parted in the center and pulled back into a chignon at the base of her neck and dressed in a moss-green silk evening gown that heightened the clear emerald hue of her eyes, it wasn’t Miss Davina Dalhousie approaching.
But Miss Juliet Windermere.
Rory’s mouth stretched into an instinctive smile of recognition, and his hand lifted in a small wave of greeting.
She returned neither. Her eyes only narrowed on him.
Though he’d known Miss Windermere for over a decade, he’d never held the impression that she much cared for him. For starters, she was always scowling at him.
Like now.
Further, if the rapid clip of her heels didn’t let up, she would barrel directly into him. He was bracing himself for impact when she came to a dead stop three feet away.
At nearly six feet and four inches, he was accustomed to standing head and shoulders above every woman he met. Not so with Miss Windermere. She stood only an inch or two below six feet, her gaze nearly meeting his on an equal plane.