Luncheon

W illow was the daughter of a duke, but hosting luncheon for so many people loomed like a rock on which she might founder. She loved her father and understood the amount of time he devoted to his business interests. She'd shouldered the responsibilities of the Abbey during her brothers' absence overseas. However, at seventeen, she should have been better prepared to host social occasions—unless her Papa was as determined as his sons to isolate her in Berkshire forever. A father was expected to protect his daughter, but…

It didn't help that a petulant Rowan had reluctantly ceded his place at the head of the table to his sister. Her father had obviously insisted. Fears he meant to keep her isolated flew away like startled birds.

Her thinking became muddled when she happened to glance up from her bowl of soup. Heat flooded her from head to toe. Seated at the far end of the long table, the Scot was staring at her. He looked away quickly when their eyes met. He'd noticed hers were hazel. She still wasn't sure if his were brown or green. Again, her nipples tingled and she hoped the embarrassing moisture wouldn't stain her silk frock.

It was evident from the glazed expressions that nobody was interested in listening to Rowan. He was holding forth about the Battle of the Nivelle and the Withenshawe brothers' role in sending the French into retreat across the plains of France. Ash and Hawthorne naturally agreed with everything he said. Predictably, her older brother addressed all his remarks to the Duke of Ramsay and ignored everyone else. The only thing that surprised Willow was the occasional smile Rowan directed to Lady Daisy Hawkins. It was out of character and she wasn't certain if she was taken aback by the rare smile or the sullen person on whom it was bestowed.

Being seated far from the head of the table shouldn't have irritated Niven. He was a commoner eating luncheon with members of the nobility. Being put in his place wasn't what bothered him. He wanted to sit closer to Lady Willow, preferably next to her, in Rowan Halstead's place. Then he could put his hand on her thigh…

Jaw clenched, he gripped the stem of his wineglass when his arousal spiked. He had to squelch any notion of a relationship with Withenshawe's daughter. She was obviously an accomplished society hostess who wouldn't be interested in a whisky distiller from a remote part of Scotland.

He was glad not to be seated near Daisy Hawkins. Rowan Halstead seemed quite taken with her. He ought to warn the Withenshawe heir about her fickle nature. On second thoughts, let the crashing bore fend for himself. He evidently considered himself an expert on all matters. It was a good thing he stayed away from the shipping offices. Niven couldn't have stood his pontificating for more than five minutes. Heaven help the company when the duke passed on. That possibility was unfortunately all too real. Lady Willow had graciously conveyed her father's apologies for his absence at the table. The sadness in those hazel eyes proved she loved and feared for her ailing father. Niven envied her that. His own late and unlamented father had been a bad-tempered, abusive brute.

Immersed in memories he'd sooner forget, Niven failed to notice the hush that fell as everyone was leaving the table.

Willow rushed to support her father who was leaning heavily on the butler's arm. "Papa, what are you doing out of bed?" she chided.

Changing into formal attire had clearly exhausted him. She'd have a stern word with his valet later—and his nurse.

"I wish to discuss important matters with the men," he wheezed.

Indignation stiffened her spine. As usual, the Three Trees were to be included in decisions about the future, and she was not.

"I'd like you to stay as well, Willow."

His request came as such a shock, she only vaguely heard him beg forgiveness from Kenneth's wife, sister and mother and trusted they might find a means to entertain themselves.

She wasn't worried. It was probable Cat and Maureen would gladly spend the rest of the day entertaining Little Freddie. They bobbed a curtsey and hurried out of the dining room arm in arm. Sulking, Daisy trailed after them.

"I suggest we convene in the drawing room," her father said. "I've received a message. Wellesley is on his way."

"The Duke of Wellington?" Rowan asked, his eyes wide.

"Coming here?" Ash said.

Hawthorne finished the question. "To Rochevaux Abbey?"

Willow's father narrowed his eyes at his sons. She wondered if it was the first time he'd noticed they were like three peas in a pod.

Lady Daisy Hawkins wasn't surprised when their host summoned the men to a meeting. Typical of high-ranking noblemen, he wasn't interested in what mere women had to say, though Lady Willow had been allowed to participate. Niven King was a commoner, but even his opinions would count.

Daisy wasn't anxious to contribute to any discussion, but she resented being forced to leave with her mother and sister-in-law. She'd be spending the afternoon oohing and aahing over little Freddie instead of flirting with the intriguing Lord Rowan Halstead. What a handsome specimen he was, and so knowledgeable about world affairs. In general, men weren't worth bothering with, but she found herself quite overheated in his powerful presence. His smiles were very arousing. Hopefully, there'd be another chance to get to know him better after this Napoleon business was resolved.

Niven was honored and pleased to be included in the discussions, though it was clear the duke was having difficulty breathing.

"I think Wellington should lay siege to Paris," the eldest son declared when everyone was seated, as if he were chairing the meeting.

His brothers heartily endorsed his statement.

Niven thought this a highly unlikely scenario in the present circumstances, but it wasn't his place to say so.

Kenneth came to the rescue. "If you'll forgive me, Lord Rowan, I doubt Wellington is coming here to ask our advice about tactics."

"Too right," Withenshawe chuckled, deepening his heir's scowl. "What say you, Niven?"

Unexpectedly put on the spot, Niven filled his lungs and thought what he might say if he were part of the same discussion taking place in Glengeárr. Not that his opinions had ever counted for much at home, but there he was among equals. "I think Wellington is probably anxious to assure himself that a valued friend is on the mend before he goes off to war."

"Ha!" Withenshawe exclaimed. "Trust a Scot to get to the heart of the matter. This is the reason I knew my shipping empire was in good hands while I was away."

Niven ignored the angry faces of the duke's three sons, but he appreciated Kenneth's nod of approval and basked in the glow of Lady Willow's appreciative smile.

Willow had grown up with a trio of brothers with noble blood, yet Niven King had more nobility about him than the Three Trees put together. She admired him and now understood why her father had granted him so much responsibility. He also aroused new physical feelings. She wanted his well-muscled arms around her, craved to feel those full lips on hers, imagined him nibbling her ear.

Today, he wore a well-tailored business suit. She understood Highlanders favored kilts. She'd love to see him in a kilt. A few years ago, she'd heard a rumor that he'd played the fiddle at a ball given by the Dowager Duchess Ramsay to welcome the King brothers to London. Her own brothers had expressed outright disgust at reports there'd been a demonstration of a Scottish reel at the event.

But Rowan resented him which didn't bode well and stopped her feet from tapping. Ash and Hawthorne would agree with whatever decisions their brother made about Niven King. He would never permit a relationship with a commoner.

It was typical of Rowan's selfishness. He ought to be grateful that Niven had spared him having to take responsibility for the shipping business in his father's absence.

Lady Daisy Hawkins should also be warned that the man for whom she kept fluttering her eyelashes could be a pompous ass.