Glover bowed but didn’t move toward the fireplace. “Your lordship, this card is from the Duke of Holbrook. And”—Glover lowered his voice to an awed whisper—“His Grace has condescended to wait.”

Ewan sighed. A duke. Perhaps the man was desperate to send one of his daughters off into the supposed wilds of Scotland. He’d figured out soon enough that the English thought of Scotland as a wilderness of crazed warriors and grim religious dissenters.

He glanced at his cravat in the mirror. Glover was brokenhearted at his refusal to change his customary black for the gaudy waistcoats Englishmen wore to balls. But he looked fine and, more importantly, Scottish. Scotsmen wore kilts if they felt the need for a little color, even if they weren’t allowed to wear them in this country.

“His Grace awaits you in the sitting room,” Glover said.

“Aye.”

“If you’ll excuse the boldness, my lord,” Glover said, hesitating.

Ewan raised an eyebrow. “Yes?”

“A duke of the realm,” Glover said, trembling with the excitement of it. “Try to avoid Scottish phrases such as aye. ’Twill make an unpleasant impression on His Grace.”

“I’m not marrying him,” Ewan said, but then softened. “But thank you for the advice, Glover. I shall do my best to appear reasonably English.” Not that he would ever wish to mimic an Englishman, not in a hundred years.

The duke was a messy sort, Ewan saw with some relief. In fact, the sort who would take no offense at an occasional aye. Ewan had already had several conversations with the perfumed, sleek type of English nobility, and he didn’t care for them. No more did they him.

This duke was dressed in clothes that looked comfortable rather than elegant. His stomach strained comfortably over the waist of his pantaloons, and as Ewan stood in the doorway of the room, his guest threw back a glass of brandy that Glover must have given him with all the enthusiasm of one of Ewan’s laborers greeting the evening.

“Your Grace,” Ewan said, entering the room. “This is indeed a pleasure.”

The duke straightened like a bloodhound and turned around. Ewan almost took a step back. Bloody hell, the man looked enraged. And now he remembered precisely where he’d met him before. If you could call it a meeting; the duke had snatched the black-haired lady from his arms and danced with her himself.

“Do you know who I am?” he said. His voice was as deep and burly as his figure.

“According to your card, you are the Duke of Holbrook,” Ewan observed. He moved over to the sideboard. “May I offer you another drink?” He dropped the Your Grace part as it made him feel faintly servant-like.

“I am the guardian of Lady Maitland,” the man announced.

“Quite so,” Ewan murmured, pouring himself a stiff glass. “Well, I am the Earl of Ardmore, hailing from Aberdeenshire, if you were not already aware of the fact.”

“Lady Maitland,” Holbrook insisted. “Imogen Maitland.”

Imogen must be the black-haired charmer from the ballroom. “If I have offended you or the lady in any way, I offer my sincere apologies,” Ewan said, striving for diplomacy.

“Well, I should say you have!” the duke huffed.

“How?” Ewan inquired. He kept his tone easy and even.

“All London is talking of the two of you,” Holbrook snapped. “Of your tasteless exhibition of waltzing.”

Ewan thought for a moment. He had two alternatives: to tell the truth, or to take responsibility. Honor demanded that he not reveal the fact that Holbrook’s ward had clung to him with all the expert passion of a Bird of Paradise. He was no fool: the black-haired Imogen was far less moved by his beauty than she had pretended to be. He caught some sort of emotion in her eyes, but it didn’t seem to be pure lust, even if that was the emotion that she was flaunting.

“I apologize in every respect,” he said finally. “I was bowled over by her beauty and I gather it led to my actions being interpreted in an unpleasant light.”

Holbrook narrowed his eyes. Ewan gazed back at him, wondering if all dukes in England were so undisciplined in their emotions and dress.

“I’ll have that drink now,” the duke said.

Ewan picked up his personal decanter and poured him a healthy glass. Holbrook had the distinct atmosphere of a man who enjoyed a good brandy, and Ewan had brought with him several flasks of the best aged whiskey to be found in Scotland.

Holbrook took one large sip and then looked at Ewan in surprise. He sank into a couch and took another sip.

Ewan sat down opposite him. He could see that Holbrook understood exactly what he was drinking.

“What is it?” Holbrook said, his voice hushed.

“An aged single malt,” Ewan said. “A new process and one likely to change the whiskey industry, to my mind.”

Holbrook took another sip and sat back. “Glen Garioch,” he said dreamily. “Glen Garioch or—possibly—Tobermary.”

Ewan gave him a real grin this time. “Aye, Glen Garioch it is.”

“Bliss,” Holbrook said. “Almost, I could let a man who knew his whiskey marry Imogen. Almost!” he said, opening his eyes again.

“I’ve no particular desire to marry her,” Ewan said agreeably.

He realized his mistake when Holbrook’s eyebrows drew into a ferocious scowl.

“Although I would consider myself immeasurably lucky to do so,” Ewan added. “She is a lovely young woman.”

“Rumor has it that you’re in England precisely to find a wife,” the duke growled. But he was sipping his liquor again.

“The rumor is correct,” Ewan said. “But not necessarily your ward.”

“Ah.”

They sat in silence for a while, enjoying the whiskey.

“I expect the truth of it is that Imogen threw herself at you, and you’re being too polite to tell me so to my face,” the duke said as gloomily as was possible when one is holding a glass of ’83 whiskey distilled by Glen Garioch.

“Lady Maitland is an exquisite young woman. I’d be more than happy to marry her.”

The duke caught his eye, and then: “Damned if you don’t mean it. Don’t care who you marry, is that it?”

“I take a reasonable interest in the subject,” Ewan protested. “But I will admit that I’m rather anxious to return to my lands. The wheat is sprouting.”

The duke looked as if he had never heard the word sprout. “Are you telling me that you’re a farmer?” he asked. “One of those gentlemen who dabble about with experimental methods. Turnip Townshend, isn’t that his name?”

“I’m not quite as engrossed as Mr. Townshend,” Ewan murmured, letting another sip of liquor burn its complex, golden way down his throat.

“This is delicious,” the duke said, clearly discarding a subject of little interest to him. “This whiskey is utterly—” he stopped. “Wheat? Do you have anything to do with whiskey production, then?”

“My tenants supply some grain for the distilleries in Speyside,” Ewan said.

“No wonder you know your drink so well.” The duke seemed quite struck by this. “Been thinking about giving up the tipple,” he said suddenly.